Love on route 7

Temiloluwa lifted her phone, holding it high so her followers could see the chaos swirling around her. “Guys, guess where I am?” she called out, her voice rising above the noise. Conductors shouted, “Oshogbo! Ibadan! Enter with your change o!” each trying to out-yell the other. Somewhere nearby, a hawker rattled bottled minerals in a plastic crate. She muttered to herself, “I swear, this is not how I planned my morning, oh!” The live chat was moving fast — the viewer count climbing from eighty to one hundred and twenty. Little red hearts floated up her screen as if they could rescue her from the madness. “I had a flight, my people. A whole flight. But the road to my house decided to turn into River Niger. Everywhere flood. I had to pass one long corner to even reach the bus stop, and traffic was like Judgment Day. By the time I got to the airport…” she paused for effect, “…injustice had already happened in my life.” A conductor suddenly appeared before her, his palm shiny with sweat and oil. “Ibadan! Wólé pẹ̀lú change ẹ ooo!” he shouted like her face was the logo for Ibadan Tourism. “Abeg, excuse me, sir,” she muttered, stepping aside. A puff-puff seller brushed past, the smell of hot oil wrapping around her. Across the way, a woman waved diamond-patterned Ankara headscarves, shouting prices like she was in an auction. A Gala seller weaved between buses, balancing snacks in one hand and La Casera in the other. An ofada rice seller shouted from behind her cooler, the spicy pepper sauce smell cutting through the diesel fumes that hung in the air, mixing with the sweet puff-puff scent and the faint metallic tang of rainwater drying on concrete. Then — he walked past. Tall. Clean white shirt. The kind of presence that seemed to part chaos without trying. His perfume — sharp, warm, expensive — cut through everything else. For a moment, Temiloluwa forgot she was live. “Jeez… what a man, what a scent,” she breathed into the phone, forgetting that there were now one hundred and fifty people watching. The comments exploded with laughing emojis and teasing. She laughed, shook her head, and aimed the camera at the bus she was about to board. “Oya, make I enter before temptation carry me enter trouble,” she said. She turned off her livestream, shoved her phone into her bag, and stepped into the bus. Only two seats remained — one at the back and one upfront by the window. She chose the front seat. Lagos heat plus a long trip meant she needed all the fresh air she could get. Sliding into the seat, she glanced over. The stranger in the crisp white shirt from the bus park was her seatmate — earbuds in, fingers busy tapping on his phone. Quiet, calm. Different from the noisy chaos outside. The journey had already started when the driver advised everyone to fasten their seatbelt and roll their windows halfway down. Temiloluwa settled herself, stretching out a bit. Abuja wasn’t a trip for the faint-hearted, so she dug around for the most comfortable position. She brought out her iPad and started preparing for her job pitch — going over notes and slides. About thirty minutes into the journey, she looked up as the traffic slowed; hawkers weaved through cars selling cold drinks, puff-puff, and “pure water,” while large billboards for religious events (“Holy Ghost Congress 2025”) towered over the road. While settling in next to him, she decided to check her Snap streak — she had to keep that going every day, no matter what. Suddenly, a notification popped up: it was her friend’s 25th birthday. Ah, Jesus, she thought, she had forgotten to wish her! Not like she had forgotten completely — she had already sent a birthday surprise with cake to her apartment. But the most important part? The actual birthday wish. She pulled out her phone and called her. “Hi, baby girl! Happy birthday, my love! The big 25! How does it feel to be 25?” “Ha! Temiloluwa! You and your wahala, still doing the most,” her friend replied. “But wait, weren’t you meant to be on a plane?” “Baby girl! You know Nigerian airports and their wahala. I missed my flight — water flooded my area, traffic madness. By the time I got there, I went to the nearest bus park and hopped on a bus. Can’t miss this job interview, you know how it is.” “I get it, I get it. Thanks for calling. Got your gift too — sent you a message on w******p, maybe you haven’t checked it yet.” “Nope, haven’t checked w******p. Just decided to check my Snap and reply Snap messages while on the trip, then saw your birthday notification. Sorry for the late wishes!” “It’s okay, Temiloluwa. Thank you, thank you.” Her friend signed off, and Temiloluwa went on to check her w******p messages on her phone as the bus rolled onward. As soon as she opened w******p, messages started flooding in. One caught her eye — from Bee. She tapped her name and dialed. “Hi, Bee, what’s up?” she asked. “Hi, Temiloluwa! How you doing?” Bee replied warmly. “I’m so sorry, just saw your message asking for my address to send the PR package.” “Oh, no worries,” Temiloluwa said. “I’m actually on a business trip to Abuja and don’t know when I’ll be back in Lagos. But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” “Okay, cool! I just wanted to send you the PR package for my new book and get your opinion about it.” “Oh my God, I’m not in Lagos either! But I’d love to read it. Do you have an online copy, like an e-book or e-pub? I can read that and send you my review — plus a shout-out on social media.” “That would be amazing, girl. Thanks so much!” She smiled to herself, tucking her phone away as the bus rumbled on. The bus jolted slightly as it swerved, and she glanced sideways at the man next to her. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the window, but there was something else — a distant look, like he was running through a thousand thoughts all at once. He seemed calm but weighed down, a contrast to the chaotic energy that had surrounded them just minutes ago at the bus park. Breaking the silence, he glanced at her and said with a small smile, “A multitasker, aren’t we?”