THE LAST BUS HOME

CHAPTER ONE THE NIGHT LAGOS FORGOT HER At 10:47 p.m., Lagos was still wide awake. It was one of those nights when the city seemed determined to remind everyone that it never truly slept. The roads were wet from an evening shower. The rain had stopped almost an hour earlier, but water still gathered in the potholes, reflecting the yellow glow of streetlights and the headlights of passing vehicles. Danfo buses honked impatiently. Conductors hung halfway outside moving vehicles, shouting destinations at pedestrians. “Egbeda! Egbeda! Egbeda!” “Oshodi! Oshodi!” “Berger! Berger!” A woman selling roasted corn fanned smoke away from her face while negotiating with a customer. “Madam, na ₦1,000.” “₦1,000 for corn?” “Na Lagos, madam. You want buy or you want argue?” The woman laughed. Two boys carrying trays of gala moved between cars. A generator somewhere nearby coughed violently before coming back to life. Lagos. Beautiful. Exhausting. Unforgiving. Alive. Twenty-eight-year-old Amaka Nwosu stood at the edge of the bus stop with her handbag pressed against her chest. She checked her phone. 10:48 p.m. Her battery was at four percent. “Jesus.” She looked down the road. Nothing. She waited. Another danfo approached. Amaka stepped forward and raised her hand. The conductor looked at her. “Egbeda?” “Yes!” The bus slowed. She smiled. Then the conductor shook his head. “Full!” The driver accelerated. “Please!” The bus disappeared into the darkness. Amaka sighed. She looked at the people around her. There were fewer now. Much fewer. The traders who had filled the roadside earlier were packing up. The woman selling roasted corn was counting her money. A man who had been selling bottled water was stacking the remaining bottles inside a cooler. Amaka checked her phone again. 10:56. She called her younger brother. The call failed. She tried again. Nothing. She called her mother. The phone rang. No answer. She imagined her mother lying awake, staring at the ceiling. Her mother hated when she came home late. Not because she wanted to control her. Because she was afraid. Amaka understood that. She simply didn't know how to solve it. She worked in Victoria Island. She lived in Egbeda. Between those two places was a distance measured not only in kilometres but in traffic, exhaustion, transport fares and patience. Her monthly salary was ₦185,000. It sounded reasonable until the bills arrived. Rent. Food. Electricity. Water. Transport. Her younger brother's school fees. Her mother's medication. Family emergencies. The endless Nigerian emergency where somebody always needed money. Sometimes Amaka wondered where her salary actually went. It seemed to enter her account only to disappear immediately. She checked her phone again. One percent. “Oh, wonderful.” She switched off the data. Then the screen went black. “Perfect.” She put the phone into her handbag. A motorcycle stopped beside her. The rider lifted his visor. “Oga, where you dey go?” “Egbeda.” “Enter.” “How much?” “Seven thousand.” Amaka stared at him. “Seven thousand?” “Madam, see time.” “Seven thousand from Oshodi?” “Na night price.” “Thank you.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He rode away. Amaka looked around. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. A strange uneasiness settled in her stomach. She had been in Lagos long enough to understand when a place was becoming unsafe. The crowd was disappearing. The noise was thinning. The darkness was becoming louder. She stood. Maybe she should find a hotel. But she didn't have enough money. She could call Tolu. But Tolu lived in Yaba. She could call her manager. That was the last thing she wanted. She could call a taxi. Her account balance would suffer. She sat down again. “God, please.” A voice came from behind her. “Excuse me.” Amaka turned. A man stood several metres away. Early forties, perhaps. White long-sleeved shirt. Dark trousers. Black backpack. Nothing about him suggested wealth. Nothing suggested danger either. But Amaka had learned a long time ago that appearances were unreliable. “Yes?” “Are you waiting for a bus?” She looked toward the empty road. “Yes.” “You won't find one.” “I've noticed.” He smiled. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “Where?” She hesitated. “Egbeda.” He nodded. “I am going that direction.” Amaka immediately shook her head. “No, thank you.” He raised both hands slightly. “That's fine.” She was surprised. Most men who approached women stranded at night didn't accept rejection so easily. He turned away. Then he stopped. “My name is Daniel.” She said nothing. “Daniel Okoro.” Still nothing. He reached into his pocket, removed a business card and placed it on the concrete barrier. “You don't have to enter my car.” He pointed across the road. A dark Toyota Camry sat beneath a streetlight. “I'm just saying you shouldn't remain here alone.” Amaka looked at the card. DANIEL OKORO Oakbridge Development Group She knew Oakbridge. Everybody in the property industry knew Oakbridge. They were one of the largest property development companies in Lagos. She looked back at him. “You work for Oakbridge?” “Yes.” “What do you do?” He smiled. “Too long a story.” “Convenient answer.” “Fair.” He walked toward his car. Amaka watched him. He opened the driver's door. Then he stopped. “If you decide to stay, please call somebody you trust.” He got into the car. The engine started. Amaka remained where she was. She watched him drive away. Then she heard laughter. Three young men were approaching from across the road. One looked directly at her. Another said something. The first laughed. Amaka's heart began pounding. She looked toward the road. Daniel's car had stopped at the junction. She made a decision. She picked up her handbag and ran. “Daniel!” The car reversed slightly. He lowered the passenger window. “Get in.” She entered. He locked the doors. Neither spoke for several seconds. Then Daniel asked: “Are you okay?” Amaka nodded. “Yes.” “You're shaking.” “I'm fine.” “You're allowed to be scared.” She stared through the window. Lagos passed outside. Dark shops. Closed kiosks. Bright petrol stations. Sleeping neighbourhoods. People still walking. People still working. People still trying to survive. Daniel drove quietly. After several minutes he handed her his phone. “Call someone.” “My phone is dead.” “Use mine.” She called her mother. No answer. Again. Still nothing. She called her brother. No answer. She returned the phone. “Thank you.” “You're welcome.” Silence. Then Daniel said: “You should let someone know you're safe.” “I will when I get home.” “Good.” She looked at him. “Why are you helping me?” He glanced at her. “Because you needed help.” “That's it?” “That's it.” She smiled faintly. “You don't look like somebody who does things for free.” Daniel laughed. “Why?” “You're too calm.” “That's an interesting theory.” “You know what I mean.” “No, I don't.” “You look like someone who is used to getting what he wants.” Daniel's smile disappeared. “Believe me, Amaka, there are many things money cannot get you.” She looked at him. “How do you know my name?” He pointed toward the card. “You gave it to me when you called my name.” “Oh.” She looked away. A few minutes later they approached a narrow street. Daniel slowed down. Then suddenly he stopped. His eyes fixed on a particular house. Amaka noticed. “What's wrong?” He didn't answer. “Daniel?” He looked at the house for several seconds. There was pain in his eyes. Not ordinary sadness. Something older. Something buried. Then he drove on. Amaka turned to look behind them. The house disappeared into darkness. She didn't know it yet. But that house was connected to her family. To Daniel's family. To a secret buried for twenty-two years. And to the reason a simple missed bus would eventually change two lives.