Chapter Three: Night Bus North

Lagos to Abuja Night Bus – February 22, 2026, 8:15 p.m.

The God is Good Motors terminal in Jibowu stank of diesel, fried plantain, and that heavy kind of desperation you only smell in places where people are running from something. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across rows of plastic chairs. Passengers clutched their polythene bags garri, groundnut oil, Bibles like lifelines. Chino and Wale sat way at the far end, hoods pulled low, burner phones face-down on their laps. They blended in like any two young guys heading north for better hustle: one in a faded Chelsea jersey, the other in a plain black hoodie. No eye contact. No loud talk. Just quiet.

Chioma had sorted everything. Slipped the conductor extra 50,000 naira for “discretion.” Got them seats at the back near the toilet less chance of anyone noticing. The driver, stocky guy with tribal marks, barely glanced at their fake IDs (Emeka and Tunde) before waving them on. In Nigeria, cash talks louder than any suspicion.

The video was still everywhere. Instablog pulled it after “legal pressure,” but screenshots kept spreading family groups, church chats, uni W******p. Pastor Victor had gone live twice more, praying loud for “the deliverance of Chinedu Okonkwo, lost son of Onitsha, and his companion in sin.” Adanna sent one last message before going dark: Papa say make I no talk to you again. He dey cry. But bros, run well. I dey pray for una. Then blocked him. Just like that.

Wale’s hand found Chino’s under the seat. Fingers laced tight. Nobody noticed in the dim light.

The bus jerked forward at 8:45 p.m., engine growling like it was in pain. They merged onto the Lagos-Ibadan expressway, headlights slicing through harmattan dust. Inside, the AC was dead; sweat pooled at the small of Chino’s back. A Nollywood movie blasted from the overhead screen some pastor casting demons out of a wayward daughter. The irony was so thick it hurt to breathe.

Wale leaned into Chino’s shoulder, whispering. “You think Abuja go swallow us? Or e go spit us out too?”

Chino squeezed his hand. “We go breathe first. Small-small. Then plan.”

Two hours in, the bus pulled into a roadside eatery near Shagamu. Passengers tumbled out for suya and recharge cards. Chino and Wale stayed put, windows cracked for air. Outside, a group of men laughed loud football talk turning to politics. One said, “Tinubu do well with that military ban last December. No more LGBT nonsense for barracks. Clean house.”

Another: “SSMPA no enough? Now even army dey join. Good. Make dem no corrupt our boys.”

Chino’s stomach twisted hard. That ban Harmonised Armed Forces Terms and Conditions, Section 26, signed December 2024 was still fresh. No cross-dressing, no “LGBTQ activities.” Soldiers caught faced dishonorable discharge, jail. It was theater Nigeria already had the laws but theater that screamed: We see you. We hate you. We making it official now.

Wale’s thumb rubbed slow circles on Chino’s palm. “Ignore dem. Dem no know say we dey here, alive, loving.”

Chino turned, pressed a quick kiss to Wale’s temple risky as hell, but the bus was half empty. “I no fit stop touching you. Even now.”

Heat flared low. Wale shifted, thigh pressing against Chino’s. In the dark, his hand slid higher, cupping Chino through jeans. Chino hardened instantly body betraying fear like it didn’t care.

“Later,” Wale breathed. “When everybody sleep.”

The bus kept rolling. By midnight most passengers were out heads lolling against windows, snores mixing with engine hum. The road north quieted, potholes eased. Somewhere past Ibadan, lights dimmed more.

Wale unbuckled quietly, slid to the floor between seats. Space was tight knees bumping metal. He looked up at Chino eyes dark, daring. Chino glanced around: nobody watching. Nodded once.

Wale tugged Chino’s zipper down slow. Cock sprang free, already leaking. Wale took him in warm, wet, careful. No sound but soft suck, breath catching. Chino bit his lip hard, hand in Wale’s curls, guiding shallow thrusts. The risk lit it up: one wrong move, one awake passenger, and it was over. Arrest. Extortion. Worse.

Wale hollowed his cheeks, tongue swirling the head. Chino’s hips jerked quiet, controlled. Pleasure coiled tight. Wale pulled off, stroked fast, mouth open. Chino came silent hot pulses across Wale’s tongue, some dripping chin. Wale swallowed, licked clean, then rose, kissing Chino deep so he tasted himself.

“Your turn,” Chino whispered.

Wale shook his head. “Later. Save am.”

They curled together again, spent and shaking. Hope flickered in the afterglow: bodies still answered each other, even while running. Devastation sat heavy: every mile north pulled them farther from home, closer to new dangers Abuja had its own gossip blogs, its own pastors, its own police who settled with bribes but could turn nasty quick.

Dawn broke gray over Abuja outskirts. Bus pulled into Utako terminal at 6:12 a.m. Dust swirled. Hawkers shouted. Chino and Wale grabbed their small bags everything they owned now.

Chioma’s contact waited outside: slim woman in her thirties, natural hair pulled back, plain wrapper, eyes watchful. Called herself Mama T. Part of the loose network Signal groups, whispered safe houses, emergency cash from diaspora.

“Welcome,” she said low. “Follow me. No talk.”

They walked three blocks to a modest two story in Garki. Upstairs flat: two bedrooms, shared kitchen, blackout curtains. Four other men already there queer Nigerians from different states, all running from something. One from Kano, face scarred from “deliverance” beating. Another from Port Harcourt, jobless after his own video leak.

Mama T locked the door. “Rules: no outside alone first week. No photos. No real names outside these walls. We eat together, pray together if you want Christian, Muslim, nothing, no matter. Police raid happen sometimes. We scatter fast.”

She showed them a room: two mattresses on the floor, fan rattling. “Rest. Tonight we talk plan. Some go Canada, UK if papers work. Asylum hard now UK call Nigeria ‘safe,’ Canada reject plenty last year. But some win. Others stay underground. Hustle remote. Wait for change.”

Chino sat on the mattress, exhausted. Wale right beside him.

Mama T paused at the door. “You two… careful. Love loud here get price. But e get small freedom too. We no judge.”

Door closed.

Chino pulled Wale close. Kissed slow, deep tongues lazy now, no rush. Hands roamed under shirts, tracing scars, muscles, promises.

“We go make am,” Chino said against his lips.

Wale nodded, eyes wet. “Even if na only inside these walls. We go fuck, laugh, live. Till dem catch us or we fly.”

Outside, Abuja stirred: azan from a nearby mosque, church bells far off, traffic building. Bigger city than Lagos, maybe more anonymous. But same laws. Same pastors. Same families mourning “lost sons.”

Hope: a roof, comrades, touch that still burned bright.

Devastating: futures shrunk to hiding, bribes, maybe an asylum lottery with low odds Canada approved some Nigerians but rejected over 1,500 in 2025 alone; UK tightened “safe country” rules.

Ambiguous: Would they stay underground forever? Risk one more viral post? Board a flight with forged docs? Or would a knock come police, family boys, Pastor Victor’s “prayer team”?

For now, they lay down together. Bodies entwined. Breath syncing.

In a borrowed room, in a borrowed city, two men clung to each other.

Still breathing. Still defiant.

Still waiting for dawn or darkness to decide.