Road Trip

From the day a man is born and becomes rational in thinking, all he thinks about is death. And professor Sabo was no different. Apparently, his life just flashed before him. He ran through the bushes with branches flapping and slapping his face. He felt the slipperiness between his skin and cloth, couldn't tell where, but that didn't bother him; fear surpassed pain at this point. Someone shuffled behind him, bending the branches he just bent, and he wished it was Azmina, the girl with enormous cleavage he chatted with on the bus. Everything had happened so fast. From his genital expanding under his trouser to it shrinking and almost slipping in; like a snail.

He wished he could turn the hands of time—which he obviously couldn't—to when he was about to board the bus; standing in line, behind an old woman who smelt strongly of garlic, to buy his ticket. The thoughts of sitting beside, or even on the same bus as the old woman made him stand out of the line. If he had ignored the garlic stench, and followed the first bus, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have been caught in such ghastly situation and he wouldn't have met Azmina, the full shaped girl with the full cleavage if he boarded with the garlic woman. He was the first to buy a ticket for the second bus that was set to leave by 8 A.M. The number cursively written on his ticket, to resemble an offhanded scribbling was, 14; the last seat by the window.

The terminal was rowdy and he sat on one of the metal benches next to a woman clad in oversized green sweater, her hands hidden inside the long sleeves. He placed his little travelling bag on the floor in between his legs. The zip of the smaller compartment stock when tried to open it. He tried again and it rode freely on the zip line. He retrieved his book, then a medicated glasses from his breast pocket. He wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt before placing it atop his nose. He was just forty-seven year old and has been praised by most of his female students as handsome. Most said he aged gracefully; even looked younger than his age.

There was a TV mounted on the wall before him, the woman beside him and other passengers waiting to board their bus, focused on. Most people, like him, kept quiet, some talked hushedly and some shouting; arguing politics. It could be described at best as a hubbub. Definitely not conducive to read a book, but not for Professor Sabo. Even if his ears weren't blocked with earpiece, the noise wouldn't have distracted him.

From time to time, he would avert his gaze to the TV. Probably when he had read something interesting in the novel and needed space to fully comprehend it. He wasn't a fan of table tennis, and since birth hadn't seen anybody who went out of their way to talk, watch, or argue about the sport. Little Asian players; sneakers squeaking and energized hands swinging, eagerly flogging the tiny orange ball. It was odd that no one asked to change the channel to African Magic. He had come to understand that people respected themselves in public, so they would rather watch it than speak up. And those who don't were the type to fart in public. He simply covered his nose, not looking around, to avoid darting suspicious eyes based on the appearance of the people around him. Oh, that man looks like someone who would fart in church! it's probably that big woman who had a coke poised on her lips! He didn't want to think that way. He wondered how many people thought it was him; the quiet guy reading a book!

The woman beside him stood up and he was more convinced that she was the one.

When he was sure that the smell had dispersed, he opened his book. But before continuing, he glanced at his gold wristwatch. Thirty minutes before eight. The next line on the page was as hilarious as the previous one. A slight smile rose on his lips, and he averted his gaze again. That was when the girl, he later recognized as Azmina, stepped in; rolling a pink box behind her. His gaze followed her till she reached the counter. She spoke to the checker, smiling slightly as she spoke and after a while, the checker pointed to him. It was too late to avert his gaze, but he did, pretending to be reading. But from the corner of his eyes, he saw her approach.

"Hello Mr." She said when she reached him. Due to the earpiece in his ear, he didn't hear but saw her standing next to him. His gaze didn't tear from the book; he was not processing a word. He felt a slight tap on his shoulder. He craned to her almost immediately, removed the earpiece then adjusted his glass so he was looking at her over it.

"Yes, how may I help you?" He said.

"The lady at the counter," she gestured towards the counter, "said you are the one who took seat fourteen."

He knew that already. "Let me check." He fingered his breast pocket and brought out the ticket. If it was a different person; say a man, or someone less attractive, skinny, he would position his glasses well to look at the ticket. He loved giving the impression of one who was well educated. And he felt the glasses gave a perfect facade, since his handsome face and lanky body might give the wrong impression. "Yea, that's right." He raised the glass to his temple.

Before she spoke again he analyzed her face. Her cheeks were full, eyes brown, and her lower lip was pink. He couldn't notice all that without seeing her full cleavage that stared right back. "Sir," she was smiling and he knew—had always known—that she needed a favor. "I need a favor." She said.

"And what could that be?"

"It's my first time traveling by road to Kano, and I would really love to watch the landscape and bushes."

"But they would pass in a blur, there is really not much to see." He really loved the view and wasn't ready to give it up.

"Please..." she stretched it like a child begging for candy.

Accepting that favour meant displeasing himself. It was his best spot. But he couldn't resist such cuteness. "Okay. So what number did you pick?"

"Thirteen. Right next to you." She sat down on the space the sweater woman just farted on. "We could switch when the bus stops at the fast-food for lunch."

"Yea. Sure. No problem." They exchanged tickets.

"What are you reading?" she asked, motioning to touch the book but didn't.

"Oh, this?" At first, he thought nothing could distract him from the book. He closed it, realizing he didn't even dog-ear the page he was reading. "Origin by Dan Brown." He said with a renowned smile, the type that made his female students blush.

"The author of Da Vinci Code?" she asked, suddenly interested.

"Yes, that is the one."

"What is it about?"

"From how far I have read, it is about a tech magnate who seems to have discovered where humans go when we die...and, yea, where we come from."

"Everybody knows it's from God." She said and reached for the book.

The professor chuckled a little. "Yeah right."

"What?" She was astounded. "you don't believe in God?"

"I really don't like to talk about my beliefs, but I don't believe that."

"Why?" She looked even more appalled but tried intently not to look so shocked. She was teaching herself to be open-minded. Professor Sabo understood.

"Like I said, I don't like to talk about it."

A voice echoed from the speakers around the hall, "Passengers going to Kano, bus 14700, please proceed to the park and board the bus." The voice said and iterated. Sabo cross-checked the ticket the lady gave him. "That is us." He stood up and hung his bag on his shoulder.

After their luggage must have been arranged under the seats, on the aisle, and the small space behind the last seat, they were set to go. But not before a pastor prayed for them.

The lanky professor sat in the middle. Seat twelve wasn't occupied, so there was enough space for him to stretch. Seat eleven, the other seat by the window, was occupied by a teenager with Afro hair and a blue headset over his ears. He had only said a word of greeting when he entered the bus, and his concentration was fixed on whatever he was doing on his phone. Azmina, who was now reading his book, smiled at something she read.

A glance at Azmina meant a glance at her cleavage. It was inevitable. He wanted to hold a conversation with her but didn't know how to start.

"What's your name?" he asked after much thought.

"I thought I told you that." She looked away from the book.

"No," the professor did a mental check. "you didn't."

"My name is Azmina."

"Azmina. Hmm. Beautiful and shining." He smiled.

"Yes," she mirrored his smile, "That is what it means; beautiful and shining. What about you?" she added then closed the book.

"Sabo." He shook his head. "Quite common."

"No! it isn't!" she made it sound convincing. "What does It mean?"

"Represents everything new."

"That's a cool name!"

"Also short for sabotage."

She laughed and it was breathtaking, her evenly aligned teeth were white. "Don't mind English, it's not our mother tongue."

Wanting to further the discussion he asked, "Why are you going to Kano?"

"Oh, I am going back to school." She sighed tiredly, "I am starting the research for my project tomorrow. I am so nervous."

A personality in him twitched. "I am a professor, I am sure I can help with something."

"Professor? Really?"

"Any problem?"

"Nothing...no offense, but you don't look the role."

"Ah, none taken," he lied, "I get that a lot." And that was true.

They both laughed.

"Yea. So what is your project topic?" he asked wearing a new facade.

"The socio-economic implications of Boko Haram."

The man before them turned and glared at them. The mention of the name must have triggered something in him, planting insecurities deep in his mind.

"You mean the Nigerian Taliban?"

"What? No, Boko ha—"

Sabo laughed, a small laugh, then said, "They were initially called the Nigerian Taliban, then 'Yusufiyya' which was derived from the founder's name: Mohammed Yusuf."

"Wait...wait..." She fiddled with her phone for a while then brought it close to his mouth. "I need to record this."

She asked him to repeat what he just said, he did, and went on to say, "Boko Haram was the nickname given to them during the early preaching of Yusuf."

"What did Yusuf preach about?" Azmina prickly asked.

"When the group was formed in 2002 it was a calm, peaceful awareness of the harm western civilization impeded on their culture and religion. And no matter how you want to look at it, the preaching got people, the poor and wealthy people alike. According to his preachings, western civilization was a part of a larger, evil society. That they had embraced matters that violates Islamic law."

"The awareness that marrying a girl of thirteen is wrong? That—"

"Can you guys stop talking about that bullshit?" the man who initially glared at them interjected. He was an elderly man whose grey hair was on the greater side. "I mean, you are making us uncomfortable."

Nobody seconded what he said. Everybody seemed to mind their business, especially the boy on seat eleven with the headset over his head. Only the grey-haired man craned backward.

"I think I have the freedom to say whatever I want to say!" Sabo wasn't shouting but his voice wasn't particularly calm.

The man huffed and craned back, mumbling some words before inserting an earpiece in his ears.

"Sorry about that." Sabo said smiling. Azmina was impressed.

"He could have done that a long time ago."

"No problem," she tucked a tuft of braids behind her ear. He watched as the hair swept off her cleavage. His genital gradually expanded under his trouser.

"Some people are just troublesome." She said then set the conversation on track. "So when did the group get violent?"

"In 2004," The professor explained, "A fraction of the movement demonstrating attacked some policemen, or vice versa. It isn't really clear to me. However, this attack caused their leader, Mohamed Yusuf, to flee the country. Then, Ali Modu Sheriff, a politician who enlisted Yusuf's support for his gubernatorial campaign, in return for the implementation of strict sharia law in the state, arrived.

Although that agreement ultimately floundered as Sheriff backed down from his pre-election promise, but on a second hand, it allowed Yusuf the liberty to return and to preach openly in Maiduguri and that helped him build a strong support base. Then around July 2009 or thereabout, a seemingly minor dispute between Boko Haram members and the police turned violent, escalating into a multi-day paroxysm of violence across four northern Nigerian cities, resulting in more than eight hundred deaths."

"I learnt that Mohammed Yusuf was captured during that attack." she said.

"And killed on the 30th of that same month."

Sabo stopped a while, blushing under the heat of Azmina's gaze. "I must be talking too much." He said. He wasn't even speaking in line with her topic, but there was no rush, they had time.

"No," she shook her head. "Not at all. In fact, I need you to talk some more."

All this talk and all he really wanted was to place a hand on those boobs; to feel them. He hoped he impressed her enough. He was going to ask her to marry him because his conscience pricked him. Having sexual feelings towards her wasn't quite different from what lecturers do when they fail students just to sleep with them or to show superiority. Since his journey as an academic, he had fought and will continue to fight such scandal within academia. So asking her to marry him might quell his conscience. But the bigger problem was that they just met and he was still helping as a professor.

"What?" her cute smile rose at one edge of her lips. "Why did you fall silent?"

"Nothing," he averted his gaze from her—her cleavage—and concentrated it on the grey hair of the man sitting before him. "If anything," Sabo said, "that was how silent the movement fell after the 2009 July's incident. And the government thought they defeated it."

"Yea, until they came back in 2010, leading a massive prison break in...can't really remember the state, but it led to the escape of more than seven hundred prisoners; Boko Haram members and criminals alike."

He smiled, "You'll are well loaded."

It was her turn to blush under his gaze. "I had that knowledge even before everything."

He smiled "However, it was in Bauchi federal prison."

"Do you think the movement has a religious turn?" She asked.

"That's a very tricky one, and something that many have failed to answer. But when Yusuf preached, there was a saying that became mantra on his lips, and that of his members or followers of the movement, as the case may be, that western civilization was a violation of their culture and religious law."

"Keyword," she interjected, quoting in the air with her free hand, "Religious law." Her other hand still held the phone to the professor's mouth. The book laid on her thighs.

"You should know that After the death of Muhammad Yusuf and the bounce-back of the movement in 2010, a tyrant— Yusuf's deputy—Abubakar Shekau who was rumoured to have been healing from a bullet wound following that 2009 attack, became their leader. And could be pointed as the one who led the prison break in Bauchi. Here is another thing, when Shekau assumed the leader's position, he named the group Ahl al-Sunna li-l-Da'wa wa-l-Jihad." He separated the syllabus to pronounce it properly. "Which translates to 'People Committed to the Propagation of the Prophet's Teachings and Jihad'"

"Da'wa?" Azmina asked, awed.

He smiled again. For her to have noticed that she was armed for her topic. And it was a big turn on for him.

"Wow!" Azmina lowered her phone and said, "To claim the title Ahl Al-sunna is to claim the right to dictate who is, and is not a true Muslim. The idea of Ahl Al-Sunna is particularly important for Salafi Muslims; the Islamic moment who emulate those early Muslims, but like other Muslims, they make choices about which aspects of the early community to highlight, and which to downplay. To them, Ahl Al-sunna functions to suggest that there should be no difference between being a Sunni—the early Muslims—and being a Salafi. Salafis claim not just that they propagate the Prophet's teachings, but that they alone embody them." She didn't catch her breath.

"That's right," he nodded, "but note that Ahl Al-sunna is short for Ahl Al-sunna wa-l-jama'a, meaning, 'the people of the Prophet's model and the Muslim community.'"

"Please say that again." She raised the phone close to his lips.

"Ahl Al-sunna is short for 'Ahl Al-sunna Wa-l-jama'a. And by emphasizing Da'wa, which means "calling people to Islam" Boko Haram sought to convince itself, other Salafis, and other Muslims that it had not abandoned global Salafism's missionary goal. Less I forget, the Jihad attached to it means the readiness to fight; The Holy War.

"But one can't be sure to pin their actions wholly on religion." Sabo continued, "In January...30th or thereabout, after a series of attacks in ##, there was a suicide bomber who claimed the lives of three hundred people, leaving human part scattered within every inch of a plot, and the majority were Muslims. And many other Muslims would say Boko Haram only understood, or better said, translates a fraction of the Quran. However, in 2015 with Boko Haram's affiliation to Isis, the Islamic State, it's name officially changed to Wilayat Gharb Ifriqiya, being the current name of the group to date. One can't help but spot that religious move."

Just as Sabo finished his sentence, rapid gunshots rang out. Everyone became edgy; tensed, stretching their necks to see what was happening. Their bus stopped behind another bus. Traffic on a highway? The gunshot rang out again, closer than before, then the shouting followed. The professor's genitals shrank into his body, and his heart pulsed rapidly.

"Driver Weytin dey happen?" A woman with a tiny voice asked from the middle.

The first person, a man in a white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and face-cap which flew off his head as he ran by, screaming, "Run! Make una run!" Then the second, a middle-aged woman who was soon to be overrun by the legion behind her. The gunshots were now rapid and people fell as they ran, as if they were hit by bullet. A frenzied atmosphere engulfed the bus. The slide-door was wide open but jam-packed as everyone tried to squeeze out at the same time.

"Move!" Azmina pushed the professor who had frozen on his seat. "Are you not seeing what's happening?"

Sabo wanted to ask "what?" but he wasn't blind, was only stricken. He snapped out of the shock and sprang to his feet too quickly and slammed his head at the roof, prickly; as if nothing happened, he sprang up again. Fear overshadowed pain.

Sabo always thought that by sitting at the back he was safe from accident. Minimum casualties if there were to be any! And if the bus had gotten to its destination, Sabo would be the last to step down, stretching, savouring a deep breath, perceiving the difference of the city. That salty scents of drizzle on a sun raging day. How the drops would disappear with an almost whips of vapor emanating from the asphalt. The scent hung until the night, really hot nights when one had to pour a bucket of water on the foam before he sleeps at night.

It was only in the News and on social posts that Sabo saw such. He would look at it with that vague sympathy; the type he had when he saw a leaping man begging on the aisle of a traffic, when a house collapses and kills one hundred and thirty people, when the Jihad attacks villages, severing heads from bodies, pilling dead bodies on plantain leaves, then the picture taker, the ones with entwined hands over their head, crying over a loved one's corpse, that thin bliss that it was not him comforted in moments like that.

But now, unsurprisingly he was the last to jump down. Azmina had jumped over his thin body. His view was an animated uproar. A baby, still tied to the back of its dead mother, was crying. Sabo hopped over dead bodies, and the ones still alive chocking on their blood, as he ran away from the centre of the uproar as fast as he could. Some people still crouched behind buses, but professor Sabo knew better. He was going to move as far as he could from the range of their compass. He started feeling the pain behind his thighs. A bullet had hit him. He limped now. As an avid reader, he knew he needed to understand that he was shot, but still focus on movement at a slower pace because he had to conserve energy.

He was far enough, just like he read in the book; if it is a residential area, scream for help, but if it is a deserted area, probably bordered by bushes, like this one, divert into the bush. Stay off the main road! But as he ran through the bushes, he noticed someone was behind, shuffling, bending branches he just bent, but he didn't crane back. Now he wished he boarded with the garlic woman. Sabo, like any other man, has always pictured his time and location of his demise, and like other men, he thought it to a peaceful laid back death; when he was eighty, beside his children and grandchildren. But this was reality, he was shot and still didn't know where he was running to, or who was behind him. All he had were tips from a book. If Sabo had a different lifestyle; say Sabo, as an epitome, was a tout named Sakana, he would have being doing something else; in a different location, probably dead, and if the tout named Sakana was a lecturer, he wouldn't be in the slums skilfully separating marijuana seeds from the bud.

He kept running, fully aware that someone was chasing him. After summoning enough courage, he craned back. It was the Afro boy with the headphone which was now dangling around his neck. Sabo tripped over something and fell. The boy reached him quickly and tried to pull him up.

"You are bleeding." the boy said in whispers.

"I need to rest."

"We need to get going!" the boy exclaimed in whisper.

Sabo knew he would slow the boy down. "You have to continue without me. Make sure you stay close to the hem of the bush, so you don't lose track of the road. Walk until you get help. And keep your eyes sharp."

"What is hem?" the boy asked as he propped Sabo on an Iroko tree.

"The edge of something. You have to stay close to the asphalt." He might as well not know the meaning of asphalt... "The roads...stay close to the road!" Sabo said tiredly, with the demeanor of one losing blood.

As the thin man advised, I stayed close to the road but not close enough to see it. I got tired and stopped running. I bent and held my knee, breathing heavily. Sweat drenched my clothes, and I felt the slipperiness of my feet in my sneakers. The gunshot had reduced. Only a few echoed, as if they confirmed the dead, or executed captured ones. My hair stood on ends. I walked, too scared, I ran.

The day got dark and I wasn't sure I had heard one car pass by.

The thin man said obstruction would come, but I should be alert. I have just seen one. Exactly as the man had described. Trampoline tent, few men standing around with automatic weapons, some sitting on a bench under the trampoline playing card and drinking straight from the bottle. It might be a den of kidnapper, the thin man had said, but hopefully a police post. You just need to trust your instinct.

†