When Rivers Bloom

Some difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations.

When Rivers Bloom

Ejiro stepped onto the dusty bus in Enugu before dawn. The city rested under the pale hush of streetlights, still dreaming, still suspended in the space between yesterday and what came next.

Her feet hesitated on the last step before boarding. Behind her, Nsukka slumbered, safe and familiar. Her aunt’s house with its low laughter, garden blossoms, the smell of Okpa warming on charcoal stoves, and freshly painted walls. It had been a place of comfort, soft edges, and remembered names. But something in her refused to settle. She needed movement, even if it came wrapped in fear.

Her suitcase was a small, stubborn thing: overpacked and reluctant. She had zipped it shut like a door on a life she no longer wanted office cubicles, tight heels, performance reviews, and the sound of her breath echoing in a silent apartment. There was no room left for going back. Only forward, no matter how uncertain.

The bus interior was dim, filled with quiet bodies leaning into sleep. Across the aisle, men in Agbadas sighed softly. Women in Ankara wrappers clutched thermoses of black tea. No one asked for her ticket. No one looked twice. Here, she was neither an employee nor a daughter. Just a soul in transit.

The radio tuned itself slowly into the morning. First came a Yoruba prayer, intimate and grounding. Then a peppy jingle, the kind that played in supermarkets and waiting rooms. Old and new Nigeria coexisted in static harmony.

The bus lurched into motion. Poles lined the cracked road like sentinels. Factories stirred in the shadows. Enugu stretched its limbs. Behind the glass, a country began to hum.

She thought of her father. His voice, sharp with authority: “Be civilized. Speak the Queen’s English.” Words meant to armor her. Words that now tasted of chalk. He was long gone, disappeared into silence like so many dreams that grew too heavy to carry.

Time passed uncounted. Hours folded into hills. When the sky opened, it did so suddenly, a surge of blue spilling across the horizon. Frangipani blossoms littered the roadside. The air felt older here, sacred with memory.

She stepped off at a place that had no name. Shops yawned open beneath tin roofs. Mechanics leaned over idle engines. Women pedaled bicycles with yams strapped to their backs. Noise built-in layers: birds, radios, conversations stretching like threads.

A boda-boda rider met her with a grin and a dust-covered Ibadan jersey. He tapped his seat.

"Madam, you wan go bush village?"

She nodded, too tired to explain. His voice was rough but kind, the kind that knew roads and silence and not asking too many questions.

They rode through the belly of the land. Red earth. Mango trees bent low with fruit. Goats grazed lazily. Children waved, coconut juice glistening on their chins. Women in vibrant Geles walked with water cans on their heads—balancing, steady, unbothered.

At a fork in the road, the rider stopped. One path was a wound of dust. The other climbed gently. He pointed.

"Tomorrow, you continue."

He left her on a ridge overlooking a valley. Below, the river shimmered like a secret. A lone cassava patch bloomed yellow, small but defiant.

She whispered an old quote into the breeze: “Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations.” Ziglar, not Zimmerman. Her phone confirmed it. She smiled and put it away. There was no signal, but there was clarity.

She walked into a small nearby village and asked an elderly woman if she could pitch her tent by the baobab. The woman, Mama Ihuoma, looked her over with a gentle eye, nodded, and pointed.

“That tree has watched many stories. It can watch yours, too.”

That night, fireflies danced in careful spirals. Mama Ihuoma lent her a cooking pot. Garri boiled gently in its belly. They sat near the flames. Mama’s grandson, Chijioke, perched nearby, eating Abacha and telling stories of the river spirits.

“You come from Enugu?” Mama asked.

Ejiro nodded. “Looking for something I lost. Or maybe never had.”

“We all come for that,” Mama replied. “But sometimes, what you’re looking for is not lost. It’s just quiet.”

The boy piped up. “Aunty, if you dream by the river, it can talk back!”

They all laughed. Ejiro laughed hardest.

At first light, roosters summoned the day. She cooked eggs from Mama Ihuoma’s hens. A neighbor named Bisi came by to offer ripe pawpaw.

“For strength,” she said.

Ejiro felt alive in a way that had nothing to do with ambition.

She walked into the valley, between rice paddies, through a corridor of trees alive with sound. The forest smelled of wet leaves and healing.

Rain threatened, but she welcomed it. She paused under a hut roof and looked toward the river. Failures began to whisper again: jobs that slipped away, interviews that ended in polite silence, nights filled with unanswered messages, and her father’s stern disappointment.

But the river rushed on. Unstoppable. Unconcerned. She removed her shoes. Cold water wrapped her ankles. It felt like truth. It said: Keep going.

Up the next hill was a village of mud-walled homes. Children chased a ball made of string. Their joy pierced the air like a song. One of them, Adaora, asked her name and offered a flower.

They saw her tent. Soon, mothers appeared with bowls of food: eba, palm-nut soup, spicy and warm. A woman named Ifeoma pointed at her suitcase.

“You go stay long?”

Ejiro smiled. “Maybe.”

They nodded as if that was enough. And it was.

Later, she found a chapel. Mud walls. Rough benches. A vase of wildflowers. A pastor practiced hymns with a few gathered voices. Shaky at first, then rising.

She stayed. Tears surprised her, and came without warning. Then someone sang in Igbo. The melody rose like memory. She felt Nsukka’s Freedom Square in the echo of it. Community. Belonging.

The pastor, Pastor Jide, introduced himself and invited her to the market.

“You look like you have a curious spirit,” he said. “Curious spirits always find what they need.”

She wandered past stalls of yam, crayfish, and sun-warmed spices. Women with quick fingers wove straw hats. She chatted with a seller named Grace who gave her a discount and said, “You look like someone about to start something new.”

She bought a big, bright straw hat. Grace tapped its top.

“Protection.”

Golden light settled over everything. She walked again to the river and crossed a bridge made of planks. On the other side, a narrow path led to the hills.

She climbed, earth slippery underfoot. Tree roots twisted like veins. She stumbled. She laughed.

At the top: a clearing. Ferns. Orchids. Rain in the air. Light broke through clouds.

The plateau opened, green and endless. The river shimmered below. There were no roads, no horns, no emails. Only breath.

She sat on a mossy rock, legs dangling. The drop below didn’t frighten her. It invited reverence.

She closed her eyes.

Her father’s voice returned. “Make us proud.”

She used to think he meant titles, salaries, and a framed degree. Maybe he meant this.

Freedom.

She opened her notebook and wrote: I came for myself. I found all of us.

She stayed until the stars arrived, one by one. They stitched stories in the dark: Idoma constellations, Igbo names, and Sunday school myths. All of it is woven.

She didn’t sleep. Her body was full of too much.

In the morning, she descended. Past the fields. Past the chapel. The children waved. Adaora ran up and hugged her legs. The women smiled. Pastor Jide nodded.

At the road, a rattling bus appeared. She boarded. Destination: Enugu. Then maybe Lagos. Maybe not.

The road stretched ahead, red and alive.

Back in the city, she changed. Ironed skirt. Polished shoes. Her phone blinked to life.

Emails. Deadlines. Requests.

She opened her notebook again. Beneath her old line, she added another:

I resign.

She closed the book and stood on her balcony. Dusk painted the skyline. Enugu shimmered with noise.

But inside her: forest. Laughter. Hymns. Water.

She felt her heartbeat steady.

City doors no longer trapped her.

She could choose. Stay. Leave. Begin again.

The road behind her had been hard.

But what waited ahead might just bloom.

And this time, she would bloom with it.


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