Despite the high level of insecurity plaguing my country Nigeria, I still travel at night. It’s because I am a man who has ‘strong-head’, a word my countrymen use to describe someone who is irredeemably obstinate. A suitable synonym would be ‘coconut-head’ and that’s what I have: a big hard coconut head. So a week ago, I was on a night bus from Itakpe to Abuja. One of the interesting things about traveling at night is that you get to listen to stories from fellow passengers without many distractions. During the day, one is often distracted by the lives outside the traveling vehicle. There are beautiful as well as ugly sceneries to focus on and every other thing the day has to boast of. But night is different. It is quiet and if you listen intently, you can hear the calm breathing of the person dozing right next to you.

So as I was saying, a week ago, I was on a night bus going to Abuja and there was this man seated right behind me. We boarded the vehicle at about 7pm and it was only then I really caught a glimpse of his face but his voice was unmistakable. It was deep and hoarse and when he spoke, he spoke like one who had experienced things he ordinarily should not have. I think at first he was talking to the person seated beside him, but when he observed how quiet the bus was, he suspected we were all listening and increased his pitch so we could all hear. He was talking about three soldiers who were part of a troop sent on a dangerous mission and at first, he narrated using the third person pronoun, but then for reasons best known to him, he switched to the second person pronoun and continued the story like this:

“So imagine say na you and your friends… You are sent on a mission into enemy territory with two of your friends, alongside other soldiers. In your pocket is a small picture of your lovely wife back at home and your three beautiful triplet girls. You smile when you think about them and wonder if the other married soldiers have pictures of their families in their pockets too, one they carry everywhere like you do. You believe they bring goodluck to you. You believe you survived all your previous missions because of them. The innocent smile of your five-year old girls and the reassuring laughter of your wife captured in the picture are magical.”

The man paused to cough and then continued, “After this mission, you would be going home for two weeks. Your heart swells with the warm thoughts of all the things you hope to do with your family in that two weeks, and in your heart, you pray everything goes as planned. You know the other soldiers have their own thoughts too especially your two friends so you ask them what they will do when the mission is over and they go home. One says he will visit his grandmother in Abeokuta first. ‘She is terribly sick. I would love to meet her before she dies. That woman raised me. It would kill me not see her face one more time.’ He says this passionately. His name is Tunde. Your other friend shrugs and says he isn’t sure yet: ‘My family first of course, but I’d also love to travel a few places alone. I love to travel.’ He says. His name is Chinedu. You ruminate on how priorities are so different and how everyone’s priorities is different for them. You conclude that you are the only soldier who carries a picture of your family wherever you go.”

The man stopped suddenly. At this point, I was already enthralled by the story and I wanted to hear more. I also think the man wanted to make sure someone was listening, so I asked, “What happens next?”

The man continued almost immediately, “Ahh yes. So you arrive at the dangerous zone and the mission is successful. Of course some soldiers go down. In fact, it is almost a blood bath, but you survive it thanks to the goodluck of your family picture right? Your friends survive too and you are happy, extremely elated at the thought of going home. The problem however is that you and your friends will never make it back home. You won’t even make it back to base because on your way back, there is an air force attack on your troop, most likely from the enemy you thought you had conquered. A few bombs is all it takes to shatter you and your friends to bloody pieces.” The man ended with a tone of finality.

“Jesus!” A girl in the bus gasped. Murmurs of “God forbid” and “No be my portion” filled the bus, breaking the quietness. I realized that people were actually listening.

A chill ran down my spine and out of curiosity, I asked, “Is this story a true story or it’s made up?”

“It’s both.” The man said and announced that he wanted to sleep and needed no disturbances.

Weird right?

Anyways, the reason I am writing this story is because about 30 minutes later, our bus had an accident. I did not see what happened although I am told that it was a collision with a big trailer carrying cattle from the north to the south. Only two persons were lucky enough to survive this incident although they were found in fatal positions: me and Mr Storyteller. I heard Mr Storyteller is currently in a comatose state and here I am… I have been told I will never be able to walk again because of the impact the accident had on my spinal cord. Asides this, there is a deep gash at the center of my head that hurts like the worst thing ever. My chest burns and in the smell of sickness, death and disinfectant that’s almost suffocating me here, is a gnawing question: how the hell did I survive?

But I have my family here with me. They made it down to the hospital I am currently receiving treatment in in Abuja. They came all the way from Delta. This wasn’t the hospital I was rushed to when the accident happened. I had to be transferred. They came as soon as they heard. My mom, my dad, my sister and they watched me until I regained consciousness about two days later.

I am writing this because for the past few days that have been literally hell for me, I have tried to remember exactly what happened that night and haven’t been able to. But this morning I woke up with the memories of Mr Storyteller and the story he told that night. I recalled like a miracle, every word he said, and the gasps of the listeners. I recalled how quiet the night was before everything went black for me.

So when I erratically began to scream for someone to give me a notebook and a pen, my mom thought I was going crazy but then she realized how serious I was, and granted my request.

I know that if I don’t write this story as I remember it, it might be lost forever.

But I also know that if I survive this, I will still embark on night journeys because at the end of the day, I still have coconut head.