“Is your inhaler in your bag?” Mum asked for the hundredth time.  I patted the bag slung across my chest though her words were lost in the din of passengers crowded on the north-bound platform of the Ibadan Railway Station. Market women with babies on their backs corralled baskets of peppers, onions, tomatoes, and other produce.  Traders pushed carts of used clothes, bags, and modern wares. Likewise, professionals in three-piece suits jostled for space. “Keep your eyes on your suitcases.” Mum cautioned repositioning the large suitcase closer to the smaller one. “Wear your sweater at night.”

I shuffled in my sandals willing the adventure would start already. It had taken me three terms to convince my mother to let me travel to school by rail. Now, here I was, standing in my uniform alongside other students of Federal Government Girls College, Bida, taking the train from Ibadan to Minna. From Minna, we’d be picked up by the school bus for the hour drive to Bida.

“Debola!  How was your vacation?” Remi gave me a bear hug.  She was a short, round girl who’d grown even rounder after a two-month long vacation.  She almost squeezed all the breath out of me.  “You’re finally taking the train. We’re going to have so much fun!”

“Yes, I am!”  We Jumped round and round, a swirl of green and white in our school uniforms.  Catching mom’s watchful eye, I sobered.  “The train is scheduled to arrive at 2:30. It’s nearly time.”

At 2:45, we heard the sound we’d been waiting for.  “Blah blah blaaaah!”  Mum grabbed my larger suitcase.  I grabbed the smaller one.  We surged forward.

As the train slowed, we eagerly scanned the cars. Most were crammed with passengers who’d boarded in Lagos. Unless most of them disembarked, many people won’t be able to board. I despaired. Then Remi shouted above the din of the crowd, “Look, that’s our car!” Smiling faces under green berets stuck out of the windows above arms clad in white cotton waving delightedly.

We lugged my stuff up iron steps and through sliding doors held open by a teacher and two senior girls.  It was a reserved car and only FGGC Bida girls were allowed in.  Inside, there were about a dozen bench-like seats on both sides of the car.  Above the seats were racks that ran the full length of the train car.  The car was half empty because only the Lagos girls were onboard.

“We’ll put this up here.”  Mum stowed my smaller suitcase on the rack.  We put the larger one under the seat so all I had to do was drag it out when we arrived in Minna.  With a bit of juggling, Remi and I ended in the same alcove of two seats facing each other.

“Take good care of yourself.”  Mum hugged me like she’d never let go.  Girls teased what appeared like a childish clinginess. I pulled away.

“Bye, Mum, greet Daddy and Tomi.  I steered her out of the car then rushed to the window to wave goodbye.

“I went to Prague for the holidays,” Irene said as soon as she arrived in our alcove.  She was a skinny, light-skinned girl who wore glasses that covered half her face.

“Where’s Prague?” I asked.  But before she could respond, a brown ball of energy launched herself at me.

“Debola’s on the train, choo choo!”  Kemi was a drama queen extraordinaire.  Here I was, still trying to take it all in and she goes and announces me to the world.  Heads peeked down the aisle to see what all the noise was about.  Soon, our car was full of my mates all chattering excitedly about my train ride.  The air became stuffy and I should have taken a puff on my inhaler. But how could I in front of all my friends?

The air grew crisper as we left Ibadan for the countryside.  We started to sing.

“We’re now going back to the jungle, where mosquitoes sing a song.

Where men hunt for something to kill,

Darling, never you cry.

Ka ka ka ka ka says the jungle.

Ka ko ka ko says the rifle,

Ko ko ji says the shotgun,

darling, never you cry.”

We passed Ikire, Apomu and Gbongan.  We stopped at Osogbo.  We barred the doors to the market women and sundry passengers who tried to barge in. Through the open windows, we bought bread, smoked fish, dodo Ikire, akara, and soft drinks from peddlers. I tried a little bit of everything. The party was in full gear.

“Let’s go see who’s in the other car,” Remi suggested.  So, we got up and walked to the end of our car, opened the door, stepped out unto the bridge linking the cars and opened the door of the other car.  Biola, Tayo, Jane, Shalewa, and other Form Three girls were surprised to see me.  “Debola on the train?”  they questioned knowing how my mother had wrapped me in cotton wool.  I was only too glad to show them how liberated I was.  I jumped around, danced, and sang at the top of my voice.

As we chugged along towards the north, the landscape changed from forests punctuated by towns to grassland.  Languages changed from Yoruba to Hausa intermingled with Igbirra, Igala and Nupe.  Sounds varied from the countryside’s night rustlings to the clamor of traders at the terminals.  In Jebba, we bought smoked tilapia and fried mackerel.  We licked our fingers and bust out in song:

“Which kin’ soup, mama cook o?’

Ogbono soup eh!

Salt no dey, pepper no dey

Ogbono soup eh.”

The louder I sang, the shorter my breath became.  I sat down and looked around for my purse.  It was in the other car.  ‘Calm down.’ Panicking only increases stress which causes the muscles around the airways to contract. I tried to stand but I was gasping for breath.  I tried to catch Remi’s eye, but she was calling the tunes.  I clutched the arm of the girl next to me.

“Oh my God, Debola’s dying! Somebody, help!”  I could have died right there.  Of embarrassment.  All I wanted was to get my inhaler from my purse in the other car!  Nothing more.  No calling attention to myself.  And certainly, no drama!

Girls crowded around our already packed alcove.  “What’s wrong?”  “Is she hurt?”  “Give her water!”  “Give her food!”  Fortunately, Mrs. Mansa came to check on the crisis.

“Can you talk?” she asked.  At my nod, she continued, “what’s going on?”

“Inhaler.”  I conserved my breath. She understood and took charge.

“Who knows where her inhaler is?”  She sent Remi back for it. Soon, it was handed to me. After the first puff, I began to feel calmer.  I took the second puff and breathed easier.  After a while, I returned to my own seat.  I put my sweater on and slept through Pategi and Zungeru.  At dawn, Remi shook me awake. We were approaching Minna.

I needed a strategy to get everything off the train within its 10-minute stop. Remi and I put our heads together. “I will take the big suitcases and drag them out,” Remi volunteered. We assembled the luggage in the aisle.  I tucked my inhaler back into my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and brought down my small suitcase.

“I’ll pass the smaller suitcases out to you.” We got all our stuff off the train. We got them unto the school bus. We bought suya and bread off a Malam at the station. As I tucked in to my spicy breakfast, I thought to myself, ‘I made it.’