Special Features
On Board With A Ghost: Encounter With A Dead-Man-Living On Lagos-Akure Road
By Afolabi Hakim
His gait was not steady, the man. He had to hold the headrest of the seat in front of me to gain balance before he traipsed to his seat right beside me. He had pale skin, sunken cheeks, and a long gaunt face. Given his scrawny look, I imagined he might do with some medical attention. Though I noticed these physical shortcomings, I did not make much of them or project morbid meanings.
At best he was just another skinny man, at worst a hapless fellow who had the good fortune of convalescing from an ailment that almost killed him, I felt. It was after his unraveling that everything clicked and began to make sense.
It was a journey from Lagos to Akure, where I had been posted as a youth corper. The driver had already read the riot act at the park before we left: “I no go stop till we reach Ore.” We got to Ore for stopover around 6pm and everyone trooped out of the bus.
Those who were famished got something to eat. Those who needed to stretch their legs took a walk. Those who needed to empty their bowels sought refuge in the open bush. Those who needed to powder their noses did so where they deemed comfortable and somewhat discreet. And those who, like me, fancied sightseeing, strolled around.
After the brief recess, it was time to continue the journey and the driver, who was already grumbling that we turned up late from the rest, hurried everyone back to the bus. He had turned on the ignition and was about to head out of the expansive park for the final stretch of the journey when a middle-aged woman behind me called his attention to a missing passenger: the man initially sitting beside me. Earlier, I had noticed the seat was empty, but thought Orẹ was the man’s destination and he had alighted.
The driver became upset about this, wondering why he should spend another minute searching for a grown-ass man. Heeding our pleadings, however, he stepped off the bus to go look for the man—which he did casually because he was unconcerned—lumbering from one stall to another. No wonder he came back without finding the man.
At this point, I became somewhat concerned and told him to check the manifest in order to ascertain if Ore was indeed the man’s final stop. Turned out the man’s destination was Ondo Town, 45 minutes away. Everyone became worried, as it was getting dark already. As I had a poor grasp of Akure’s road networks, I was worried about arriving late to the city: rumours of wanton killings and kidnaps were rife.
An elderly passenger called for calm, and suggested we call the man’s number. The driver did: switched off! Another passenger suggested we call the next-of-kin number on the manifest. Driver refused calling, claiming he had no airtime. We were all worried and angry. Someone eventually volunteered with the call. Speaking at the other end was the man’s sister.
She did not believe us and we had a hard time convincing her that the man indeed boarded the bus with us from Lagos. We, the passengers, had to take turns to speak to her before she believed. She heaved a heavy sigh, followed by a long eerie silence. Then she started sobbing, which prompted everyone to cast surprise and questioning looks at one another. It was at that point that she dropped the bomb.
“The person you are talking about died over two weeks ago,” she said in a shaky voice that spoke to unmistakable anguish. Urging us to continue our journey, she hung up. Everyone returned to their seats with no one saying a word to another. The shock was uniform. We were all consumed by debilitating fear, and the rest of the journey unfurled in dark, loud silence.
I was gripped by unease. The man’s picture kept flashing across my mind. I had to change my seat when I became extremely frightened and was on the verge of paranoia. We eventually got to Akure by past 9pm. I could not find a bike, nor was I patient enough to wait for one because I was too disoriented. It was also late, so instead I passed the night at a friend’s place nearby.
Before then I always doubted stories about transmigrated people. There is no science to explain it, but deep in our cultures as Africans stories of such encounters exist. It has taken me long to publish this because some things are hard to explain to people who were not involved. I reckon that the world is deep and mysterious, and there are more questions than answers.
Afolabi Hakim is a writer and journalist. He currently works as a reporter at EkoHotBlog.
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