Chapter 3: Indomie, Insult, and the Road Ahead
The man go toilet. As I dey hungry, I begin make instant noodles.
I bring out my flask, pour small noodles—Indomie way, with pepper sachet, plus one Titus fish if luck shine. The hot water flask na my best friend for long journey. The smell of seasoning fill the air, my stomach dey dance.
Anybody wey don make noodles for bus know: first, you fetch hot water half cup, carry am go seat, add seasoning. Na the safest way.
I dey measure water, careful no let am pour. Everybody for bus dey use nose catch the aroma. Some dey look, dey hope say I go dash dem small.
As I dey carefully add seasoning, I no notice as the man return from toilet.
My mind dey focus on noodles. Hunger dey blind eye, wahala for back seat no dey my head again. I just dey pray say the rest of journey go smooth.
Suddenly, he just sit down in front of me, slam him seat back hard, and curse, "You..."
The whole seat shake. My noodles nearly pour, my hand dey tremble. E face fierce, voice rough. The wahala don restart, like say e no ever tire. I just close my eyes, dey gather strength for the next battle, dey hope say maybe, just maybe, God go intervene this time.
As the bus roll for dark express, I know say this wahala never finish—Naija journey, e get as e be.