Angel In A Rickety Bus

Chapter 1

One of the funniest ironies I’ve experienced in this part of the world where I live is how synonymous sitting alone in a public transport could be to staying in an isolated cell in a state penitentiary. Albeit, sometimes, it could be over-turned in a jiffy by getting a little acquainted with the stranger sitting next to you on a rickety bus and that also, is almost synonymous to moving from the “hole” to Emerald City in the movie OZ.

I have a deep-seated distaste for public transport. Somewhere between the restless wandering of my childhood and the gentle composure of my adult personality is a quantum of energy that keeps me positively active as a young man, even in my seemingly reticent mien. Now, what interstate public transport does to me can be likened to keeping a boundless energy on a leash of a wagon of unfamiliar faces that often do not initiate any favorable reaction. Gosh! I have suffered everything from banging headaches to churning stomachs and yeah, few months ago, a kid puked on me and late last year, a middle-aged woman drooled over me while she snored shamelessly; all the while using my shoulder as a pillow. I didn't have the nerve to tell her to sit right when she was apparently bent on taking her composition to a resounding climax.

I have found respite in books, magazines, ear pieces glued to my ears (while listening to Don Williams, Dolly Parton or Kenny Roger), sleeping or just about anything to get me by on this trips but today I was bereft of these saving tools, save for my notepad that isn't doing enough distraction. I sat forlornly wishing the next 2-hours would swish and plant me in my destination.

The whole world seemed at a stand until relief surfaced out of the blues. Queuing in front of the bus tattered door, was a lady with an angelic body, spotless skin (at least from the first appearance) - a perfect paradigm of a model figure. She entered the God-forsaken vehicle, smiled and sat next to me. The smell of her perfume, her luscious lips, an hypnotizing Egyptian eyes, the titillation as her hair touched my neck while adjusting on her seat, her soft palm touching my muscular arm while she whisper “sorry” for mistakenly rubbing her stunning hair against my nape, her soft innocent voice… all got me almost witless. Her smile reveal the  best dentition which could only have been aced by Modupe's and Damilola Katherine's, (though mine would have also made the list of top five had I not lost a tip of my incisor while working it on my lady’s zipper on a romantic evening sometimes ago in ’06). My hard-look, resulting from boredom and the chagrin of staying in the bus for close to three-quarter of an hour desolately waiting for two more passengers to come, melted away in a flash.

This can’t be real, Can it?

Staring was ruled out of the options for fear she might discern and resolve to move to another seat. Right there and then some effusive thoughts started flooding my mind… Are we going to communicate or is this going to be a reactivation of another solitary state? I hoped for the latter not to happen. “The next fifteen minutes will tell. Thank goodness it’s a 2-hr journey” I finally decided. A chance I dare not miss.

I don’t usually do this, at least not since I fell in love with Modupe. Starting a conversation with “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are” and expecting a smile and a “Thank You” is a “fucking” lame and archaic line. Not even in this part of the world where players and bad guys alike have “spoilt all the runs” by misusing lines like that on seemingly innocent and somewhat naïve girls. They have redefined the word “beautiful” to refer to any dame they desire to have a taste of the juice from the fruit buried underneath her pants. The ladies, consisting of the beautiful ones, the so-called beautiful ones and the wannabe-beautiful ones who crossed the “beautiful” river thanks to the special rod of make-ups, spend more than one-quarter of their day accessing their “accessories” and transmogrifying their looks to make sure this exquisite adjective becomes a permanent resident. Some, in their all-consuming obsession to carve out an image that would bear a true representation of beauty, titivate and apply different brands of make-ups from 6AM till 2PM for an occasion slated for 10AM.