The scene was an opulent party; lots to eat and drink. So many people milled around, being feted to their heart’s content. Oluwanishola glided around like the quintessential hostess, smiling and greeting everyone. Yet deep inside she was troubled and she was struggling to hide it.
The next scene finds Oluwanishola in a raggedy bus, traveling to an obscure and very rough area of town, far away from all the opulence seen earlier. In fact, so far is she from opulence in this scene that she only has a little money on her. There are but a few other people in the bus, and her final destination is still farther than the bus’s last stop. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t exactly know how to get to where she is going.
The only place she can think of is a stop close to the general direction of her destination, but even that is much further than the bus’s last stop. She turns to the bus conductor and asks if she can be driven to that stop. The conductor looks her over and says she can, but only if she pays 240. It is an exorbitant fee, both by normal bus fare standards and by her lean pocket, but she doesn’t see any realistic way of getting there, so she agrees.
As the other passengers alight at the last stop and the bus proceeds toward her requested stop, the conductor eyes her curiously. She seems puzzled by the impoverished circumstances of a woman who had just thrown a lavish society party only days before and who is now heading to a dreaded part of town.
“Pay me my money!” the conductor—who also happens to be a woman—says brashly. “Pay it now!”
The conductor can’t figure out what is going on and wants to make sure Oluwanishola isn’t playing any games with her and the driver. Oluwanishola pulls out the thin wad of cash in her pocket, laboriously counts a few currency notes, and hands them over, almost as if hoping that magically, it would cover the fare.
The conductor counts the money suspiciously and raises her voice. “I told you your fare is 240. This is 100.”
The conductor is sizing up her passenger, ready to fight if need be. But Oluwanishola doesn’t want any of that. Again, she unfolds her thin wad of cash and sorts through it to find the right currency to make up the difference. She hands the money wordlessly to the conductor and folds the remaining cash in her hand miserably. She knows that amount will probably not get her back home.
The stop the bus is taking her to is not her actual destination, and she has no idea how much it will cost her to complete the journey, let alone return. She contemplates looking for an ATM, but two thoughts trouble her: one, she knows she barely has money in her account to withdraw, and two, she knows she is in a rough neighborhood and doesn’t want to give the hostile conductor any impression that she has money.
All the while, the conductor keeps staring at her. Her initial suspicious animosity is giving way to curious empathy. Clearly, this passenger is troubled, and she paid the fare even though she clearly could not afford it.
“Where exactly are you going?” the conductor asks.
“I’m going here,” replied Oluwanishola, pulling out a piece of paper and pointing to a typed address.
“But that is not where we are taking you,” the conductor replies.
“I know,” replied Oluwanishola. “It’s the closest stop I could think of.”
“It’s not close; it’s far from it,” the conductor replies.
Oluwanishola nods silently, bowing her head in fearful contemplation of what lies ahead. The conductor watches as her passenger tries to put up a brave front while hiding the tears she is fighting back. Something strikes a chord and the conductor asks gently, “Why are you going to that address?”
Oluwanishola looks up, gulps, and steadies her breathing. Pointing to the piece of paper, she says, “I am going to see this man, Alaji.”
The conductor’s eyes widen in surprise. “You mean Osibodu?”
“No,” Oluwanishola says, lowering her gaze again. “I know him as Alaji.”
Pulling up a news article about the man on her phone, the conductor shows it to Oluwanishola, pointing to where he is referred to as Osibodu. Olwanishola nods; it isn’t a name she is unfamiliar with.
“Why are you going to see such a notorious man?” the conductor asks. “Do you know that he deals in gold?”
Oluwanishola nods. She knows of Alaji’s notoriety and knows “gold” could be a pseudonym for many illegal things. With a defeated look on her face, she turns to the conductor and says, “He’s my daughter’s father and I need his help.”
The conductor stares at her in stunned silence. After what feels like several minutes, she turns to the driver and calls out Oluwanishola’s actual destination, telling him to drive there instead.
Oluwanishola looks at her in grateful surprise. “I thought you weren’t going to that area.”
“We are now,” replied the conductor.
“But I don’t have any more money to pay you,” replied Oluwanishola.
“I didn’t ask you to,” said the conductor. A strong wave of relief washes through Oluwanishola’s body.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she says.
“Don’t—at least not yet,” said the conductor, smiling. “Osibodu is not a man you go and see alone. You will need reinforcements to even get past his screeners. We will arrange some for you when we get there.”
The scene cuts to a restaurant with her daughter, Sharon, and a friend. Sharon is telling the friend how she had considered suicide.
“I don’t understand why you would do that,” the friend says. “You have it all.”
“I am depressed,” replied Sharon desperately. “I am married. I can’t believe I am married.”
“But you are married to a rich guy,” her friend replies. “You have all the luxuries of life.”
“I am miserable,” Sharon replies as they make their way out of the restaurant. “I am doing nothing with my life. All I have done is to push out his kid and now I have another one. I am only pushing and being pushed,” she continues, practically sobbing.
The scene opens on Sharon at home, having a huge spat with her husband.
“So leave then,” the husband says callously. “Leave if you can, because I have impregnated you again. Why wouldn’t I? You’re my property and you would cook, pregnancy or not.”
Just then, her mother’s voice carries into the room. She has entered from the entrance at the opposite end. “I brought food for you and Sharon.”
Sharon glances at her husband fearfully. “I asked my mom to help cook a few things because I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh please,” the husband retorts derisively. “You are such a crybaby.” He turns to her mother scornfully. “You’re always so quick to interfere in your daughter’s marriage. Can you not find something else to do? You’re both so pathetic, mother and daughter.” And with that, he leaves the house, presumably for work.
Oluwanishola and Sharon look at one another. They are indeed in a pitiable situation. Sharon is bonded to her husband, who is from a very rich and powerful family. The luxurious party they had thrown earlier had, in fact, been bankrolled by the husband’s family. They are indebted to them so much that there was practically no way to pay back all that money and free Sharon unless they did something drastic.
———————
Author: Modupe Ogunyemi
Email: moshortstories@gmail.com
Modupe Ogunyemi is a fiction writer dedicated to exploring the complex architecture of human agency and the breaking of toxic cycles. Through sharp dialogue and high-stakes narratives, their work examines the precise moment an individual chooses freedom over comfort. They currently reside in Ontario, Canada, where they are developing a series of short stories.