One Backpack, One Bus, and the Weight of a Lie

Last month, I booked a solo trip to Calabar. I was mentally exhausted from Lagos noise, work pressure, and honestly, just the chaos of being a twenty-something figuring out life.

I told everyone I needed peace, nature, and food—Calabar ticked all those boxes. It felt like the perfect solo travel destination to clear my head and breathe again.

I got a night bus from Jibowu—cheaper and oddly therapeutic. There’s something about watching tired buildings blur past your window that makes you feel like you’re escaping everything, even your past.

The journey was smooth until we got to Uyo, around 2 AM. That’s when she entered. This girl—let’s call her Eno—had a red duffle bag, a bonnet, and eyes that looked like they’d seen both heaven and hell. She sat beside me without a word. Just a silent nod and a half-smile.

We didn’t speak until we passed Itu bridge, and she suddenly asked, “Do you believe in second chances?”

At first, I thought she was talking about exes. I laughed and said, “Sometimes. Depends on who’s asking.”

She smiled faintly and then said, “I’m going to Calabar to confess to a man I ghosted on the day of our wedding.”

That one enter my ear like thunder.

She explained everything in that dim buslight. Two years ago, she fell in love with a guy who lived in Calabar. A quiet graphics designer, the kind of man who listens more than he speaks.

She said they met during NYSC in Ogoja, fell hard, and got engaged fast. But on their wedding morning, she panicked and disappeared. Switched off her phone. Changed cities. Blocked him everywhere. No explanation.

I asked why.

She said, “He was perfect. But I wasn’t. And I thought I didn’t deserve him.”

I sat quietly for a while, processing. We were still an hour from Calabar, but suddenly the road felt heavier. She was shaking a little—whether from cold or regret, I don’t know.

When we got to the city, I helped her with her bag and ordered a ride to my Airbnb. She looked at me like she wanted to say something more.

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?” she asked.

I didn’t know this man. Didn’t know their story beyond this night. But I told her, “If he loved you then, maybe he still will now. But whatever happens, at least you’re choosing honesty. That’s brave.”

We went our separate ways. I spent the next two days exploring Calabar’s Marina Resort, taking long walks around Tinapa, and eating too much afang soup. But the whole time, I couldn’t stop thinking about Eno.

On my last evening, I randomly walked into a quiet art gallery café near Bogobiri Road. I ordered zobo and sat to journal. And guess who walked in?

Eno.

But she wasn’t alone. She was holding hands—with someone else.

Our eyes met. Her smile held both gratitude and guilt. She walked past me and whispered, “He said no. I guess I wasn’t too late to move on.”

And just like that, she faded into the crowd.

That night, I realized not all solo travel gives you peace. Sometimes, it hands you someone else’s story. And it changes yours forever.