WATER...

I waited, tired and out of breath. I could still hear some gunshots in the far distance. I broke into another sprint, running blindly in the forest under thick darkness. A million thistle pricks and scratches left my body on fire. 

Suddenly, I heard footsteps. In the darkness,I could make out a figure moving a few feet from me Another passenger? One of the robbers? The figure kept moving further away into the forest. I followed. The figure ran. I pursued, using both hands to clear the twigs and branches in my path. I heard a loud thud. And a female shriek pierced the night. 

The figure now lay before me, writhing in pains. As I approached, she was screaming,'No! No!' 'Quiet!' I said, trying to keep my voice down. She stopped screaming,but her tearful sniffs were still audible. 'Were you in the bus?' I asked.

 'Yes.'

 She broke into sobs. 

'Are you hurt?' 

'Slightly,'she replied,trying to get up. 

'We must keep running,'I told her,helping her up. 

'They may be coming after us.' 

We must have ran for another two hours before succumbing to weariness. I was awoken by the blinding noonday sun. My whole body ached terribly. My throat was dry. I struggled up, looked around and despair set in. For all I could see were cassava plants. Covering hectares from where I stood. I heard some rustling and turned. 

Then,I saw her. Lanky. Dark-skinned. Torn clothes. A frown distorting her pretty face.

'Nothing,'she said. 

'What?'I asked, confused. 

'Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink. I woke up early and went to search. Nothing but cassava roots.' 'Then let's get going. I hope we reach a village or something,'I said, looking around in disbelief. 

Her name was Lola. She was going back to Lagos for the Christmas holidays. She had entered Onitsha from her school in Owerri that evening and decided to take the night bus. And she was sitting directly in front of me. Third row. 

'How did you manage to slip into the bush?'I asked her,albeit rhetorically.

'The robbers could have shot you!'

'Or me...'I softly added.

It was night before we got to a settlement. An array of mud huts with light emanating from some windows. We approached the first hut. A woman sat in front, plaiting her daughter's hair. On seeing us, she froze. She called her husband who came out, cutlass in hand. We struggled to narrate our story. 

Hungry. Thirsty. Delirious. 

Only four words in our story made sense. 'Bus'. 'Lagos'. 'Thieves'. 'Run'. 

Maybe they understood. I could hear them embracing us in sympathy. 

My legs felt too heavy. 

I fell. 

As I lay on the cool sandy soil, my parched lips contorted in gratitude, only one thought was on my mind: 

Water.

EDUCATION.

Uche silently approached the black jeep in the middle of the convoy. With his tray of bread on his head and his mind at full alert, he knew he had barely 30 seconds before the traffic begins to move. He has been waiting for this moment for months but now, his legs felt heavy. 

Still, he dragged himself to the owner's side of the vehicle and rapped on the tinted glass. The glass was wound down and for the first time, he came face to face with the Senator. 

With a shaky voice, he began to ask the questions he had rehearsed for so long.
"Tell me why I cannot go to school? Tell me why I am carrying bread and not books? Tell me why you are not helping me?..."

Three things happened simultaneously. Two strong hands pulled him forcefully away from the jeep displacing his tray of bread. A hot slap from one of mobile policemen sent him reeling on the ground and the echo of his clanging tray resonated in his ears. 

When he stood up from the side of the road, he noticed the convoy had stopped few metres away. He saw some men in suits motioning him to come. As he approached, he heard the Senator admonishing one of his mobile policemen. The door of the jeep was open now. He could still see the pallor on the Senator's face.

"Young boy, who are you and what were you saying back there?" the Senator queried.
"I'm just a Nigerian boy fed up with the system," Uche began. 

"I lost my parents in a car crash a year ago and started selling bread to stay alive. I've been thrown out of school. There are ten bread hawkers aged between 7 and 15 along this road. I am the oldest and I try to give them hope, to make them believe that their country has not forgotten them. But it is becoming so hard."

He broke down into sobs.

"You tell us day and night that we are the leaders of tomorrow. We just want to know your efforts to end our sorrow."

By now Uche was crying profusely. He felt a nudge on his arm and turned to see all his friends, trays on their heads standing beside him... Dele, Obi, Ije, Efe, Muyiwa, Junior, Ada, Oluchi and Ade. They had watched everything and have come to show their support. Uche smiled.

"Ok. Children," began the Senator," I'll give my message to Uche here."

He gave Uche his card. 

"Just call me." 

He reached into his agbada and brought out some money.

"For your tray of bread that fell."

Uche paused to look at the crowd. 

"That is my story. This is the legacy of the man we've all gathered to celebrate. The seeds he planted twenty-five years ago have borne so much fruit. I am a serving Senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.
Dele, Junior and Muyiwa are currently Medical doctors. Obi and Efe are lawyers. Ije is an aeronautical engineer with NASA. Ada is finishing her doctorate degree programme in Havard. Oluchi and Ade are accomplished bankers.
We would have remained bread hawkers if not for this man. He is gone, but his spirit will remain with us. We are his legacy. May his gentle soul rest in peace."