On a Northern Train 

The young man sitting across me was Asian by looks. Maybe Chinese or Japanese or Korean. So busy with his phone and so engrossed. I wished I could ask him “why so much attachment to that device?”. He looked quite nerdy with his “binoculars” as he dropped an occasional smile to an invisible figure. Maybe his girlfriend was living in the phone. Or maybe he was stylishly taking pictures of me. His eyes though, he had a bit of nystagmus. Quite creepy. 

The train driver’s voice was so plastic and emotionless. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Northern train service. This train is headed to Manchester Oxford Road, Deansgate, Salford Crescent, Bolton… “. He went on and on with his thick British accent that I could barely hear what he was saying and the “Samsung-pressing” Chinko across wasn’t looking like he was going to be of any help. I had once gotten on the wrong train and wasn’t ready to take chances this time around. 

Thank God for the nice guy that came to sit next to me. He looked British, but had a nicer accent than the train driver’s. He was clean-shaven and was willing to look into my phone and quickly reassured me that I was in the right coach. Soon, my seatmate was dozing off. He must have had a long day. It was six in the evening. 

What’s with ladies and their phones? The blonde sitting across me was just the same as the Latino sitting across the aisle. Everything seemed to be happening in their phones. Or maybe it’s an age-thing because even Mr Samsung Chinko was also pressing his phone. The older men in the train were however either staring at the cute younger women or lost in thoughts. Bills, kids,  I’m guessing they had too much on their minds and had no time for their phones. Or maybe they didn’t have phones. Could that be possible in this 21st Century England? 
Here I am writing on and on. My seatmate is nearly dozing off on me, his head gradually coming towards my shoulder. It’s lonely out here. 
English people are lonely. Everyone seems to be minding their business. Sad! I know back home in Nigeria, there’d have been some small talk here and there. Someone talking sports, another person preaching while the other person is trying to get people to join the latest ponzi scheme. 
Nowhere like home. I miss Lagos 🙄

Oga Driver, Preston wa o!!! 


‘Bolaji Ayodele 

A Yoruba boy in England 

One thought on “On a Northern Train 

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