"When was the fare hiked?"

"What kind of nonsense is this? Even if all the other drivers are collecting such shocking amount, shouldn’t you feel bad, driver? – Look at the carcass you call bus. Look. Would you pay, if it were you?"

"It’s too much. We can’t pay. Reduce your price. The seats are even pinching my yansh (buttocks)."

His boss bangs on his horn. "I don’t have time to waste! Give him your money. And let’s move."

"Don’t shout on us. We are not your servants, mister!"

"Don’t mind him – he is heartless. Shylock."

One man begins to talk quickly, "I’ve said it numerous times, and will say it again. This country should be privatized since everything is being sold to thieves. Then we would know we’re no longer citizens. If someone steals N10 he will be burnt to ashes. If another person carries off millions he is given a national award. What kind of society are we living in, my brethren?" he pauses, then goes on, "Imagine hosting jamborees here and there for foreigners and none of our refineries is working? Weeks ago, I visited Gabon – can you believe it? – that thumb of a country is enjoying constant fuel supply. Christ, what kind of country is this? Yet, we tell the world we are the giant of Africa."

All kinds of sounds break out. Then a young lady clucks very loudly. The other passengers turn to her. She shrugs. The entire bus becomes noiseless.

"Do not blame them," she speaks in a voice that reminds Sam of the sounds of a carpenter sandpapering wood. "Those in government are trying. Blame will not solve our problems. We’ve to pray for them, our rulers. Prayer is what the country needs. Prayer can break the curse. It’s just evil forces at work; servants of Satan…"

"Pray for dogs?" the man cuts her short. He seems quite put out. "Revolution is what we need. Dogs are playing with our nation and you talk of prayer? Ha! Thank Rawlings for Ghana. Thank Castro for Cuba, even the disliked Ghaddafi. I pity Herbert Macaulay. He wouldn’t have sent the British packing. No leaders, not even a Mandela’s look-alike. Here, all we are blessed with is just a bandit of dollar-chasing rulers busy building mansions in Europe."

His boss turns off his engine. He sits back, tapping the steering wheel. He looks every bit insulted. "When you’re ready, lecturers, we can leave. You people can protest, why didn’t you go to Abuja to stampede the man up there?" he goes into a rant. "I’m the one who hiked fuel price. Who kept the refineries grounded. The one importing and hoarding the fuel – so, my father is the special adviser? Nonsensical nonsense!"

Grumbling, each of them shoves the fare into Sam’s hand so hard he thinks his fingers would fall off. His face has a sore look as he counts all the money, then hides it in his hip pocket. He grips the railing inside the bus, just behind the front passenger’s seat.

"Please move a little," he says and leaps in.

The girl glares at him. "You knew you were going to share my seat, why collect seventy naira?" she asks. Then she wriggles in her seat, creating just a little space for him.

"I’m sorry," Sam says, inching closer, trying not to stare at her heavily-powdered round face. She says nothing, just begins to fan her face with a handkerchief. He shuts the door as his boss moves the bus carefully out of the narrow space, squeezed in by two other buses.

"Madam, move inside," a youngster, wearing a red face cap, says.

"Move to where? I should squeeze myself? Am I a bag of potatoes?" the fat woman asks.

"Move in a little, that’s what I said. This is not your personal vehicle."

"Watch your stinking mouth, boy."

A man tilts his head back and forces out a crazy laugh from his throat. Sam glances at him, thinking the man has a nose that seems too big for his small face. The girl looks at Sam closely, and he turns his face to the window. She seems a brilliant student and pretty, he thinks.

His mind turns to the wallet. He wonders what his friend would have used the money for, if he had seen it. Chuks would surely spend it on snacks, drinks, and try to use whatever that is left to bait the little girls who sell bananas in the motor park.

Sam thinks about having the girl beside him as a friend. Maybe he could take her out to a restaurant, since he still has the wallet. Anyway, he starts thinking about school. Once, he tried asking his friend if he, too, would like to go back to school if given the chance.

Why? Old men don’t go to school. Besides, I want to be a mechanic, Chuks had said.

After his father died of tetanus, Sam’s mother could no longer pay for his tuition fees, so he quitted school in primary four.

He still remembers how he used to wash his uniforms, dry it in the sun, and sit in the class listening to the teacher. The only thing he never liked about his school was the uphill trek. He had complained once and his father had promised him a bicycle.

What if I use the money to enrol for a lesson…Sam is asking himself, when a shout of panic goes off in the bus.

"Biko were nwanyo! Be careful!"

Sam glances at the terrified woman. He pokes his head out of the window and pulls it in right away.

His boss says with a huff, "Hens and cocks in my bus," glances into his side mirror. He then swings the bus onto the main road. An incoming lorry swiftly hoots past, spraying thick black smoke into the bus.

Passengers scream and sway and hold one another.

"Mad driver," the fat woman says, snapping her fingers.

* * *

Later that day, after the last trip, Sam’s boss parks the bus in front of his house. He doesn’t bother at all if some crooks might loosen the tyres and make away with them. He often brags before his friends that he knows all the thieves in town, so if his bus is tampered with, he would know who to hold responsible. Sam’s boss closes around four p.m. every last Saturday of the month. This is because of the meeting he holds for his kinsmen in his own house.

He ought to pay Sam eight hundred naira as salary. But he gives him one hundred naira only for the six days covered.

"Thank you, sir," Sam says, feeling cheated. But he acts as though he is pleased and walks away. He drops his hands into his pocket and remembers he still has the wallet. Without delay, he flags down a motorcycle.

Take me to the motor park, he tells the cyclist.

The park manager is not in when Sam arrives. He sights another park official, Pa Bosco, who always has a chewing stick in his mouth, but now he is without one. He loves drinking local gin, and hangs around Nwanyi Sunday’s, a popular drinking shed. Hardship has made his face look like a tortoise shell, Chuks once said.

Sam walks up to him, unsure if to hand the wallet to him. He thinks for a while, then decides to open up.

"I have something I’d like to show you," Sam says.

"What is it?" Pa Bosco asks.

Sam says he would prefer they talk inside his office, because he doesn’t want the other men sitting on the veranda to hear.

"I don’t have time to waste, so it had better be good." Pa Bosco wags a finger.

In his office, he takes out a chewing stick from a drawer and starts polishing his teeth.

"What is it?" Pa Bosco spits on the ground.

Sam speaks out.

"You did well to bring it here." Pa Bosco puts the chewing stick into his pocket. He asks for the wallet, which Sam gives him.

"Good boy." Pa Bosco rubs Sam’s hair, then pats him on the shoulder.

Sam wants to know if the owner has come to look for it, or if he has already met the manager. Pa Bosco muses for a few seconds. Then he mentions that the owner would be contacted, anyhow.

"We’ve handled cases like this before. It will be settled. Understand?"

Sam stares at him, suddenly wanting to take the wallet back, as doubts creep into his mind. But then he nods his head. Pa Bosco dips a hand into Sam’s pocket, as he makes to leave. Sam glances up at him.

"Go get for yourself some sweets and biscuits," Pa Bosco says, showing his brown teeth in a too-wide smile.

Sam shows surprise. He wonders why Pa Bosco is being kind, unlike when he runs errands for him, and pa Bosco would only say "thank you."

Sam tells him "Thanks," in Igbo and walks away.

* * * * *

Back in their room, that evening, Chuks has been expecting him as a nagging wife awaits her mate, pacing around. He wants to know what his friend did with the wallet.

Sam turns his head up, as if something else has caught his attention.

"You did not give it out, I hope?" Chuks says, still moving around the room.

Sam takes off his clothes, then sits on the mattress.

Chuks sits down beside him. "Who did you give it to?"

Sam stares at him.

Chuks asks him again.

"Pa Bosco," Sam says.

"Pa who? You gave that –?!"

Chuks looks like a man hit by a car. He flings his hands over his head, then drops them to the sides of his face.

Sam wonders why his friend is reacting hard, since he hasn’t seen him act this way before. Chuks curls his fists and seems to want to shake them at Sam.

Sam looks at him, suddenly fearful, because he does not want to go into a fight with Chuks. He is sorry if his friend feels bad about his action, but keeping the wallet is too tempting for him.

Chuks hits his heels on the floor, then gets hold of himself. But his breathing comes out heavy and loud, Sam notices.

"I live with a sheep, baa-baa," Chuks begins to sing, to spite him.

Sam feels like jumping at him, punching him hard in the stomach. He only closes his eyes. Surprisingly, images of a sheep fill his head.

Shame creeps up on him. Sam casts himself to his feet, out of the room.

"Baa-baa, sheep, baa-baa, sheep…" the words run after him.

Sam sits down on the balcony and begins to heap blame on himself. He is a sheep, sheep, sheep. Though, he thought it was safer to leave the wallet with an older person because his friend could easily have spent it. A voice scolds him for not keeping the money as part of his savings. Now he would have used it to buy whatever he wanted. But his conscience would pester him like a demon.

The same voice still tells him off that he is surely a fool not to have done as his friend advised: Go home and hand the money to his mother. Make her proud that her son has just returned from the city. But she would reject it and quote the Bible. Better to be poor and honest than to be rich and insincere.

Sam lifts himself up to the balcony, his hands curl over the rail.

Clouds look like bushy beard with faint spots around the edges, while the stars form a net of twinkling beads, around the moon with the shape of a bow in the night sky, which stretches and stretches, making Sam to think of the Urashi, the quiet, green river in his village, which runs through many villages. He is about thinking of canoes and fishermen, when an image of the drowning boy flashes and he shuts it out.

"Maybe I should run away," he says.

Then he begins to wonder if his uncle has been looking for him, if his uncle has gone to the village to see his mother, and how his mother would take the news. She might be thinking that her son had been snatched or even killed.

One Saturday afternoon his uncle and his wife went for a wedding. Before they could return, Sam had packed his clothes in a plastic bag, lifted the carpet in his room and took out the two hundred and seventy naira he had saved. He wasn’t going to bear the ill-treatment anymore, so he disappeared. Most times his uncle pretended not to know what was happening.

Sometimes, though, he would glance over his newspapers and say, "Dear, don’t be so harsh on him."

"He is lucky I don’t put a hot knife on his ear," his wife would reply, "so I wouldn’t have to shout for him to hear." Then she would pinch his ear.

Once in a while, she slapped him so hard he imagined he was turning and turning. Other times, she called him an evil child.

"You this amusu what can I do to make you hear, eh? Every time you act deaf!" she would sound so upset.

He hated being called an evil child. That hurt him more than those stinging slaps. Sam always hid under the staircase and cried till his eyes were sore, wishing his mother would come and take him away.

Music suddenly floats into the air from a guitar. His eyes lights up like a bulb.

"The card!" he says, remembering he had taken out one of the business cards from the wallet.

* * * * *

The following day, being Sunday, falls upon Sam like a wet towel placed over his cold shoulders. Chuks refuses to talk to him, acting as if he is hard of hearing. Sam has been pleading with him for hours, saying he could still reclaim the wallet.

"I’m sorry," Sam says. But his friend backs away from him.

Still, Sam begs him not to get upset.

"I will get the wallet back from Pa Bosco."

"This world is not my home," Chuks begins to whistle. He stands up from the mattress, brings out his spoils in the custard can, and sits back.

Sam manages to fight off the feeling of unhappiness but is unable to completely drive out the sense of betrayal that laughs at him, like a bad spirit. He knows he has let his best friend down, no doubt. For the past ten days both of them had been living almost as brothers. Chuks has been of great help to him.

Both friends had met at a restaurant and shared a table, without speaking to each other.

That was the day Sam ran away, but couldn’t get a bus going to his village because of fuel shortage. And the fare was as high as five hundred naira. And he had only two hundred and seventy naira. He had stayed behind in the park till nightfall.

Hunger had chased him to the restaurant the following morning because he slept, without eating anything. While he was eating Chuks came around again and walked up to him.

"You are here already, nna," Chuks said, surprised.

Sam nodded. He was eating rice and stew.

Chuks glanced around, then pulled a chair from another table, and placed it at Sam’s table. He did not notice the plastic bag close to Sam’s feet.

"Let’s be friends."

Sam gazes at him, then at his food.

"What do you say?" Chuks leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

"I slept in an old kiosk," Sam said.

Chuks took him in thereafter, and later introduced his new friend to a driver who was from the same local council area as himself.

"This wallet is a curse," Sam says, glancing at his friend.

Chuks looks away, picks his nose, and wipes his fingers on the mattress. Sam draws near, wanting to sit next to him as he is admiring his spoils. But Chuks rises from the mattress. Sam creases his face in disappointment. Chuks pulls out a wrapper, which flaps loudly as he shakes it several times.

"Sorry please," Sam’s voice is low.

"I don’t bloody care!" Chuks yells out, throwing the wrapper across the floor. The door slams shut as he marches out of the room.

Sam feels as if he had been punched in the stomach, as he stands there not knowing what to do. Then he drops on to the mattress, and lies face down.

Outside, thunder claps. Lightening moves worm-like across the sky and rain starts to drum everywhere.

Monday morning. The air has a touch of coldness to it as Sam breathes in. Water has collected in potholes, brown and muddy. After the first set of passengers is unloaded, his boss returns to the motor park, for another trip. Sam considers the business card in his hand. He gets up and moves towards his boss, who is chattering with other drivers. Standing behind him, he thinks of how to excuse him.

The drivers are arguing about the possibility of an Igbo president in 2007, the fate of the Igbo should the country split, and the activities of MASSOB.

They are always arguing, Sam thinks. He tries to work out why there is so much growing concern about Biafra, as if it were Judgement Day approaching. He remembers Chuks said that the Igbo have no king and thus, would never be able to rule themselves. Look at the way they carry on their politics. He then cited Things Fall Apart. Sam has never read that book, so he kept quiet.

The drivers pause as if alarmed. One man points, and Sam’s boss turns. "What is it?" he sounds impatient.

"I wa-want to eat," Sam says, picturing hundreds of eyes searching his mind.

His boss presses a N50 note into his palm.

"Thank you, sir," Sam says.

"Spend the whole day eating," his boss says.

Sam shakes his head. As he walks away, he hears: "Where did you pick that boy?"

"Out of the gutter," his boss says. And they all laugh like drunkards.

* * * * *

Sam looks for where to make a call. He sights some boys and girls at a GSM parasol. It takes a long while before it reaches his turn. He calls out the number to the female operator who dials it.

She listens, then says, "It’s ringing," and hands the cell phone to him.

"Hello… Mr.…?" he speaks.

"Who is this?" a man’s voice.

"It is…me, the conductor." Sam feels sweat moistening his palms.

Silence.

Sam thinks he has hung up, or the line has cut off. He wants to look at the screen, when the voice comes back.

"How did you get my number?"

Sam shuts his mouth.

"Hello, hello. How did you get my number?"

Sam mumbles out something about a wallet.

"Oh, I have been looking for it! Where did you get it?" the voice says.

The phone feels like slime, and Sam thinks of throwing it away.

"I did not steal it, sir," he says.

"How can I reach you?" the voice asks.

"I…I am in the park."

"What colour is your shirt?"

Sam tells him. He asks for his name. Sam thinks of running as fast as a whirlwind but at last says, "Sam." The voice tells him to wait at the entrance gate of the park.

As Sam pays the operator, he begins to sense trouble, big trouble. He has taken a wrong road, and he cannot return. Lost like his mother.

When he gets back, his boss welcomes him with a knock so heavy on the head Sam breaks wind. The pain seems to pass through his skull as he opens his mouth to apologise. He thinks of cursing his boss since he could not see any reason for his annoyance.

Two buses are in the queue before theirs, so it is not yet their turn to board passengers.

* * * * *

Sam sits on the edge of a seat inside the bus, hoping the man doesn’t show up. He imagines that he would be taken for a pickpocket. Students and traders push one another as they struggle to get on a moving bus.

"Sam?"

He starts and looks around. A man stands before him, chubby-faced, fair like a European, with the height of a basketball player.

"You didn’t wait at the gate?" the man says.

Sam thinks of running off, but the man is so close that if he tries, he will be cornered.

"I’m Mr. Obi, a lawyer." The man sticks out a hand. Feeling like a dwarf, Sam shakes it, hesitantly.

"You’ve got my wallet?"

"Eh, no, I gave it out."

"What? Young man, what do you mean?" A frown appears on the lawyer’s face.

"Nothing, sir…I’m sorry. I was scared I’d lose it."

"Whom did you give?"

"Pa Bosco."

He puts a hand on Sam’s elbow. "All right. Take me to him."

Sam’s boss is throwing groundnuts into his mouth where he is seated on a bench shared by two other drivers.

"Is that him?" the lawyer asks.

"No, that’s my boss," Sam whispers, glancing aside.

The lawyer observes him. "Don’t worry I’ll handle it."

Before Sam can say, "Please, no," the lawyer has taken about five strides, and is standing next to his boss. Sam stares at his feet, wishing the bus would cave in.

He jerks his shoulders as the lawyer taps him.

"Let’s pick up my wallet," the lawyer says.

* * * * *

The two of them walk into the office. A clerk is sitting behind a desk punching away on a calculator.

"Good afternoon, sir," Sam says.

"Good day," the lawyer says.

The clerk does not look up.

"Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Pa Bosco."

The clerk punches hard on a key. Then he directs an unfriendly look at them, as one might give an uninvited guest. Sam feels the urge to scratch his palm, though he does not.

"Is he lost?" the clerk asks, parting his lips that are rough like the skin of yams.

"He is with" – Sam glances at the lawyer – "his wallet."

The clerk drops his pen. "What wallet?"

Sam tries to explain, but the lawyer introduces himself with an air of influence. The clerk sits upright; his face breaks into a sunny smile. His hand shoots up to point at a bench.

"Have a seat. Please have a seat, barrister."

"Thanks. Just tell us where we can find–"

"Hope no problem?" The clerk lifts an eyebrow.

"None," the lawyer says. The clerk tells them where to find Pa Bosco.