Two hours

In transit

It’s my first time on the train from Lagos to Ibadan. I expected the typical Lagos noise, chaos and discomfort. Instead, it’s calm… even Tiwa who has complained about everything on our way here is quiet beside me, hugging her pack of plantain chips like it’s a life source.

We’re traveling for a friend’s wedding.

A young lady walks in. She takes the seat facing mine before I notice her properly. Her eyes look borrowed from someone exhausted. Nothing about her beauty announces itself.

Another passenger enters and takes the seat beside her. He looks like one of the upcoming Yoruba demons who’s used to being noticed. Not loud, just aware. He offers a polite nod before settling in.

The train begins to move.

—

Some conversations drag themselves into existence, but theirs doesn’t.

“It’s my first time on a train,” he says. “Curiosity won.”

She smiles faintly. “Same.”

It starts there.

Simple. Uncomplicated.

She pulls out a small notepad from her bag.

“Berryblossom High?” he asks, surprised.

Her head snaps up. “You know it?”

“I went there.”

They stare at each other for a second, searching their memories for something familiar.

Turns out they attended the same school. Different sets….same corridors, same assembly ground. They laugh at how small the world feels.

From secondary school, they move to university. Courses. Lecturers they both disliked. The strange shock of adulthood. NYSC. Cities they almost crossed paths in. It unfolds so easily, like they’re catching up instead of meeting for the first time.

At some point, she laughs.

The sound catches me off guard.

It’s warm and unrestrained. The kind of laughter that doesn’t match the weight she arrived with.

I glance at her again.

The heaviness in her face has lifted…not completely, but enough. Her eyes are brighter now. Alive in a way they weren’t when she sat down.

“You smile like you haven’t done it in a while,” he says quietly.

She pauses.

“Maybe,” she replies.

He doesn’t press.

They move on to music. Movies. Books. The kind of harmless debates strangers can have without consequence. He tells a joke, I don’t hear the beginning, but I hear the end, her laughter spilling out again, fuller this time.

Tiwa snores beside me, and I take the pack of chips from her hand. The scenery outside blurs into green and brown. Villages pass. Fields stretch endlessly.

He tells her the reason for his trip. Internship in an IT firm, and moving in with his mother for a while.

“A new life, I guess” he says with a small shrug.

She nods.

“And you?” he asks gently.

There’s a flicker in her eyes. A pause so brief it could be missed.

“Something different,” she answers, smiling.

He studies her face for a second, not prying, then nods. They don’t hold hands, they don’t flirt loudly. There’s no performance in it.

Just ease.

The train begins to slow.

Reality seeps back in through the windows.

Bags are lifted. Phones reappear and conversations shrink. They stand almost at the same time, smiling at each other.

No exchange of names.

No “let me get your number.”

Just a quiet understanding.

Outside the station, a car waits across the road. He waves at the driver.

They look at each other one last time.

There’s still a smile there, small, knowing. He crosses the road and catches up with the driver.

Tiwa pulls out her phone to book a taxi as she nudges me. “They exchanged numbers, right? Before I slept,I noticed the way they were looking at each other. That’s how some love stories begin.” Then she excuses herself to use the restroom.

We move to the waiting area, then she finds a spot to sit, while I stand and wait for Tiwa. Her phone rings, she picks up on the third ring.

“Yes, I’m in Ibadan. I came to bury my mum.” She says it into her phone, voice low and controlled.

A strange feeling washes over me. I turn around to face her and the smile is gone. Like light fading at dusk.

The call ends almost immediately. She slips the phone into her bag and exhales — the kind of breath you take when you’re tired of explaining something painful.

Her shoulders drop.

The tiredness returns to her eyes as if it had only stepped aside for a moment.

The words hang in the air long after she says them.

I came to bury my mum.

For two hours, she wasn’t.

She was just a girl on a train, laughing at a stranger’s jokes.

A taxi pulls up and she gets in without looking back.

The train behind us prepares for another journey.