Angel in the bus aisle

It was the end of my first year in college. For me, the semester had been a slow-motion collapse; missed exams and empty pockets due to a government money disbursement that did not arrive on time. Finally, December arrived and I decided to go home for the holidays. The journey was a 6-hour bus trip. I was able to pay for the first leg with the last of my cash. For the last two-hour trip, I relied on whispered prayers and the hope of a quick mobile money transfer. The phone grew warm in my hand as I attempted calling every contact I could think of.

I got to the last station at around 10:00 PM. The chaos and activity of the daytime had turned into a quiet and silent atmosphere. A cold drizzle had started.This was the last connection; the direct route to my hometown. I walked over to the ticket point. There was only one remaining bus that went directly to my destination.

“If I miss this bus, I will have to wait until tomorrow”, I thought ruefully. Waiting meant being seated on a cold bench out at night and hoping another bus that plies the route I was going to would arrive soon.

It meant being at risk of getting mugged.

I could not miss this bus.

I approached cautiously, avoiding the ticket queue. One would pay at the queue and be handed a receipt. The receipt served as the ticket. The bus attendant stood in the doorway, a silhouette carved from the night. I could hardly make out his face against the single dim light bulb in the bus. Due to the demanding and fast-paced nature of their work, bus operators in Kenya are not particularly known for their patience. Theirs is a world of shouted destinations and hurried transactions.

Kindness is a luxury they cannot afford.

The man’s hand shot out, palm up, expecting a ticket. The gesture was automatic, impersonal.

“I… I don’t have the money yet. But it’s coming,” I said. My voice was swallowed by the rain. “Someone is sending it.”

I braced myself for the dismissive wave and the command to move aside.

Instead, he paused. His head tilted slightly. His eyes, dark and assessing, swept over my worn backpack, my damp jacket, the exhaustion pressing down on me.

“Get in,” he said.

The words were firm, not gentle. For a moment I just stood there, frozen. Then, I stumbled up the steps. The bus was mostly empty. I found a seat by a window and slowly, the bus filled up with more passengers.I took a quick glance of the other passengers and said a quick prayer.

“Lord, I don't know how you will do it, but please make a way”.

As the bus pulled away, slicing through the rain, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort and peace. It spread, loosening the tension in my neck and shoulders. It felt like a blanket tucked all around me. I momentarily forgot about my situation and drifted into sleep.

I awoke as the bus slowed to a halt. Blinking, I saw the familiar outlines of my hometown in the harsh midnight light. The rain had stopped. I gathered my things, my legs stiff, and stepped out last.

The attendant was already there, unloading luggage. In the backlight of the parking station, I could see him fully; middle-aged, face lined not with harshness but quiet endurance, eyes calm.

“They haven’t sent anything yet,” I murmured, eyes cast on my shoes.

He simply nodded. Then, instead of waiting or demanding a solution, he signaled to the nearby stage where motorcycle taxis idled. A motorcycle rider pulled up. The attendant lifted my luggage onto the carrier, secured it, and pulled out a few crumpled notes from his own pocket.

“Take him home,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

I was too stunned to speak. I managed to fumble for my phone and take his number; a clumsy attempt to promise repayment for this debt when I got home.

My mind was racing. “Did he just pay for the bus AND the bike trip”?

The motorcycle ferried me through the streets, past shuttered shops,down a long stretch of highway and right up to the gate.

Standing at my doorstep, watching the motorcycle disappear, I replayed the night in my mind: the gruff voice in the darkness, the unexpected invitation to board, the profound peace, the paid ride home.

In Kenya, it is unheard of for a bus attendant to pay for someone's fare. In one case, a man succumbed to injuries he sustained when he was thrown out of a bus due to a fare dispute. Whatever had happened that night did not happen by accident.

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my heart, that it could only have been the work of God. Delivered through the hands of a weary conductor on the night shift.

Every few months, I remember the bus attendant who paid my fare home. I remember that God sees us, even on cold nights in desolate stations, and that He can send help from anyone, anywhere.

I recall that the sermon from the Sunday service that week focused on providence. I was also able to get in touch with the attendant soon after.