As our bus left Pwalugu, the arid, scotchy north was growing dimmer in the driver’s mirror. We raced through stretches of desolated grasslands, meeting fewer and fewer cars, tractors and donkeys. Slowly, we were fading out of wastelands, the whirring of our bus tyres timing our progress.

Occasionally, we bumped into police checkpoints. Sometimes, it seemed the police officer was unsure whether to let us go or wait further. But whenever our driver slipped a ¢5 bill into an officer’s palm, the dilemma was settled.

“Tank you!” the officer would say, cheerfully reminding our driver in which direction he was to continue his journey.

We journeyed on. Some passengers were dozing. Others conversed while keeping their eyes on the TV showcasing a nollywood movie.

In my head, I was going over all I had heard about Accra. Most of the movie stars and other celebrities lived there. Will I meet some of them? I wondered. I had seen the president once in our town during a political campaign when he stood up in his car to wave at crowds of supporters. Apart from him, I had never met any other VIP in the country. The part of the north where I lived, there were hardly events that brought a celebrity. Music stars never hosted concerts. What would the peasants use to pay for concert tickets? Animal hide?

After trekking through long stretches of dusty plains, the air began to change from oven heat to refreshing breeze. We were now crossing a huge bridge into a forest.

Forest. More forests. Then villages. A couple more villages made of two or three houses. I sometimes wondered why the villages wouldn’t come together as one since they were not very far from one another. Each had a funny name. Big names with nothing to show for them.

A tiny road sign in the distance was growing as we drew closer. A blue background with white inscriptions. Tamale. It said. A large town for its small name. At this point, the dusty beast that carried us in its belly was weary and yawning for rest. Our driver branched into a nearby bus terminal.

“Fifteen minutes!” the driver reminded us.

Most of the passengers hurried to washrooms, others to snack bars. There were passengers who alighted just to stand and wait beside the bus to stretch their feeble bones.

For years, I and my siblings were accustomed to the routines of waking up, sweeping, bathing, going to school, returning to help with cookings at home, washing bowls, a little TV and bedtime. An unbroken, impressive streak. We hardly traveled.

Imagine our joy when for the first time in years, we had no house chores to do. All we did was cross our legs while comfortably seated in a bus roaming from one town to the other, and enjoy  snacks upon snacks. When our new pleasure routine gets tainted with a little boredom, we nap, reboot, and start afresh…