The Last Bus Stop

Here is an original short two-character play by the blogger ibikunle Abraham Laniyan called The Last Bus Stop, about two strangers waiting under a leaky shelter during a sudden rainstorm.

The Last Bus Stop

Characters:

Kemi (20s): An energetic office worker holding a dead phone.

Tunde (50s): A quiet man holding an old-fashioned pocket watch.

Setting: A concrete bus stop bench under a tin roof. Heavy rain sound effects play in the background.

The Scene

(Kemi paces back and forth, tapping her phone screen. Tunde sits calmly on the bench, wiping moisture off his watch glass.)

Kemi: Dead. Completely dead. Of course it dies now. Right when the grid goes off and the rain starts.

Tunde: Phones are like small children. They sense when you need them most, and then they go to sleep.

Kemi: (Sighs) Do you have the time? My watch stopped yesterday.

Tunde: (Clicks his pocket watch open) Four-fifteen. Or four-sixteen, if this gear is feeling lazy today.

Kemi: Forty minutes. We have been standing here for forty minutes. And no buses.

Tunde: The road is a river now. The bus is not coming.

Kemi: You say that like you mind less than I do. My interview was at three. I am soaked, I smell like damp cement, and my presentation is on that dead brick in my hand.

Tunde: Thirty years ago, I missed a flight to London. Delayed by a storm just like this one. I sat right where you are standing and cried into a warm Fanta.

Kemi: And? Did you miss the job?

Tunde: I missed the job. But I stayed, walked home in the sun, and met my wife at the corner shop. If I caught that plane, my life would be completely different. And I think... I would have hated it.

Kemi: (Stops pacing) So you think this rain is a gift?

Tunde: I think it is just rain. But what you do while you wait under it? That belongs to you.

(Kemi looks down at her phone, then at the street. She sits slowly on the other end of the bench.)

Kemi: Do you have any mints? Or another story about a Fanta?

Tunde: (Smiles, reaching into his pocket) I have two mints. And a very long story about a bad haircut in 1994.

Kemi: I am listening.

(The sound of the rain softens slightly as the lights fade to black.)

Scene 2

(The lights come up on the same bus stop. The heavy downpour has slowed to a steady drizzle. Tunde is laughing softly. Kemi is leaning forward, smiling.)

Tunde: ...and that is why you never trust a barber who wears a hat indoors.

Kemi: (Laughing) So you spent the entire wedding looking like a freshly plucked chicken?

Tunde: Exactly. My mother-in-law refused to look at me during the vows. She just stared at my left ear.

Kemi: (Smiling, then looking out at the road) The rain is stopping.

Tunde: Yes. The clouds are moving towards the lagoon.

Kemi: (Quietly) My phone is still dead. But... I don't feel like pacing anymore.

Tunde: That is the magic of a bad haircut story. It cures anxiety.

(A distant bus horn honks. Headlights cut through the dim stage light.)

Kemi: Look. There is a bus coming. It actually braved the flood.

Tunde: (Stands up, stretching his back) Ah, the yellow beast returns.

Kemi: (Stands, looking at Tunde) You know... I am still late. I still have to call the company. But I don't feel like the world is ending anymore. Thank you, Baba.

Tunde: Do not thank me. Thank the rain. It forced you to sit down.

(The bus sound grows louder and stops. A bright white light hits the stage from the side, mimicking the bus door opening.)

Tunde: After you, my presentation-less friend. Go and tell them the rain ate your homework.

Kemi: (Steps toward the light, then stops) Are you not entering?

Tunde: (Looks at his watch, then back down the road) No. My house is just behind that corner shop. I like to walk when the air is clean.

Kemi: (Nods, smiling) Goodbye, Tunde.

Tunde: Safe journey, Kemi.

(Kemi exits into the bright light. The bus sound accelerates and fades away. Tunde puts his watch in his pocket, pulls up his collar, and walks off into the opposite direction.)

Scene 3

(The lights come up on a modern, sleek corporate office lobby. Bright white lights, glass panels, and a minimalist reception desk. Kemi stands in the center, looking out of place. Her shoes squeak with water as she shifts her weight. A woman, Tolani (30s), walks out holding a tablet. She looks polished and busy.)

Tolani: Kemi? Kemi Bello?

Kemi: Yes. Hello. I am so sorry I am late, the flood down by the—

Tolani: (Interrupting) It’s fine. Half our staff didn't make it in either. But the managing director leaves for London in ten minutes. We have exactly five minutes. Where is your laptop?

Kemi: (Lifts her dead phone) It’s... right here. But the battery is completely flat.

Tolani: (Stops typing, looks up) You came to a creative pitch with a dead phone and no backup?

Kemi: (Takes a deep breath, remembering Tunde’s words) I came with a great idea. The storm took the presentation, but it didn't take my mind.

Tolani: (Crosses her arms, amused) Bold. Alright. The pitch was for the new eco-friendly rainwear campaign. You have three minutes. Go.

Kemi: (Steps forward, confidence returning) The campaign shouldn't feature models running away from the rain. It should feature people standing still under it.

Tolani: (Raises an eyebrow) Standing still?

Kemi: Yes. Because rain isn't an inconvenience. It’s a pause button. We show two strangers sharing an umbrella, or sitting at a concrete bus stop, talking. Our tagline: "The world stops. You don't have to."

(Tolani stares at Kemi for a long moment. She slowly lowers her tablet.)

Tolani: That is completely different from the digital slide deck your agency emailed us this morning.

Kemi: The slide deck was safe. The rain made me think of something real.

Tolani: (Smiles slightly) Squeak over to boardroom A, Kemi. The director needs to hear this before she hits the airport.

Kemi: (Smiling widely) Thank you.

(Kemi walks quickly offstage, her wet shoes squeaking loudly. Tolani watches her go, shakes her head with a smile, and follows.)

Scene 4

(The lights come up on the same concrete bus stop bench. It is a few weeks later. The sun is shining brightly, and the sound of distant city traffic plays. Kemi enters, dressed in a sharp, dry business suit. She is holding a sleek, functioning tablet and a paper bag with two drinks. She looks around, hoping to see someone. The bench is empty. She sits down and sighs.)

Kemi: (To herself) Of course. It only happens when it rains.

(An older man walks on stage from the opposite side. It is Tunde, wearing a new, sharp-looking hat. He stops when he sees her.)

Tunde: Well. Look who survived the great flood.

Kemi: (Jumps up, smiling widely) Baba! You’re here!

Tunde: I live right around the corner, remember? But look at you. No wet shoes. No dead bricks. You look like you own the city today.

Kemi: I don't own the city yet, but I got the account. The whole campaign is based on this exact bench.

Tunde: (Laughs, touching his hat) Truly? A concrete bench is going to make you famous?

Kemi: (Hands him the paper bag) It’s already started. And I brought you something.

Tunde: (Peeks inside the bag and pulls out a cold bottle) Warm Fanta?

Kemi: Cold, actually. But I figured we could let it sit in the sun for a bit to get that authentic 1990s feel.

Tunde: (Smiles warmly, sitting down) Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Kemi: (Sits next to him) I wanted to say thank you. If you hadn't told me that story, I would have walked into that boardroom apologizing and panicking. Instead, I just told them the truth.

Tunde: Truth is much easier to remember than a PowerPoint presentation anyway. (He opens his pocket watch) Look at that. Spot on four-fifteen.

Kemi: Perfect timing.

(They both clink their Fanta bottles together in a toast as a bright, warm amber light fades over the stage.)

THE END