Writers 
"Last Bus to Garki"
Tolu hated the 7pm bus.
It was always crowded, always smelled like rain and suya, and always made her late for dinner at home in Garki. But after her shift at the clinic in Wuse, it was the only one she could afford.
Every evening for 3 months, she sat by the window. And every evening for 3 months, the same guy sat two rows ahead. Grey shirt. Black backpack. Earphones in. He read — actual paperback books. Not on his phone. Novels, poetry, once even a medical textbook that made Tolu raise an eyebrow.
She never spoke to him. What would she say? _“Hey, I like your taste in books”_ sounded like a line from a Nollywood film.
Then came the rain.
Abuja rain doesn’t knock. One minute it’s sun, next minute the sky is breaking. The bus broke down at Area 3. Driver said 40 minutes for another one. Everyone scattered under shops, under umbrellas, under complaints.
Tolu stood at the bus stop, soaked, holding her bag over her head like that would help. And then the grey shirt appeared next to her, holding out half of his umbrella.
“Looks like we’re stuck together,” he said, smiling.
His name was Emeka. He was a teacher. Taught literature at a secondary school in Garki. That’s why he read on the bus — “to grade less at home,” he joked. He asked about her. She told him about the clinic, about night shifts, about patients who called her “aunty doctor” even though she was just a nurse.
They missed the next bus too. Talking.
For the next 2 weeks, the 7pm bus became their thing. They’d save each other seats. He’d bring her akara because “night shift people need protein.” She’d bring him panadol because “teachers get headaches from marking.”
It wasn’t fireworks. It was small. It was _“did you eat?”_ texts at 10pm. It was him waiting 15 minutes after his stop just to walk her to her gate. It was her teaching him how to take blood pressure, and him teaching her a poem by Audre Lorde.
On the 15th day, Emeka didn’t show up.
Tolu sat by the window alone. No grey shirt. No book. The bus felt too loud.
She told herself he was probably busy. Teachers have exams. Maybe he got a new route.
Day 2: no Emeka.
Day 5: no Emeka.
Day 10: she started taking the 6:30pm bus instead. Just in case.
A month passed. She stopped looking for him.
Then one Thursday, her clinic got a referral from Garki General. A teacher. 28. Motorcycle accident. Fractured leg, mild concussion. Name: Emeka Okoli.
Her heart did something stupid and hopeful.
She found his ward. He was asleep, leg in a cast, grey shirt folded on the chair next to him. And on top of it, a book. Dog-eared page. A sticky note sticking out.
She picked it up. His handwriting:
_“For the nurse on the 7pm bus. If you’re reading this, it means I was too shy to say it on the bus. Can we have dinner? Not on a bus. My treat. - E”_
Tolu sat down. Hard.
The nurse on duty said he’d been asking about “the girl with the stethoscope and the tired eyes” since he woke up 3 days ago.
When Emeka opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was her.
“You took the wrong bus,” he whispered.
“You took the wrong bike,” she whispered back.
He laughed, then winced. “So… dinner?”
“After you learn to walk again,” she said. “I’ll be here for all of it.”
They didn’t start with fireworks. They started with hospital jollof and bad TV. With physiotherapy appointments and bus stories. With _“I thought you forgot me”_ and _“I thought you moved on.”_
Six months later, they still take the 7pm bus. But now they get off two stops early. To walk. To talk. To sit on a bench and watch Abuja turn orange.
Love didn’t rescue them from traffic.
It just made the traffic worth sitting through.
*Moral:* Sometimes love isn’t a grand arrival. It’s choosing the same bus, even when it’s late.
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