ONE BUS FROM THE GOVERNMENT

 

I promised that my next blog post would focus on the songs and albums that influenced 2025, but a new idea rose in my mind while I was on the road. It came to me the very instant I boarded a trotro from Circle to Dansoman SSNIT Flats.

I reached Circle around 7PM and joined a crowd moving in every direction. Some people were returning from work, others heading home from the market, and a few like me were simply passing through. The long queue in front of the buses reminded me of a phrase from the Canex writing workshop. There had been a list of our names and buses picking us up, and someone pointed out the line that read: one bus from the government for the 11am departure people. We laughed that day as if nothing in life was complicated. Standing in the queue today, the joke returned with a new feeling. In a way, all of us are passengers of the state, waiting to be taken to our stops after giving so much of ourselves to a system that barely knows our names. Or perhaps the idea is milder than that. Perhaps the buses are reminders that even in a restless city, we all eventually find our way home. Interpret it as you will.

As we inched along the road, I saw a young man directing traffic at the Kaneshie light. He moved as though he had rehearsed the role all his life, and there was authority in his work. It was late, and the highway from Quarters is never forgiving at that hour, but drivers obeyed him with unexpected discipline. Something about the scene connected to an unfinished story I have tucked away. In it, the main character wanders through her days, seeking brightness in the breaks of exhaustion and ordinary struggle. I do not know why that story rose within me as I watched him guide strangers through the darkness.

When I returned to Circle around 11pm, it was almost empty. Only a few of us stood waiting for transport. Near the roadside, a woman in a short dress was negotiating with a man on a motorbike. For a moment I wanted to listen closely, but the women in Circle have a strength that warns outsiders to keep their distance. Circle is one of the most dangerous areas in Ghana. Someone can lose their belongings and their sense of self in the same breath, and a life can be exchanged for whatever price the night agrees to. It reminded me of Ikeja in 2019, when I walked with my grandmother and she kept telling me to look ahead and ignore the boys calling at us. I tried to obey, but the laptops glowing in the stalls still pulled my attention like bright metal catching the light.

A trotro finally arrived and I got inside. The man in front became the trouble of the ride. He refused to make room for anyone and snapped at people whenever they touched him. He kept pressing his fingers to his nose and pouring insults on the tired construction worker beside him, who only wanted a seat. The mate, on the other hand, was kind. He struggled with the change, but out of generosity he offered me a discounted price for the fare.

And so my little journey on that imagined bus from the government came to an end. I hope my friends from the Canex trip will respond because I want to hear how they understand this. This could be our sign to speak about the roads we take, the ones that exhaust us, surprise us, or teach us something.

I’m reading Somadina by Akwaeke right now, and there’s a thing that keeps striking me: she’s essentially treated like a bus by the government, and at the same time she is an outcast in her own community, while Jayaike is admired and embraced. When you look at that contrast, it really speaks volume. One child becomes a symbol the government wants to control, and the other becomes a being the people celebrate. It’s fascinating how we as buses can be rejected in numerous ways and can be appreciated too. Also aren’t we all controlled by this system of life? And I must end here and I promise to share my favorite albums and songs next. I won’t post about the vanilla cake I made or the condense toffee or the mushroom pizza!

Share your own trotro or bus stories with me. They do not need to be from Ghana. I want to laugh with you or feel your sadness, because every traveler bears a story.