Nigerian

Life has a curious way of setting us on unexpected journeys, often leading us to embrace a divine destiny we never anticipated. My path took an unforeseen turn on a seemingly ordinary day at a bustling Nigerian bus park. As I stood at the ticket counter, my diminutive frame dwarfed by the imposing presence of a fellow traveller, I had no inkling of the profound connection that fate was about to forge. With my ticket in hand, I rushed to claim the prized window seat – a small victory for any Nigerian road traveller. As if on cue, he arrived at the vehicle seconds later and chose the second row of seats since I had already taken the first. He sat directly behind me, and both of us were near the window. His face didn’t give him away as Igbo, but his voice did. The numerous calls he received and made were all about business and family, his thick accent punctuating every word. I wanted to turn around and tell him I was Igbo as well, but I couldn’t. The phrase “Abum onye Igbo” (I am Igbo) formed in my mouth, but I held my tongue back and remained facing forward. I heard everything he was saying, knowing he was unaware that I could understand or that anyone else on the bus filled with Hausas might be Igbo.  I longed for a little of the oneness we share with our tribe to rub off on me too, the same way a Yoruba would easily identify with another Yoruba or a Hausa man wouldn’t hesitate to connect with another Hausa man. I wondered what I would say next after introducing myself to him, but I lost the zeal and remained silent almost throughout the journey. My silence would have persisted until we reached our destination if the accident had never happened. The accident was terrible, but we survived. At the hospital ward where we were admitted, my tongue suddenly became loose, and I spoke Igbo with reckless abandon, only occasionally punctuating it with English. It seemed as if the pain in my plastered arm neutralized whatever had been holding me back earlier during the journey. He was surprised to hear me speak to him in Igbo, and I could tell he wondered why I hadn’t introduced myself earlier. His left leg was heavily bandaged. We had been at the hospital for a week, and I had even been unconscious for two days after we were rushed in. As I sat beside him, my mind wandered, eventually settling on an important lesson: the sudden transition to speaking my language highlighted that ‘I do not have to wait for any opportunity to preach the gospel’. Sometimes, the opportunity could come in grave circumstances, even on the platter of an accident. But what if I hadn’t survived? What if he had died? What if I couldn’t say a word before he died? He would have passed away without knowing I was a child of God, without me witnessing to him. The same way he would have died without knowing I was Igbo. A whole lot of ‘not-knowings’ all because I was tongue-tied. I asked how he felt, and he said he was getting better but wished he was with his family instead of in a hospital far from home. I felt sorry for him but said nothing, instead thinking of writing my name and other messages on his leg bandage, just as I had done on my arm bandage. I waited for him to calm down after expressing his woes before telling him about Jesus. Afterwards, we became almost inseparable, always together, talking about Jesus and speaking Igbo. The day I was discharged, he was fast asleep. I got to leave early because my injury was minor. I wrote on a sheet of paper and left it by his bedside in the male ward: Luke 1:37 – With God all these things are possible. You will be fine and you will get to see your family soon. Cheers!!! As I boarded a bus at Gusau, I wished he was there again so I could speak Igbo with him. Just then, I heard the priceless language right beside me from a young girl, about my age, speaking to someone over the phone. I smiled brightly and waited for her to finish first. READ ALSO: God’s Loudest Scream Came in a Silent Dream