Yagazie first met Tokunbo on a bus from Port Harcourt to Lagos, the kind of rickety vehicle that seemed as though it had been put together with the leftover parts of other more fortunate buses. The seats were too close together, the air too thick with the smell of sweat and dust, and the driver, a man with a face that had seen too many years on the road, drove as though he had long since made peace with death. 

Tokunbo was one of those quiet types, the kind who blended in but somehow stood out, especially to Yagazie, whose eyes never missed a detail. He sat beside her, his fingers wrapped around the spine of a book, and she noticed it almost immediately. It wasn’t a crumpled newspaper or a dog-eared magazine like the others around her. It was a real book.

Arrow of God. 

The very title made her smile to herself, even though she knew it wasn’t a smile that anyone else would understand. The pages of her own copy of the book were so worn out now that she had to hold it together with rubber bands, but she loved it, loved the way it described the tension between tradition and change, the way it painted the internal conflict of a man struggling with his own beliefs. She had read it too many times to count, and with each reading, she found something new in its words.

When the bus lurched forward with a groan, her shoulder accidentally brushed against Tokunbo’s arm, and she instinctively pulled away. He looked up at her, his eyes warm and welcoming, the kind of smile that reached all the way to the edges of his face.

“Do you think we’ll make it to Lagos in one piece?”

“Well, I sure hope so,” she said with a grin. “My mother will kill me if I don’t, anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re going home?”

“No,” she replied, surprised at how easily the words slipped out. “My sister is getting married and she lives in Lagos.”

Tokunbo’s face lit up with a smile. “Congratulations to her,” he said. “Is she older or younger?”

“Older,” Yagazie replied. “She’s the first one to officially leave the house, so my mother has been crying every day for the past month.”

Tokunbo chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Mothers always do that,” he said. “Even when they know it’s coming.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that only happens between strangers who have no need to fill the space with words. The road stretched out ahead of them, long and cracked, the dust rising in thick clouds every time a truck sped past.

Yagazie stole glances at him every so often, wondering about the person behind those quiet eyes, but there was no hurry. There was no rush to know anything about him. She liked the stillness of the moment, the rhythm of the bus, the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt.

As the hours passed, they spoke in stops and starts. She learned that he had been visiting a friend in Port Harcourt. Also, that he had studied engineering at the University of Ibadan but had yet to find a job that fit him. She shared that she was a nurse, that she had left Enugu three years ago to work in Port Harcourt, and although she didn’t like the city’s constant dampness, she loved the independence it gave her.

“Do you like Lagos?” she asked after a long while.

Tokunbo looked out the window, his gaze distant. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted, his voice quiet, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “I think I will. I don’t think it’s that different from my Ibadan. I have no choice but to.”

At some point, he asked her what she was reading. She held up her copy of Everything Good Will Come by Sefi Atta, and he nodded in approval. “You like books about women who find themselves.”

Yagazie laughed, surprised by how easily he understood. “And what do you like?”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half-smile. “Books about men who lose themselves.”

They laughed, the sound ringing out in the confined space of the bus. It was the kind of laugh that seemed to echo long after the words had been spoken, like something that had always been there, waiting to be heard.

When the bus stopped in Benin for a break, they found themselves at a roadside stall eating roasted yam and peppered meat wrapped in crumpled newspaper, the smoky scent filling the air as they spoke about everything; about the teacher who had changed her life in secondary school, about the uncle who had promised Tokunbo a job in Lagos but had never picked up his calls, about the way childhood homes became smaller and more cramped when you returned to them as an adult.

“Do you ever feel like the past is a different life?” Tokunbo asked suddenly, looking at her over his skewer of meat.

“All the time,” Yagazie said, nodding. “Every time I go back to Enugu, I expect it to be the same, but it never is.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared understanding. It was a moment neither of them could have anticipated, but somehow, it felt like everything that needed to be said had been said.

When they got back on the bus, she found herself leaning toward him, her shoulder brushing against his once again, and he didn’t move away. The distance between them seemed to shrink in ways that neither of them could explain, but neither of them needed to.

Lagos arrived in a flurry of noise and movement, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the shouts of conductors calling for passengers. They disembarked, and Yagazie collected her bag from the boot of the bus, suddenly unsure of how to say goodbye.

“Do you need help finding your way?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’ll manage. But thank you.”

She nodded, expecting him to walk away.  He lingered.

“Can I have your number?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that made her pause.

She hesitated, not because she didn’t want to give it to him, but because something about their journey together felt so complete, as though it had existed in a space separate from the real world. But she gave it to him anyway, and he saved it under the name “Yagazie Bus.”

Three days later, he called. They met in Surulere, where he was staying with friends. They shared drinks in the fading light of a quiet bar. The next day, they had lunch at a well-known spot in her sister’s estate. He told her about the job he was hoping to get, and she told him about her sister’s wedding, how beautiful and exhausting it had been. They spent the evening walking down the quiet street, their conversation flowing as easily as the breeze around them.

“I like you,” Tokunbo said suddenly, as if the words had just come to him.

Yagazie smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. “I like you too.”

For weeks, they were inseparable. They explored the city together, took long walks in at the beach, shared stories they had never told anyone else. Tokunbo got the job, a junior engineering position, and she helped him pick out shirts for his first day. She learned the way he laughed, his head tilting back, his eyes squeezing shut as though joy were something to be embraced with his whole body.

But Lagos had its own plans.

Yagazie got a transfer offer to a hospital in Abuja, a position she had applied for months ago and forgotten about. It was a better job, more pay, and closer to where she wanted her career to be.

“I think you should take it,” Tokunbo said when she told him.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It feels like the timing is wrong.”

He took her hand, his touch firm but gentle. “The timing is what it is. It doesn’t mean it isn’t right.”

She left two weeks later, and he saw her off to the airport, his hands stuffed into his pockets, as though to keep himself from holding on too tight.

“Come visit,” she said, a quiet plea in her voice.

“I will,” he promised.

They called, they texted, but the city had a way of filling spaces meant for absence. She got busier, and so did he. The calls became less frequent, the messages shorter, and one day, she realized that she hadn’t spoken to him in two months. She meant to call, to ask how he was, but life kept moving.

Years passed, and life took them in different directions. One evening, years later, she was back in Lagos for a medical conference. She walked into a café in Lekki, her eyes scanning the room, and there he was. Tokunbo, sitting by the window, reading a book. Arrow of God.

She hesitated just for a moment before walking over. He looked up, startled at first, then his face broke into a grin, his eyes lighting up like they had that first day on the bus.

“Yagazie Bus,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite believe she was standing there. She laughed, and it was that kind of laugh, familiar, yet somehow foreign. Life had a funny way of throwing these moments at you. Tokunbo pulled her into a hug, the kind that made it seem like he’d been starved of her presence for far too long.

“Wow, you really missed me, didn’t you?” she teased.

He chuckled. “You could say that.”

Yagazie smiled softly, her voice just above a whisper. “I missed you too.”

They sat together, two people who had once been everything to each other, now something different but no less important. They spoke easily, catching up on the years between them, filling in the blanks.

“Are you happy?” she asked at one point.

He nodded, a small, content smile tugging at his lips. “I am. And you?”

“I am too.”

And that was enough.

About the Author:

Oluwamayowa Bankole is a writer from Nigeria. She has a B.A in English and Literary Studies from the University of Lagos. Her works are influenced by the day to day lives of people around her. She lives in Lagos, where she’s on a daily mission to keep her sanity intact amidst the madness.

Feature image by ilham saputra on Unsplash