I felt what it was like to fly
I saw a girl who might just be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. It was on a BRT bus from Ikorodu to Lagos Island. I had sat at the back of the bus, safe in the belief that no one else would be joining me, as several empty seats were in front of me. I closed my eyes for a second, and when I opened them, she was there.
Fair in complexion, lithe, the most angelic face. I was in a dream.
“Hi, do you mind if I join you?” she asked.
I couldn’t think of what to say; all I could manage was a nod and a smile that, looking back now, must have been cringy. She sat beside me, and for the duration of the long ride, as if orchestrated by some cosmic power, it was just the two of us in the back seat of the bus.
I thought of a bunch of things to say to her, but the words just wouldn’t form. My lips seemed to have gone on strike, and all I could do was smile awkwardly as the bus manoeuvred potholes and road bumps.
I usually don’t pray, but at that moment, I found myself begging God to touch her heart and make her talk to me. Even a glance towards me would suffice. But all seemed to be in vain. All she seemed concerned about was her phone—bent over and punching the keypad like she was taking a typing test.
The bus crossed the third mainland bridge, heading towards Oworonshoki: half of the journey done, and I still couldn’t string two sentences together. Not even a “nice phone” or a “hello” and a less awkward smile. I began to accept the possibility that I wasn’t going to talk to her, that this was just another episode of wanting to say something to someone and not finding the words. Just as I was on the verge of accepting the situation for what it was, fucked, the gods decided to smile on me. She looked at me, lingered for a second, and then turned away.
In that second, I could have sworn I felt what it was like to fly. She looked at me again, and this time she said something I will remember for the rest of my life.
“I absolutely love Heathcliff. I thought he was a horrible creature, but for some reason, as it went on, I kept rooting for him.” Ah, the most beautiful smile.
“What?” I said, looking confused.
“That,” she said, pointing to the copy of Wuthering Heights on my lap.
“Oh! Really?”
“Yeah, and honestly, I’m not sure why.”
I wasn’t exactly sure if I was supposed to respond to that or if it was rhetorical. She didn’t look like she was going to say anything, so I decided to pick up the gauntlet, trying to sound as intelligent and profound as I possibly could.
“Well, maybe it’s because deep down, he strikes you as somewhat familiar.”
She looked at me inquiringly, and I felt obliged to say more.
“Even though he’s a horrible creature, as you pointed out, and lets resentment and bitterness dictate his actions, you still can’t help but feel for him because it isn’t just black and white. You see at the beginning how life deals him such horrible cards and how much injustice he faces as a human being, and you root for him because although he turns truly diabolical, he’s still, at the heart of it, the underdog—and don’t we all root for the underdog to get justice?”
I paused for dramatic effect, knowing she was now engrossed in what I was saying: her dilated pupils betrayed her.
“That Emily was such a brilliant novelist. She gave us characters that, even though we could see them for what they truly were, we could still understand and pity.”
She didn’t say anything back. She just looked at me as if contemplating what I had just said—or maybe thinking I was a nut job.
Still on a high from showing what I thought was my intelligent side, I took one more shot at cementing my place in her mind. I chose to repeat a quote I had read earlier in the comments section of a YouTube video.
“As children, we idolise the hero, but as adults, we understand the villains,” I said with the deepest voice I could conjure.
She looked at me and smiled; my words seemed to have had the right effect.
“Hmm . . . I guess you’re right. I never thought of it that way.”
After another pause, she spoke again, “Maybe that’s why as I grew up, I started to prefer Batman to Superman.”
“You think Batman’s a villain?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly, but he has that edginess to him, and you can almost see him going either way on good or evil. He’s sort of a devilish hero, unlike superman, who’s just plain good, and there’s really no other way to see him. That kind of gets boring quickly.”
The smile on my face was wide. This beautiful girl had just caused me to have an epiphany.
What she said struck me, and it did because, growing up, I never liked superheroes. I always found them boring and a little annoying, but when I came across Batman, I loved him, and I could never understand why, at least until now.
“You might be right about that,” I said. “One of the things I learnt early, from reading a lot of philosophy, is that as humans, we each have a good and a bad side. The Gulag Archipelago, for instance, demonstrates this so well. I think Superman might be an ideal, but he’s not really one that resonates with people.”
I was surprising even myself with all this wisdom. I guess beauty has a way of bringing out the best things in us. We were both quiet for a while. The bus was slowing down now; the Lagos afternoon traffic was readying itself.
Should I say something more? Should I not? For some reason, I chose not to. Minutes passed, and she turned to me, smiling. I built up courage like David before Goliath and asked the first thing that came to my mind.
“So, besides Wuthering Heights, what other books do you like?”
Not so bad.
“I know this might sound weird,” she said, “but most of what I read is old. Mainly, I like western classics, and my absolute favourite is Stoner by John Williams. Have you read it?”
“Yes, I have. I kinda found it boring at times, but I still think it’s a good book. It’s definitely in my top ten. What about it do you love so much?” I asked.
She sighed and looked at me.“Where do I even begin? It’s a book that brings out that deep melancholic feeling that I think is wonderful for all human beings. Stoner isn’t a villain, nor is he really a hero, but he’s one of the most relatable protagonists ever written. It’s not simply an account of the day-to-day life of a university professor, no. It’s an accurate description of how life can get sad and painful at times and the fact that there’s a sort of beauty in that. It shows the ordinary man and his life in all its beauty, splendour, at times boorishness and at other times dull, and its sadly tragic existence.”
She looked at me almost shyly; she must have felt she’d said too much at once.
“I’m so sorry. That’s what happens when I start yapping about something I care about. It’s not often I find someone who likes to talk about books in Lagos or at least the types of books I like.”
Ah, she did feel like she had spoken a lot. I smiled at her, knowing that, more than anything in the world, at that moment, all I wanted her to do was talk. It’s funny how with certain people and in certain situations, you’re willing to just listen, no matter how long.
“It’s okay. I am enjoying your perspectives.”
“Top five books?” she asked.
“That’s a tough one. My absolute favourite has to be Crime and Punishment”.
“Really?”
“Yeah, you don’t like it?”
“Oh, no, I do,” she said. “It’s just a little bit shocking, I guess. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Dostoevsky was an enigma, but his books are hard, and they take a lot out of you.”
“Yeah, that seems accurate. Maybe that’s why I rate it so highly. I remember reading it, and the things that the book did to me, physically I mean, was quite something. The way he’s able to put you directly into the psyche of Raskolnikov and make you feel and experience all that’s happening to him as it’s going on.”
“Well, I guess that’s true. So, what else?”
“Uhmm, Wuthering Heights has to be in there”
“Who’s your favourite character besides Heathcliff?”
“Well, if I had to pick someone besides Heathcliff, I guess I would go with Hareton. He reminds me so much of Heathcliff. In fact, I think of him as the version of Heathcliff that didn’t choose resentment and bitterness.”
She smiled at me. “Okay, next one.”
“I’m going to go with two books, Last Days at Forcados High school and In Dependence. I’m not saying they’re the best books I’ve ever read, but for some reason, I just like them so much, and often I find myself going back to them. They’re just simple. Have you read any of them?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Oh, you should. They’re quite entertaining, and there’s a real feel-good factor to them.”
“Okay, I trust your judgement. I’ll put it on my TBR list.”
“TBR?”
“To be read.”
“Oh.”
“So what else,” she asked, eager to get back to the books.
“Oh, how could I forget one of the best books I’ve ever read? Purple Hibiscus. Something about the way Kambili was written made me hope the book would never end. Sometimes reading it now, I would read her words twice and go over the things and events she described again and again.”
“Oh wow,” she said. “That’s one of the few books I’ve read by a Nigerian author, and I absolutely loved it. I think you have good taste.”
Damn, she was beautiful!
In what seemed like minutes, we arrived at the penultimate bus stop, which as it turned out, was where she had to get down. She hesitated before getting up—at least, that’s how it seemed to me.
“This is me,” she said.
I turned and faced her, not exactly sure what she meant. She pointed to the door. I didn’t know what to do or how to react.
“Oh” was the only thing I could manage before the driver shouted at her to stop wasting his time and she awkwardly got off the bus.
It was when she got off that it hit me; I didn't even know her name. I started to panic as the bus moved. I knew I should have asked for her number, but I didn’t have the courage. I knew nothing about her, and all I was left with was the memory of the past half an hour.
In a fit of adrenaline and fear, I ran to the front of the bus and asked the driver to stop the bus.
“Is there something wrong with you? When others were coming down, did the devil tie your legs so you can tempt me, eh?”
I pled on, not responding to the insults, and he finally stopped, almost ten blocks away. I ran out of the bus and headed back to the bus stop as fast as my legs could. When I got there, I couldn’t find her. I went to all the shops around, but no luck. I walked through the streets, staring at as many people and houses as I could, but nothing.
As I walked along, I saw an ice cream shop and realised I had left my book on the bus.
Photo: Jess Bailey
About the author
I’m an aspiring writer based in Lagos who’s drawn to things that are odd and chaotic; whether they are stories, people or something else, I always seem to find them interesting. I spend a lot of my time reading (mostly western classics), watching comedy and on a couple of other hobbies—football, video games, taking pictures of animals and the sky, watching 1950s American movies and family guy. Recently started a blog, theundergroundthinker.com, where I write creative essays and short stories. Even though I hate travelling, I would love to explore other countries and cultures one day.
