The Last Holiday

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chapter 7:

The rain ended once we got to Benin, and a sweet smile caressed my face for the first time since mom slapped Mr Perfect.
It wasn't just that I was on familiar terrain, which actually was nice, or because I was almost home, which again, was very great.

  It was because for the first time, I felt truly safe and a little at peace.

I'd left Ibiye, Baker and everything behind. What happens in Port Harcourt stays in Port Harcourt.

I looked outside my window, the cords of excitement tightening my heart joyfully, propelling me to whip out my camera, and for the briefest instant, I considered shooting pictures of the red clay buildings with corrugated zinc sheets amidst yearning fruitful palm and coconut trees.

    The feel of the camera brought back demons I wasn't ready to face yet, and I kept it back in my backpack, locking the bad memories with it.

I'd face that later.

Shifting closer to the window, I pushed it forward, opening it, sticking my hand outside, feeling the rush of the wind as she sped past us, whether in eager haste or impatient anger, I do not know.

"Oboy, carry your hand inside!", the driver snapped at me, looking at me from his rearview mirror, an angry  frown in his heavily bearded face.

I shuddered.

His black beady eyes reminded me of a bear, and I quickly withdrew my arm back into the bus, fidgeting as other passengers looked at me, shaking their heads disdainfully.

I kept my hands on my thighs till we drove into the magnificent bus park at the Uselu terminal.

Normally a beautiful place, it was at the moment, overcrowded, with more touts than drivers, and hawkers shouting noisily for their wares attention.

A disco house nearby blared some really loud Bini music from its gigantic speakers, and everyone shouted to be heard amidst the din.

I shook my head.

In first world countries, this scenario could never happen. Why? Because they have rules on noise pollution and other regulations that prohibit things like underaged children hawking 'kpekere' or 'cold pure water'.

As the passengers scrambled down and out of the bus in search of cabs and buses to take them home, mom shouted for us to remain in our seats, but trust me, I did not.

I squeezed hard, getting a good jab to my liver.

I don't know how I made it to the back seat of the bus, staring unblinkingly at the chicken feather roof, wondering why I simply did not obey.

Mom said something in sharp, fast kalabari, but I couldn't listen.

I was focused on much pain.

During the rush, a particularly fat woman with bulbous lips had knocked down my baby sister's stick sweet, and she'd pouted, eyes tearful.

My brother had jumped down after the woman, arguing and shouting at her to replace the stick sweet.

"This stupid boy no get respect!", most of the passengers and onlookers had said, shaking their heads, but in the end, the woman bought the stick sweet for my sister, earning my brother half the sweet by default, and a 'my hero' embrace.