It was the first time that Chinedu saw me, and he touched his bag a bit closer to his chest.
It was afternoon and hot in Oshodi bus terminal. There was a dusty, petrol-smelling roasted corn smell in the air. People were screaming of prices, drivers calling names, conductors hitting the sides of buses. I was close to a yellow bus heading to Yaba with my hoodie up, my slippers on and a small backpack on one arm.
Chinedu was seated already before the window. White shirt, white trousers, black shiny shoes. He resembled a person who was visiting an office and there was air conditioning and low tones of voice. As I entered the bus and sat next to him, he stared at me, and then at me. It was then that he fiddled with his bag.
I acted as though I did not see.
“Yaba! Yaba straight!" the conductor screamed, knocking on the bus door. Faintly the engine snickered to existence. The omnibus rattled onwards.
No one said anything for a while. It was half full on the bus. One of the ladies in the foreground was waving a newspaper. At the back of it two boys were arguing about football.
Chinedu throat cleared. "And this bus will never pass Sabo, eh?"
I shook my head. "It will go round. But traffic may stop us in front of that bridge."
He was surprised that I responded to him in an unemotional manner. “Oh. Okay.”
Silence returned. I might have sworn I felt his eyes on my hands, on the faint ink stains which could never be thoroughly washed off.
I had a black thread bracelet on my wrist that was old and shredded.
“You work… around here?” he asked after a minute.
I smiled a little. “Something like that.”
He nodded, yet I caught a glimpse of the little doubt in his face. Perhaps he had already made up his mind as to the type of person I was. Maybe a street boy. Perhaps a jumper, a non-payer of buses. Maybe worse.
The conductor went round, taking fares. As he came to me I put my hand into my pocket and took out a piece of folded paper.
"Two thousand" I said.
Chinedu turned back to look at me. This time he did not move his bag.
The bus slowly entered the traffic. Horns blared. One of the hawkers had forced sachet water through the window. Chinedu purchased one, and gave me.
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
He was hesitant, and said, "My name is Chinedu."
“Tunde,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
We sat for a while, and the city overtook us. Then his cell phone sounded. He answered quickly.Yes, sir. I am coming. No I will not be late. I have the documents.
“Yes, sir… I’m on my way… No, I won’t be late… I have the documents.”
He called a halt and heaved a sigh.
“Work?” I asked.
He nodded. Week one. I do not wish to be a mess-up.
“What do you do?”
"I have just been hired by a logistic firm," I said with some little pride. "I am to present a report today."
Good, replied I. “You’ll do fine.”
He laughed softly. "You do not even know me."
"You see, sometimes you can tell," I said.
He gazed at me awhile, as though he would have said more, but knew not how.
The coach had come to a halt. Traffic had locked. The train driver leaped off to have a word with another chauffeur. Heat pressed along all sides.
Chinedu rubbed his forehead. Lagos is a stressful place.
"Patience," I said.
He smiled. "You sound like someone that have been here for a long time?"
“All my life.”
We sat and were quiet once more, and it was lighter.
After some time he said. "May I inquire of you something?"
“Go ahead.”
He hesitated. "When you got into the bus. I thought." He hesitated, in quest of words. "you know I thought you might be."
“A problem?” I finished for him.
He looked embarrassed. "No. I am sorry, it is just. the manner you dressed, and."
"It is all right," I said “It happens.”
He shook his head. "No, it is not all right, I made a judgment of you without knowing you."
I shrugged. "Fasting in this city, it Saves time."
He gulped out a little nervous laugh.Bad. I feel bad. “Still… I feel bad.”
The traffic started to flow once again. The omnibus rattled onwards.
"What do you do?" he inquired, being more circumspect now.
I glanced out of the window a moment or two, and then answered. “I draw.”
“Draw?”
"Yes, Signs, Posters, sometimes murals, anything people need."
His eyes lit up. “Really? That’s interesting.”
I nodded. "In Yaba there is a shop, where I work."
He threw back his head, and looked at me in a new light. "That is why there is ink on your hands."
I smiled. "Never does it die."
"Cool, that is," he said. "I would like to be able to draw."
“You can learn.”
He laughed. "I do not believe that I am patient."
“You said Lagos teaches it,” I reminded him.
"No, no," he shook his head smiling.
The bus at last arrived at Sabo. Individuals started to lose their spirits. Chinedu packed his belongings but he was not in a hurry.
"I am coming down here," he said
“Me too.”
We went out into the bustle and traffic. It was still a strong sun.
He turned to me. "I am glad I had sat next you."
“Me too,” I said.
He was indecisive, and reached out his hand. I shook it.
"Perhaps I may visit that store some day," he said. "You may demonstrate to me your work."
“You’ll be welcome.”
He bowed his head, and went away, lost in the concourse.
I rearranged my pack and continued to head the other way. The streaks of ink on my fingers caught the sunshine in my passage, so dark and indelible, as though it were something people tended to notice first--before they saw anything at all.
