I sat directly behind the driver, by the window, in a rickety Hummer bus bound for Lagos. The vehicle was a prison of mismatched sounds, each one competing for attention.
A little girl cried relentlessly while her exhausted mother stared blankly ahead, making no attempt to comfort her.
On the back seat, a bald man in his forties berated the much younger woman beside him. Every insult he hurled was accompanied by flecks of spittle that landed on her face and dress. She sat with her head bowed, absorbing the humiliation in silence, as though she had long accepted it as part of her life.
A few rows ahead, a young man dressed in a black suit and grey tie spoke confidently into his phone.
"Yes, sir. I'm already in Lagos," he lied.
In reality, we were barely halfway through the journey.
