LatinosUSA

The sun hung low over the Lagos horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink as Okwuchi adjusted the straps of her backpack. The bustling city was a cacophony of honking impatient motorists, Agbérós extorting danfo drivers, and okada riders, street hawkers shouting their wares, and the rhythmic pulse of Wizkid’s “Ojuelegba” and other Afrobeats’ hit spilling from roadside shops. At twenty-one, Okwuchi had lived in Lagos her whole life, but the city’s chaos felt like a cage she’d outgrown. She craved the stories her grandmother used to tell — tales of Nigeria’s vast landscapes, from the rolling hills of the East to the ancient cities of the North. So, with a modest savings account and a nonamd’s spirit, she’d decided to travel the country, no itinerary, just a bus fare, a Canon EOS 1100D camera, and a notebook to document it all.

Her first stop was Ìbàdàn, a one-hour 30 minutes ride from Lagos. The bus, a creaking relic packed with passengers like sardines and their overstuffed bags, rumbled along the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway. A middle-aged woman beside her, cradling a basket of tomatoes, struck up a conversation. “You’re traveling alone, eh?  Brave girl,” she said, her Yorùbá accent heavy. Okwuchi smiled, unsure if it was bravery or recklessness. The road was dotted with checkpoints, and at each one, stern-faced policemen peered into the bus, their flashlights slicing through the dusk. By the time they reached Ìbàdàn, the Land of Warriors, was animated with the glow of lanterns and the aroma of àmàlà from roadside mama put.

Okwuchi found a small guesthouse near Mapo Hill, where she spent the evening chatting with the owner, Ìyá Bodè, a wiry woman with a laugh that echoed like Conga. “Ìbàdàn is the heart of Yorùbá land,” Ìyá Bodè said, serving her a steaming plate of ọ̀bẹ atà mixed with egusi soup. “Go to the Bower’s Tower tomorrow. You’ll see the city like a king.” The next morning, activated by her youthful curiosity, Okwuchi climbed the tower, its spiral staircase dizzying but worth the view. Ìbàdàn sprawled below, a patchwork of rusted roofs and green hills, whispering history in every corner. She scribbled in her notebook: Ìbàdàn feels like a wise alàgbà, slow and steady, holding ancient tales and secrets in its soil.

From Ìbàdàn, being able to afford obere òchè, she hopped on a night bus to Ènúgwụ, the Coal City in the East. The journey was longer, the roads bumpier, and the air grew cooler as they gained passage into Igbó territory. Ènúgwụ saluted her with misty hills and the faint hum of Gozie Okeke’s music from a nearby Pentecostal church. She stayed with a friend of a friend, Amaechi, a lanky artist who painted murals of Igbó deities on city walls. “You must see Awhum Waterfall,” he insisted, hurling her to his battered motorcycle. The ride to Awhum was a blur of red earth and palm trees, and when they arrived, the waterfall cascaded into a turquoise pool, serene and sacred. Monks from a nearby monastery chanted softly, their voices blending with the water’s song. Okwuchi dipped her tiny toes in, feeling the cold bite of the pool, and wrote: Ènúgwụ is alive, its heartbeat in the hills, its soul in the water.

Her next destination was Jos, the tin city in the Middle Belt, known for its cool climate and rocky plateaus. The bus ride was grueling, weaving through winding roads and past villages where little children smiled and  waved at passing vehicles. In Jos, she stayed at a hostel run by a Hausa woman named Baiwa, who insisted on teaching her how to make tuwo shinkafa. “You’re too skinny,” Baiwa teased, her hands deftly molding the rice into balls. Okwuchi explored the Shere Hills, hiking trails that led to vistas of endless green, punctuated by granite outcrops. At night, she joined a group of locals around a bonfire, listening to stories of the Nok civilization and sipping kunu under a star-studded sky. Her notebook filled with: Jos is a paradox — cool air, warm hearts, and rocks that tell tales older than time.

The North called next, and Okwuchi boarded a bus to Kano, the ancient commercial hub. The journey was an odyssey, with the landscape shifting from lush greenery to arid expanses. Kano was a sensory overload — dusty streets, vibrant markets, and the call to prayer echoing from minarets. She wandered through the Kurmi Market, where traders sold everything from indigo-dyed fabrics to camel leather sandals. A young boy, no older than ten, guided her to the Gidan Makama Museum, regaling her with tales of Kano’s emirs. Inside, she marveled at relics of the city’s past — ornate swords, royal robes, and manuscripts in flowing Arabic script. That night, she wrote: Kano is a tapestry, woven with history and hustle, where every thread hums with life.

Her final stop was Calabar, the coastal gem of the South-South. The bus ride from Kano was an adventure, crossing rivers and rainforests, with stops at roadside shacks serving peppery bushmeat. Calabar felt like a warm embrace, its streets lined with colonial-era buildings and the air heavy with the scent of the Cross River. She visited the Slave History Museum, where the weight of history pressed against her chest, the artifacts telling stories of resilience and loss. At the marina, she took a boat ride to the mangroves, where fishermen cast nets under the watchful eyes of egrets. A local guide, Mfon, invited her to a cultural festival, where dancers in vibrant Efik attire moved to the rhythm of ekombi drums. Okwuchi’s notebook overflowed: Calabar is a melody, soft and soulful, where the river sings of survival.

As her journey neared its end, Okwuchi sat on a Calabar beach, the Atlantic lapping at her feet. Her notebook was nearly full, each page a mosaic of Nigeria’s diversity — its languages, landscapes, and lives. She’d traveled thousands of kilometers, from the frenetic pulse of Lagos to the quiet grace of Calabar, and found a country that was both vast and intimate. Nigeria wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling, a story told in a thousand voices, each one distinct yet part of the same song of unified rhythm.

She boarded a bus back to Lagos, her heart heavy with memories and her bag light with souvenirs — beads from Kano, a carved mask from Ènúgwụ, a woven mat from Jos. As the bus rolled through the uncertainty of the night, she wrote one final entry: Nigeria is a journey, not a destination. It’s in the roads that connect us, the bridge we journey on, the stories we share, and the courage to keep moving, jettisoning tribal and religious differences.