It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
SHADES OF KINDNESS That woman. One would have called her a bully with such body structure. You could tell she hailed from the Niger Delta region, she had the speech swag called WAFFI. She had one of the biggest behinds I’ve ever seen and an understanding heart. Her voice was raucous but her laughter truthful. When I got on the bus, the first voice I heard came from her: “Sister you get change? Driver go para if you no get o abeg sidon if change dey your hand.” And this was her job as long I remained in the bus. She would gather moneys, give changes, direct incoming passengers on where to sit, making sure she was not inconvenienced. “Sister you know as e dey na, dis place too tight so make we three (instead of four passengers) just manage dey go like that until no space again for bus before we allow anybody sidon here.” Sitting side by side, we both laughed. Half way through the journey the driver was provoked by a teenage boy who hung on the boot of the bus trying to ...