A short story that takes place on a train.

I proudly come out of the plane, after an eight-hour-direct flight from my country. It’s my third international flight and a second landing via Heathrow airport.

The first having been on transit, this one was special to me!

It’s 7:00am London time.

I am to use a 9:00am, modern train for the first time, heading for the Keswick Conference, in Cumbria.

Checking out of Heathrow, I meet a soft spoken medium sized man.

 “You’re welcome sir!” He says.

“Oh thank you, I reply”

“Can I have a look at your travel document, please?”

I look at his shirt and read an inscription denoting he’s a security personnel.

“Yes please.” I answer giving him my passport.

“But you are one day late, what happened?”

“I missed a flight back home, sir. The reason I want to catch up with the next train to Cumbria.” I proudly say.

“It will leave at 9:00am. Safe journey.” He wishes as he hands me back my passport.

I go to a telephone booth nearby and phone the conference organisers.

“I have safely arrived via Heathrow airport,” I say.

“Now looking forward to the next train from London to Cumbria.”

“Its a few hours ride by train, we expect you by mid-afternoon.” A hearty male voice encourages.

I look round me, to acquaint myself with the place.

“At last I am in London, all alone!” I sigh.

But my mind is anxiously reminding me, this isn’t home. I look round again, indeed people are openly kissing, while most adverts are sexy, something uncommon back in my home village.

I try to ignore that inner voice. But the more I do, the more it loudly communicates.

“Don’t suppress me when I am telling you the truth,” it says.

I am at the Victoria Coach Station. I attempt another call, which doesn’t go through. I leave the booth, I also leave my diary behind!

I see a magazine entitled, “Men Only.”

I am a man, this should give me a good read as I travel, I think.

I buy a few copies, only to notice I forgot my diary behind. It’s about 9:00am.

I go back to check for my diary at the booth, where I attempted a second call, but it’s nowhere to be seen.

“Try the lost and found property office,” a kind man I had tried to explain the loss tells me. But, it isn’t there too.

It is summer alright, but still cold for me. Comparing the weather in England with the one back at home.

So I sweat, not because of heat, but the mounting pressure because of the lost diary!

The police will definitely deport me if they find me lingering idle and disorderly. I must leave London, I resolve.

I try to remember the address of an old missionary friend. He comeS to preach back home. He lives in Liverpool, Merseyside.

But the street and house address don’t come to my memory. Back at home, especially in the village, we know direction by the old trees around, the swamps, rocks and anti-hills – especially the ones that breed white ants, a popular delicacy for our community!

But this is a different world. I analyse.

Well, there is L14 in the address, I once again try to remember. But unsuccessfully.

Anyway, I have passed through some of the most difficult situations than this in life, I think. Let me book for Liverpool. I will sort out myself along the journey, I resolve. 

By 11:00am I leave Victoria Station by train for Liverpool, to meet my old missionary friend. The one whose address, I can’t remember well. Everything will be alright, If only I can meet him, I encourage myself.

For a while, I forget my predicament.

The speed at which the train pulls is fantastic. Wow, this is a great experience! I think.

My childhood memories quickly come alive. I observe the modern farms, horses, bands of hay farmers keep for the winter, just the way the story books in our family bookshelf relay!

But two issues are propelling my thoughts and feelings!

The first one is an excited me, exploring England by a modern train for the first time; while the second one is about the negative thoughts expectation –  trying to imagine what will happen, in case I don’t meet my old missionary friend!

But, like Mr. Bean, the English comedian, I quickly observe what people inside are doing. I pretend to be as comfortable as they are!

Well, unlike back home, people here don’t make unnecessary noise! They seem to enjoy silence, as if they are in the church, expecting to hear from God, I observe.

While there is a group taking coffee continuously, others are glued to their novels.

But two youths, a male and female beside me, have their mouths locked at each other’s throughout the seven-hour journey.

Theirs is completely a different world to behold!

A world of fantasy, where people get so addicted and absorbed to each other! Never bothering to think what the surrounding is all about.

Not even the aroma from concentrated coffee can awaken them.

I tell my mind not to bother me anymore, for I am aware the place isn’t home! Back where I come from, nobody does it openly, others even fear to do it while the light is on.

It is completely a night issue – one done in the cover of darkness – under a blanket!

It’s culturally abominable to kiss in public, there. Leave alone pulling a boys zip down, pushing ones hand to feel what the zip covers, and having the mouth, follow the hand!

But it’s happening near me for the first time. So what!

I turn to my bag for some literature to read. I guess for solace sake! I remember a few copies of, “Men Only,” that I purchased from the Victoria Station.

A way with the youth drama, I resolve. Let me concentrate on some literature, the way the older people are doing!

But as the saying goes, “From the frying pan to the fire,” my eyes opened the way Adam and Eve’s did, when they ate the forbidden fruit.

It is a pornographic paper I bought! Mark you, pictures of nude ladies are put to market sex services, to the extent of leaving contact cell numbers behind!

Am I safe? I ask myself. Quickly making the sign of the cross!

Back at home, woman only exposes bit of the thighs to send strong messages that they are available. But things are different this side of the world.

The ladies don’t only tease men, instead they remove every bit of cloth, displaying all the panorama of their body features!

What a hell on earth is this! I wonder.

My mind isn’t just defiled by what I see, it is seriously violated.

Is this what they mean by writing, “Men Only?”

I quickly cover the magazines the way Adam and Eve covered their nakedness, when they purportedly heard a voice from the Lord saying, “Where are you?”

I will not even throw it to the trash, lest people see what I am holding and reading.

Well, it is between 5:00 and 6:00pm in the evening.

We have travelled 90% of the journey.

Liverpool is the next city and our final stop on a train journey.

I take a cup of coffee and a pancake to keep me strong in the next episode of the trip. I also visit the lavatory a few times to make sure I was light for the next episode.

I will either meet my old missionary friend, or hand myself to the police. I determined.

After all I have had the travel experience that I needed, and the ticket was paid for, by the organisers of the conference.

I will actually lose nothing! I reasoned.

The train is no longer as fast as before! It is passing by the area the first locomotive was tested, hundreds of years ago.

The railway line between Manchester and Liverpool. And finally to the railway station at 6:00pm.

There are cabs outside queueing and waiting to deliver passengers to their respective destinations.

But one has to know the street address and the number of the house.

I am the next on the line!

“Good evening sir,” I start.

Trying to explain my dilemma, to the English taxi operator.

But he quickly tells me off.

“I am not here to help people who don’t even know where they are going!” He says.

I step backwards, to allow the ready passengers to continue. The ones having their addresses at their finger-tips, whose diaries haven’t got lost as they were boarding the train.

I observe that just as the passengers queue, waiting for their time, the taxi operators equally do the same. Its 6:30pm and getting a bit dark, most passengers are reaching their final destinations.

A taxi operator of an Indian origin approaches me.

“How are you my friend?” he starts.

“I am fine” I answer.

My expectations at the lowest.

“So, what’s your problem? Where are you going?” He continues.

“I am going to Liverpool, Merseyside, but have lost my diary. I am just trying to remember the street and house number by head.”

“What number do you remember my friend?”

“L14.” I said.

“Well, you try to remember the other as we go,” the man of the Indian decent says.

Is this man serious? I question from within.

“But I am only having 13 pounds sir,” I said.

“No problem my friend, we will try two places! What have you come to do in England?”

“I have come to attend a Christian conference, in Cumbria.”

“You mean these halleluiah-halleluiah people my friend?”

“Yes sir. Those halleluiah-halleluiah people.”

I laugh.

My friend of Indian descent sees through the mirror and laughs too. He’s glad I am getting relaxed! I am equally glad the seven-hour tension is being shared and lifted.

We reach his first guess, he comes out and knocks at the door!

He discusses with the man of the house for some two minutes and he comes back to drive.

“It’s not here my halleluiah friend, let’s try the second place.” He says, his confidence building in me some courage.

After another drive, he once again stops, and knocks the door.

The money charge meter is already reading 16 pounds, yet, I only have 13, left in my pocket. Even as the vehicle stations, it still counts. 

An old man comes out.

My Indian friend explains my dilemma and asks whether he knows a man with my name!

By this time I almost jump out of the car!

It is my old missionary friend. But he first re-enters his house as my Indian friend waits at the door!

He gives the taxi driver the 16 pounds I am meant to pay, before coming out to meet me? “Thank you my friend,” I say waving to the driver.

“Why didn’t you call us before coming,” the missionary asked, not to be rude, but to express his concern, in case I didn’t get them. In case they were out on a holiday.

“I am sorry Papa, but it’s a long story!”

“I know, and you must be tired and exhausted from the long journey, come in and have cold juice to refresh yourself.”

“Thank you sir?”

He organises a younger missionary to take care of me. I guess the one he’s mentoring for missions. He also books a bus for me to Cumbria the next day.

Well, the rest of the week goes in accordance to my driver’s phrase – halleluiah-halleluiah – with my halleluiah friends at the Keswick Conference, in the beautiful, green, Lake District of Cumbria.