Ever travelled a long distance with a corpse without knowing it?
In September, I embarked on what I thought would be a routine road trip from Lagos to Osun State. I had no idea it would become one of the most haunting journeys of my life.
I have always preferred the front seat whenever I travel. Not for comfort, but for conversation. I enjoy interacting with drivers, sharing stories, and keeping the journey lively. That preference changed forever on that trip.
I arrived at the park late. The Sienna bus was almost full, with only one space left at the back seat. Seated there already was a young man and his visibly ill mother. Other passengers had avoided the seat, clearly uncomfortable with her condition.
I couldn’t tell exactly what she was suffering from, but it was obvious she was very sick. Her son kept fanning her repeatedly. She was sweating profusely—far more than I had ever seen in a sick person before—like someone working under the scorching sun at a construction site.
I was the final passenger needed for the bus to move. As I sat beside them, I sighed inwardly and told myself this would not be an easy journey. I had no choice; waiting for another vehicle was not an option.
After the driver settled with the loaders and park officials, we set off.
The odour was difficult to endure, but I managed without a nose mask. I volunteered to lead the opening prayer, praying for a safe journey and also for the sick woman.
Somewhere around Ibadan, while we were still heading towards Osun State, the woman quietly passed away.
Her son didn’t notice immediately.
I did.
I leaned towards him and gently asked if he was a Christian. He nodded. I held his hands and prayed with him—prayers for the sick, and for departed souls. When I finished, I whispered softly, “I’m sorry, brother… your mum is no longer with us.”
He lifted her hand, shook her gently, and looked at me in shock.
“How did you know?” he asked.
I cautioned him not to shout. This was a public vehicle. I explained that she had passed just moments earlier and urged him to remain calm. I told him not to make any phone calls, to keep his phone on silent, and to only send text messages if he needed to inform relatives.
“This is the day you must be strong,” I told him. “This journey must not become harder than it already is.”
Through tears, he asked, “What about the driver?”
I assured him not to worry. I told him I would find a way to inform the driver discreetly. I advised him to reposition his mother carefully and continue fanning her so no one would suspect anything.
When the driver eventually stopped after I requested to urinate, I quietly pulled him aside. I explained calmly that the woman at the back seat had passed on and warned him not to turn around or draw attention.
The driver understood immediately. Acting naturally, he stepped into the bush as if to relieve himself, plucked a leaf, and discreetly placed it at the back of the vehicle—a silent signal and a moment of composure.
The journey continued.
The driver played worship songs all the way to Ile-Ife. No passenger suspected that one of us would not complete the journey alive.
When we finally arrived, I helped the young man with his belongings, offered what support I could, and quietly went my way.
It was a journey I will never forget.
If you were one of the passengers on that vehicle, I am truly sorry. Everything that was done was simply to make things easier for a helpless son in the most painful moment of his life.
Original story by Idenyi Linus Elaigwu.
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