On the bus that carried me to Odogbolu, there were no pastors. No one stood and hushed — even if momentarily — the conversations on the bus; no one asked people to close their eyes and open to the book of Isaiah. No one pontificated about raging fires and endless dying. Only smart-looking students sat beside tired-looking farmers, beside exhausted mothers with their babies either quieted on their backs or straining and fussing on their laps. I was sitting next to one in the second-middle seat, an angry-looking woman who went through a different kind of hell to get her petulant baby rested on her back. She heard me sigh out in relief. The furrows on her brow cleared.