I was travelling from Takoradi to Accra one dawn. I bought a ticket the night before and was supposed to get there by 5 a.m. I overslept and woke up at 5 a.m. I didn’t even bathe. I rushed into my dress, polished my face and brushed my teeth. I ran out of the house to the road waiting for a taxi. It took about fifteen minutes before a taxi arrived. When I got to the station and asked, they told me the bus had left fifteen minutes ago. They showed me a seat to sit and wait for the next bus.

There was a lady sitting on the bench when I got there. She asked me, “Did you also miss the bus?” I nodded, without looking at her face. I was thinking about my next move, whether to wait for the next bus or go to another station and get one of the minibuses. I decided I didn’t want to wait for the next bus so I got up. The lady asked, “Are you leaving?”

This time I looked at her face. She looked disturbed and lost, like a child whose mother had left her on the aisle of a huge supermarket. I told her I was in a hurry and had to leave. She said, “I’m in a hurry too but I’m scared of these Sprinter vans and the speed. They are never safe on the road.” I told her to follow me. “We can get something a little bit safer than a sprinter. Trust me, we are not going to die today.”

She smiled, picked up her bag and followed me. When we got to the station, there was a queue. I told her to wait while I got the ticket. I bought two tickets, handed one to her, and we carried our bags onto the bus. When we sat down, she stretched her hand to give me the money. I shook my head. I said, “Take it as a gift from me.” She said, “My mom advised me against that. She said I shouldn’t take gifts from strangers.”

We both burst out laughing. I told her, “I’m not surprised you still want to obey your mother. If your mother is anything like mine, then you won’t dare go against her words but you hide it. She’s not here so she won’t see it.”

We talked about our mothers as we waited for the bus to move. Her mom was an upgrade to who my mother was. Every bad thing my mom did to me, her mom did it twice to her. They called it discipline but on the bus going to Accra, we both agreed what our mothers did to us was child abuse. She said to me, “I’m surprised I’ve come to this conclusion with you. I was scared to even think about it that way. I felt she might hear my secret thoughts and beat the hell out of me.”

When the bus made a stop and people got down to buy, I didn’t step out. She came back with pie and coke for me. She said, “I’m not trying to repay for the ticket but I figured you’ll like these.” I looked at my right side and the left side and said, “My mom is not here. I will take it.”

We lost a bus and found each other so we were trying our best to make up for what we lost. Every sentence, every silence and every look in our eyes compensated for our loss. I didn’t think I’d found a friend until I put my earpiece in my ears and she asked me to give her one side of the earpiece. “Give me one. I want to hear what you’re listening to.”

We shared my earpiece. It wasn’t comfortable. It meant we had to keep our heads close and not move far apart as long as we shared the cord. I fell asleep at some point. When I woke up, I didn’t have the earpiece in my ear but I had her head lying on my shoulder as she slept. I stiffened up my shoulders so her head wouldn’t fall. When the car fell into a pothole, I stiffened up harder to absolve the shock. My shoulder was hurting but I didn’t mind.

READ ALSO: What Do You Do When The Wrong Man Loves You Right?

I asked myself, “Who is she that I will go through this pain to make her feel comfortable? Why should I care?” The answer was, “She’s a lady and you’re only trying to be a gentleman.”

When she woke up, the sun was already up. She squinted her eyes while asking me, “Are we there yet?” I answered, “In your dreams. We have ten more years to get to Accra. You better go back to sleep.” She pressed my shoulder, “It’s not soft enough.  My neck aches and my dreams are getting close to nightmares. Make it soft and I will sleep again.”

I lied. We were already in Accra. Before getting down at Mallam junction, she gave me her number. I asked her, “Your mama didn’t advise you not to give your number to strangers?” She answered, “She did but you’re no longer a stranger. I want to properly thank you for the ticket and also the shoulder to rest on.”

She typed her number on my phone. I tried calling her phone and she said it was off. “I will charge when I get home so if you call me when you get to your destination, you will get me.”

She was getting down. I was seated looking at her from behind. We had only spent five hours together but it felt like I’d known her forever. I knew her mom, how she talked, and what she cared about. I knew her dad, a retired accountant. I knew her elder brother who was quick-tempered and also a stammerer. She had a pet dog who barked at flying birds and ignored thieves at night. She was tall and elegant with a teeth gap. Her name was Hanna—the only name she gave me.

It was October 17th 2022 when we both rode on the bus from Takoradi to Accra. You said you went to visit an aunt whose husband had died in Takoradi. That morning, you told me you would have to skip work but needed a crazy excuse that would knock your boss off to believe you or even sympathize with you. I told you to tell your boss that your pet dog had died and you needed some days off to mourn.

This is the reason I couldn’t call you or haven’t been able to call you since we said goodbye. It’s dramatic but if you’re reading this, I hope you believe me. When you got down, I dozed off. I don’t know what happened but I got into the next trotro at Kaneshie and didn’t see my phone in my pocket. It might have fallen off in the bus when I dozed off or someone might have stolen it when I was trying to board the trotro. I don’t know what happened but I got home without a phone—without your number.

The Craziest Thing I’ve Ever Done In The Name of Love

I fell in love with our story and was ready to make you a friend and see where the stories of our mothers would lead us. I was eager to meet your mom and get a clear picture of who she is as compared to my mom. I couldn’t believe your mom beat my mom. I dreamt of being friends with your father. In my imagination, your elder brother was the only problem because of his anger issues. He didn’t like me to be close to you.

If you’re reading this, please contact me. The admin has my details. There is one more story I didn’t tell you about my mom. When you call, I will tell you and I hope that would be enough for you to say, “I give up. your mom takes the crown.”

—Jacob    

This story you just read was sent to us by someone just like you. We know you have a story too. Email it to us at [email protected]. You can also drop your number and we will call you so you tell us your story.

*******