The journey never starts when the engine comes alive.
For me, it begins earlier, while waiting.
At the bus park, surrounded by noise and movement, my body stays still while my mind travels ahead. Conductors shout destinations. Engines hum impatiently. Passengers clutch bags tightly. Yet my attention drifts inward, where imagination quietly takes over.
This waiting moment always does something to me. Thoughts multiply. Images form without permission. I imagine the road ahead, the familiar faces Iโm returning to, the version of myself that will step down from the bus. Sometimes, I play music softly. Other times, I simply breathe and let memory do its work.
During the festive season, the feeling is different. Heavier. Sweeter.
Returning home for Christmas carries its own kind of excitement, the kind that sits in your chest long before you arrive. Even when the present weather refuses to cooperate, my mind remembers older December journeys clearly. The harmattan air. Cold and dusty mornings. Dry skin. Cracked lips rescued by lip gloss passed around in bags. Everything uncomfortable, yet familiar.
I have always loved travelling by road, especially during this season. I fight for the window seat every time. I want to see everything. I want to feel the breeze. I want to watch the land slowly change. Somewhere along the way, hawkers begin to appear, selling Christmas hats, plastic toys, tinsel, and decorations in bright colours. Their voices cut through traffic, announcing that December has arrived.
As the bus moves closer to home, the signs multiply. Statues and roundabouts decorated by the government. Streets lit with Christmas lights. Jingle bells playing from shops, buses, and roadside speakers. The city feels louder, warmer, more alive.
The closer I get, the more my thoughts turn inward. I think about family. About arrival. About how full everything feels during Christmas.
At home, the celebration always follows a familiar rhythm. Chickens are killed. Sometimes goats. Sometimes a cow, if the year has been kind. Young boys gather around, handling the hard parts with seriousness beyond their age. Men sit under trees, drinking and laughing, retelling stories that grow longer each year.
In the kitchen, women move with quiet authority. Mothers, aunties, daughters, cooking, stirring, tasting, shouting instructions across rooms. Children run in and out, stealing bites and dodging chores. Food becomes the centre of everything. Not just because it is Christmas, but because everyone is finally together.
These are the moments my mind visits while I wait at the bus park. Before the bus moves. Before the road begins. The journey has already happened, in memory, in anticipation, in the quiet joy of knowing I am returning home.
By the time the engine finally starts and the park fades behind us, I understand it clearly. Travel is not only about distance. Especially not during Christmas. It is about reunion. About memory. About the familiar comfort of coming back to where you belong.
Sometimes, the road only completes what the heart has already started.
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