The night had deepened into a heavy velvet sky, stitched with faint stars that blinked and vanished behind clouds. The bus hummed like a tired animal, its engine grumbling with age and effort. Olivia shifted slightly in her seat, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. The air outside was cool but carried the scent of damp earth and petrol. She liked it—it felt like movement, like life.
She glanced at her wristwatch: 9:17 p.m. The driver had promised they'd reach Enugu before midnight if "no wahala happen." That phrase comforted her; it sounded confident. Around her, most passengers had dozed off. The elderly woman beside her was snoring softly, her lips moving as if mid-prayer. The teenager with headphones had surrendered to sleep too, her head bent awkwardly toward the window. Only one man near the front stayed awake, a restless figure in a brown jacket and cap. He kept glancing out the window, tapping his foot, muttering to himself.
Olivia noticed him because he was noisy, not because she cared. His bag—a large Ghana Must Go, blue and white like hers—was wedged near the aisle. Occasionally he'd bend down to check on it, as though afraid it might vanish. He looked like the type of man who'd seen too much trouble in life—sharp eyes, hard jaw, always alert.
When the bus jerked to a stop near a dimly lit junction, the man suddenly raised his hand."Driver! Stop small, abeg! I go come down here!" The conductor twisted around from the front seat, frowning. "Here? Na bush you dey see so."
"Na here I talk say I go come down," the man insisted. "Person dey wait me for junction." The driver grunted but eased the bus to the shoulder. Olivia blinked sleepily, roused by the movement. Through the window, she could see faint outlines of trees, a small kiosk glowing faintly with lantern light, and two shadows standing by the roadside.
The man got up quickly, brushing dust from his jacket. His cap slipped a little, and he tugged it low over his forehead. Olivia watched him half-dreamily. He bent down, grabbed a Ghana Must Go from the boot, mumbled something to the conductor, and jumped down before the bus fully stopped.
The bus hissed, coughed, and rolled forward again. Olivia yawned, stretched, and rubbed her eyes. "People and their night waka," she murmured, half amused. She barely gave the man another thought.
As the bus picked up speed, she shifted her feet for some relief.
The driver increased speed once they left the junction. The road ahead stretched long and dark, except for occasional pools of light from lonely roadside stalls. Olivia leaned her head against the window again, feeling the vibration of the glass against her temple.
She thought about her arrival—how she'd call her mother once she reached Enugu, tell her everything was fine, tell her how smooth the trip had been. Maybe she'd even make a few friends tonight at the lodge. She pictured the corper's lodge in her mind again: neat rooms, cheerful chatter, sockets that worked.
The bus rolled on, through quiet villages and small towns that looked asleep. Olivia felt the rhythm of the journey seep into her bones. She liked the sound of tires humming over tar, the occasional rumble when they crossed a rough patch, and the way the headlights sliced through the dark like twin spears of light.
After a while, the conductor announced a short stop for "body stretch and bladder relief." They parked beside a small bush that night, a woman had complained her son was pressed and wanted to pie so she got down. Olivia stayed in her seat. She wasn't pressed and so no need of stepping out into that shadowy roadside that made her a bit uneasy.
She took out a bottle of water, sipped slowly, then adjusted the sitting position and stretched her leg she felt was kind of constricted at some point.Around her, tired passengers muttered complaints about the lateness, but she found the stillness oddly soothing.
When the others climbed back in, the bus resumed its slow crawl through the night. Someone at the back started humming a tune. Another passenger laughed sleepily. Life resumed its small, night time rhythm, the kind that made long journeys bearable.
Then, sometime past midnight, the driver took a turn. Olivia didn't notice—it felt natural, smooth, unremarkable. She was already half asleep again, her mind floating between memory and dream.
The road narrowed, and soon there were no streetlights at all, only the yellow glow of the bus headlights bouncing off trees and the occasional road sign—none of which she bothered to read.
The driver and conductor murmured in low tones about routes and shortcuts. Olivia barely registered it. Her head drooped to the side, and sleep finally took her.
The bus rumbled on through villages whose names she would never remember, moving further from Enugu, deeper into the unexpected.
The first rays of dawn crept shyly over the horizon, pale and cold. Olivia woke up to the rough coughing of the engine and the murmur of voices. For a few seconds she didn't know where she was. Then she blinked and realized the bus was no longer moving. It had stopped in front of a small cluster of wooden stalls, half-collapsed under the weight of morning mist.
She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and looked out the window. The scenery was… wrong. No wide tarred roads, no billboards, no taxis honking impatiently, none of the bustle she expected from a city. Just the faint bleating of goats, smoke curling from clay stoves, and a handful of barefoot children chasing one another in the dust.
Her stomach sank. "Driver?" she called out, her voice still thick with sleep. "This one na Enugu?"
The driver chuckled softly, already stepping down from the bus. "Madam, this one no be Enugu o. Na Onitsha side you dey so."
Olivia froze. "Onitsha what?"
The conductor, stretching his arms and yawning, turned to her. "Yes now. No be here you say you dey go?"
Her heart skipped. "God forbid! I talk say Enugu! I say Enugu!"
He scratched his head, frowning in genuine confusion. "Hmm. Na wetin I hear be 'E—something.' But no worry, from here you fit find road go Enugu easily. Small matter."
Small matter? Her brain screamed. But her mouth couldn't form words. She just stared at him, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. A cold heaviness settled in her chest.
Other passengers were already stepping down, collecting their bags from the boot. Olivia stumbled out too, her slippers crunching on gravel. The morning air smelled of charcoal smoke and something slightly rotten. She felt the sting of disappointment and disbelief.
She found her Ghana Must Go bag beside the driver's side, its pattern of blue and white squares catching the pale light. Relief flickered briefly—at least her luggage was fine. She dragged it alongside her hand bag that was with her throughout the journey.
The driver's voice jolted her from her daze. "Madam, I dey go back small. You go find keke go junction there, you hear? Ask for motor wey dey go Enugu."
She wanted to curse him, to demand he take her back, but the bus had already begun reversing. Within seconds, the old vehicle was gone, swallowed by the misty road, leaving behind nothing but a faint cloud of exhaust.
Olivia stood still for a long time, trying to make sense of everything. She had left Benin full of confidence and now stood in an unfamiliar town with cracked roads and buildings that leaned like tired old men.
"Excuse me," she said, approaching a woman frying akara by the roadside. "Please, which side be motor park for Enugu?"
The woman, her face shiny with heat and oil, looked her over from head to toe before answering. "Enugu? You go wait. No bus dey go till afternoon, maybe."
"Afternoon?" Olivia repeated, horrified.
"Yes," the woman said simply, turning back to her sizzling pan. "You fit sit down if you wan chop something first."
Olivia shook her head quickly. Her phone buzzed; it was her mother calling. For a moment she considered answering but changed her mind. She couldn't explain this yet. What would she even say? Mummy, I entered the wrong bus because I was tired? I'm in Onitsha instead of Enugu? No. Not yet.
She wandered a little, dragging her bag behind her. People glanced curiously at her, some whispering softly. Her crisp khaki trousers, still folded neatly in her bag, might soon seem like mockery. She finally sat under a small shed, watching the morning unfold. Motorcycles roared by, chickens darted across the road, and the smell of burning refuse filled the air.
As the sun climbed higher, she began to sweat. The air felt thicker here, heavier. Every sound—the chatter, the clanging of metal, the occasional loud laughter—seemed amplified.
And soething just tells her to cross check the location she was going to for her posting, and so shockingly she discovered she had made an error, the letter of her posting didn't read Community Primary School, Enugu, rather it wasCommunity Primary and Junior Secondary School, Idu.
Olivia was shocked and wondered how she made such a mistake.
"Na village wey near Onitsha this o," a young man selling sachet water said helpfully when she asked where she was. "Dem dey call am Idu. You corper?"
"Yes," she replied flatly.
He grinned. "Welcome! You go like am small small." "coper shuuun"! he said somewhat hailing Olivia.
She did not believe that for a second.
After a while she decided to make her way to the nearest NYSC office or at least the local school where she was eventually headed towards. Someone pointed her toward a dusty path leading uphill. Her slippers were already brown with dust before she'd gone ten steps.
The village looked like a painting that had faded in the sun—mud walls, rusted roofs, barefoot children, and an old man chewing stick by a doorway. Goats moved freely, and somewhere in the distance, a radio blared a sermon. Olivia's city-trained senses recoiled from it all.
She muttered to herself as she walked, "I left Lagos for this? God, abeg, this cannot be the place."
After nearly twenty minutes of aimless walking, she found the school—a long, single-story building with cracked walls and windows patched with cardboard. A wooden sign leaned forward drunkenly
She felt faint.
A lean man with a bunch of keys dangling from his belt appeared from a doorway. "Good morning, corper!" he said cheerfully.
Olivia forced a smile. "Morning, sir. Please, they say this place is where corpers report?"
He nodded proudly. "Yes, yes! You are welcome! You will like our community. We are peaceful people."
Her eyes scanned the compound, children sweeping dust, chickens strutting between classrooms, and a single pit toilet standing like a warning in the corner. The air smelled of chalk, smoke, and sweat. She swallowed hard.
The man introduced himself as Mr. Eze, the headmaster. He led her to a small room behind the main block. The space was barely large enough for a bed and table. A cobweb stretched lazily across one corner, and the bulb hanging from the ceiling was dead.
"Light no too dey come regular," he said, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "But breeze dey blow well."
Olivia managed a polite nod. "Thank you, sir." "Your things you fit keep here first. Tomorrow we go do small welcome for you," he added, smiling.
She thanked him again and sat on the edge of the creaky bed. The silence felt thick. Her heart beat unevenly. She looked around again, hoping it was a bad dream.
Her phone battery was down to fifteen percent. The signal was poor. She placed it near the window, praying for a bar or two. She couldn't even text her mother yet.
Her stomach growled. She realized she hadn't eaten since the night before. She unzipped her bag to grab the snacks she had packed. The zipper moved smoothly, the familiar sound oddly comforting.
But when she opened it fully, her heart dropped.
Inside were not her neatly folded clothes and toiletries. Instead, there was a rough pair of men's jeans, a checked shirt, a small black Bible, and a nylon bag stuffed with something that looked like mechanic tools. She froze, staring.
Then she reached deeper—wires, screwdrivers, a half bottle of engine oil.
"This can't be happening," she whispered. She checked the name tag on the small inner pocket: "Okafor Ikenna."
Her voice rose in panic. "Who is Okafor Ikenna?"
Outside, a rooster crowed loudly, as if mocking her.
Olivia clutched the bag, disbelief washing over her in waves. She stood up, paced the room, then sat again. For a moment she felt like crying, but no tears came. Her mind raced back to the night—the man in the brown jacket, the one who alighted at the junction. The identical bag. The quiet exchange that never happened.
She had carried the wrong Ghana Must Go all along. And her own—her clothes, her documents, her savings—was somewhere out there with a man who probably didn't even know her name. The walls of the room seemed to close in. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to breathe.