The Long Walk Home

THE LONG WALK

It an effulgent day, with an edgy sun and few puffy clouds hovering about the sky. But this connatural backdrop contradicts your dusky temperament. With your suitcase in hand, you head for the station. You are about travelling to Akwa Ibom from Abuja, where you spent your Christmas holidays. The holidays had been less favourable to you. Maybe it had been favourable to every other persons you cared less about at the station, but surely it treated you worse. The reason you keep looking searchingly for familiar faces around the bustling station, someone to lift your spirits up. You growl when you found none, and lazily you join the line of chattering passengers qeueing onto the lovomotive train.

You exhale at last when the train chauffs and it speakers announces it departure, your departure from a forgettable holiday. Each passing moment you cast a glance at your wrist watch, but in pretense of keeping yourself busy than checking it correct time. The male passenger by your side tries to incite a conversation by asking about your holidays but you ignore him, instead choosing to stare out of the window at the lanky cattle rearers on the open fields, by the sides of the train tracks.

Throughout the rest of the journey you are strictly quiet which makes you dooze off to sleep. The train stops at the next station and it wakes you up. You become annoyed when you realise you are not to alight there. As the train resumes it journey again, you try to silence out the metal clankings emanating from the train's engine room. It added more rhythm to the chatterings of other passengers. You realise you have been the only that has been quiet throughout the journey, so you wake the sleeping passenger beside you. You apologize for having ignored him earlier. You strike a conversation pertaining to the sunny weather and the poor state of the train. You realise you shared an opposing view to the passenger's, so you grow quiet with time, ignoring all his efforts to get you back on the conversation.

The train stops at the next station, your destination. You alight with a few passengers, and choose not to look back at the departing train. It still bore memories of the miserable days you spent at Abuja. You walk briskly out of the train station, with your luggae slung over your shoulder. You halt the next cab that drives up to you. It driver drives off with you when you notify him of your destination, the bus stop at Uyo.

You alight at the bus stop, where wisps of silver-grey smoke, curling out of vehicles mingles with pungent smell of decaying dumps littered around, causing passersby to twist their nose and spit their distaste. But you are untroubled with it. You are about to board a bus from Uyo to Ikot Ekpene.

A Toyota Camry with a worn-out body and a fading red colour halts across the road. It driver waves energetically at you, you returned the gesture nonchalantly.

''Oto my man, Oto Oto!'' The driver cries out.

He steps out of his car and takes off his cap, revealing his bald crown. He walks up to you with a grin. You silently wished you could reach out and slap off his grin, but you are civilized. He is an old friend from the past, old friends in college. You exchange exchange greetings and make inquiries affectionately.

Your friend is a banker; happily married and life treats him fairl, which is visible with his bulky shape and rich attire. Yours is quite the opposite. You relate your life's ordeal to him; your vigourous work as a teacher, the mistake of travelling to Abuja for your holidays, a domineering principal at the school where you teach and the distances you had to cover everyday to work.

''It's life for you. Be a strong man.'' He speaks out loud and confidently. Perhaps, he is God and must have shaped every man's destiny, including yours-once his closest friend.

He offers to drive you down to your destination without charges. Coincidentally, he is actually heading for the same destination as you. You excitingly hop into his rose-scented car, like a man Dangote had just willed his wealth to.

En route, he suggest a few bottles of liqour, in celebration of an untimely reunion. 

Let's drink like old days. He offers, you are in congruence with it. After all the bills are on your companion. The sun disappears over several empty green bottles of liqour in a bar and over you and your drunk friend. Your companion runs out of cash to pay for all the drinks. You are a guileless man and your conscience is knocking on your door. So you open your door and decide to help him out with the last amount you had as your transport fare. Afterall, he offered you a free ride home.

The journey continues with both of you sitted in intoxicating silence. Your companion strikes off a conversation pertaining to football, but his views belies yours. Your companion is infuriated and slams his brake. The car stops violently same as your heart, but you are not death. You are shocked and confused.

''Get out of my car, man. Same old you, greedy and a lover of free things''. His words fall like bags of prickles on you.

Pride comes in, you obediently and annoyingly step out of your companion's car without begging. Instead, you slam the door violently and walk off with your rumpled clothe and your luggage slung over your shoulder.

Your friend drives off blasting black rings of smoke from his car all over you. You curse as his car drives out of sight. The cruel realisation knocks you like a million punches from your favourite kick-boxer. The puzzles fit in; your transport fare, the drinking bar, bottles of liqour you paid for and the lurking darkness.

You give up and decide to walk. A huge sign board with, ''Poverty is a sin'' inscribed on it greets you at Ekom Iman junction. It makes you cry and laugh violently at the same time. You smile at every passersby that walks by you and wave at empty red buses, while trotting like a wounded dog into the night's dark garment. Ikot Ekpene your probable destination, or madness your probable outcome. You recall you begun your day's journey with a suitcase in hand, while you headed for the station. Now, you are heading for home on your feet with your suitcase still slung over your back.