The journey back home

In a hammer bus to Lagos, I sat directly behind the driver close to the window. The air in the bus was filled with dissimilar noises. A child was crying while the mother did nothing to calm her down. On the last row sat a man around his forties with a bald head. He was screaming at his much younger wife beside him; raining down abuses and saliva on the innocent lady who simply bent down her head in guilt not uttering a word. On the middle row sat a younger man in a black suit with a grey tie, lying over the phone to his employer. Saying he was already in Lagos while we're just halfway into the journey.

Ignoring the liar, I looked out the window, the fresh breeze washed through my face, making my eyelids flicker, pushing out through the window the repelling and stomach twisting gas in the bus. I admired the beautiful and green landscape of this great country; the thick and inhabited forest on both sides of the road.

Allowing my imagination to run wild, I won