It was a cloudy and cool Monday morning in Kaduna when I proceeded to the train station in Rigasa to board a train for the first time. Prior to that day, many people had given scary stories of how Rigasa was a sort of front line hell on earth. I felt I would have nothing but my naked body by the time I got to the train station from Kano road. Although it was a bumpy ride through the very dilapidated communities on that axis of Kaduna, the people looked peaceful and happy. Images of Chimamanda’s “The Dangers of a Single Story” came to mind as we stuttered through. I believe that any community without proper basic amenities such as schools, drainages, and healthcare would produce disillusioned and criminal minds irrespective of the ethnicity or religion of the inhabitants. This is evident in slums from Rio to New York to Rigasa.
When I dropped at the Rigasa junction, fear in mind, there was a kind gentleman who made it a point of duty to get me a bike ride to the train station without exploitation. There is always another side to their story.
I arrived at the station at 9.30 am, about an hour before take-off time. There was a buzz of activity around the station, from mai shai, suya sellers, food vendors, hawkers to taxi and keke drivers hustling for passengers and customers. I shoved my way through to the gate, where a friendly security guard frisked my person and scanned my bags. There was a long queue at the ticketing booth, and I joined in. About 6 minutes later, I was three people away from the front of the queue when I saw her. Tall, dark, gaped-toothed, and beautiful, she flashed a smile at me as she approached, and my heart skipped two beats! She came closer, touched my shoulder, and brought her lips to my right ear; “Can you help me get one first-class ticket? The line is too long,” she whispered. “Do the right thing,” my conscience told me, and I agreed to do just that! I guess my heart is too soft to do the right thing, especially when a damsel is involved. As I approached the booth, I was informed that first-class tickets had sold out about two hours before then. I turned to my new-found girlfriend and informed her of the bad news. She shrugged and told me with her eyes; “get anyone that is available.” I paid for two second-class tickets, and while waiting for my change, a middle-aged man walked up to me and said: “buy one ticket for me.” My moral compass became functional again, “go and join the queue,” I snapped at him. “I don’t have money, I want you to buy for me,” he replied. For this recession, I thought to myself as I collected my change and tickets and left him standing there. Where is my baby? There she is! We walked together to the mass of people standing in front of the boarding area. There was so much disorder; we wondered what was going on. We pushed our way through to the front, where we discovered there was no waiting lounge or room! That was a shocker. Even bus stations have spaces for passengers to wait for their buses! We had to wait outside under the scorching sun for boarding time, which was about 30 minutes away. Thank God the heavens did not cry that day. My babe met some of her friends, and they got into the selfie mode while I was employed as the backup photographer. I left them and strolled across the road to catch some breakfast.
The mass movement of people towards the glass doors of the boarding area hinted to me that it was time to move. It was chaotic, despite the best efforts of the Policemen and NRC staff; people refused to be orderly. I waited behind for the disorder to clear before I coolly walked through to the platform. I wonder when Nigerians would realize that patience is a virtue. Everyone always in a hurry and stepping on reason just to get ahead. There was another round of scanning before the boarding platform; tickets were inspected, and we were directed to our appropriate coaches. As usual, some people tried to play a fast one by going into the first-class coach with economy tickets, but they were bounced!
I was excited to finally be on board a train for the first time in my life. The interior was neat, well-arranged, and easy on the eyes. There were no seat numbers on the tickets, so we sat wherever we chose. As I walked through the aisle, I scoped and scanned for my lost girlfriend; there she was at the back or front of the coach with her loud friends. I smiled as I approached, but she did not seem to notice me. “So you did not keep a seat for me?” I asked. “Sorry,” she said casually, without looking at me. Heartbreak on the train!
I walked into the next coach and grabbed a window seat. There was quite a large space for bags above the green cushioned seats. The coaches were quite spacious with ample legroom. The cushions were nice and comfy with a good recline angle. I had a talkative chappie as a seatmate. He kept distracting me with talk as I tried to savor the view of the passing communities. Funny enough, he was by my side again on my return trip three days later from Idu station. (The Idu station is a replica of an airport, with good toilet facilities and an air-conditioned waiting room resplendent in white.)
The train moved at varying speeds throughout the journey; we slowed down at active stations like Rijana and Jere to pick passengers and at some inactive stations like Kakakau. There were small screens high above, along the length of the aisle for entertainment. Everybody Hates Chris was on show on this trip. I would have preferred some local entertainment (though I am not a fan of Nollywood) than the American comedy. On my return trip, it was The Avengers on show. We coasted through massive farmlands and communities along the route, and I saw the wasting riches of this great country. From my vantage point at the window, I saw the backwaters of Nigeria and the potential that could be harnessed for national development.
We cruised into Kubuwa station about 2 hours and 10 minutes after taking off from Rigasa. The station at Kubuwa was bigger and more equipped than the Rigasa station. There were cabs, tricycles, and bikes to take passengers to various destinations in town.
I checked one last time for my girlfriend; there she was, at the back seat of a car. As they drove towards me, the car slowed down, and I whipped out my phone to exchange contacts. She smiled at me, blew me a kiss, and said; “thanks for the help, hun.” I stood speechless as the car left a trail of white dust as it drove off, crunching the gravel road.
Read – Stray – A Short Story by Boma Ilamina Eremie, Nigeria
