Travel Introverts
They say introverts don’t know. That we stay in one place. That we don’t crave change, adventure, or motion. But they don’t know everything. One morning, I packed a bag in Lagos. No broadcast. No status update. No motivational caption. I just left. Like wind. I told the road where I was going—not people.
The bus park was chaos on display. Agberos were shouting like they were auditioning for madness. They claimed, “Just two more and we go!” but there were already ten people inside—none of them passengers. Just loud placeholders, human illusions, planted to motivate hesitant travelers into thinking the bus was almost full.
I waited. And waited. Then the engine finally coughed to life, like the bus itself wasn’t sure it wanted to move. The door slammed. The journey began.
A woman stood beside a cracked fence selling fried yam. Her voice rose higher than the bus horn. I gave her 500 naira. She gave me a smile I’m still carrying. That’s the kind of trade you don’t forget.
Inside the bus, the seats were stiff, the windows jammed, and the air smelled of sun and sweat. The man behind me chewed loudly, like his jaw was in a fight. A child beside me kicked my shin in her sleep. The driver mumbled to the steering as if it could hear and obey. And yet, in all that chaos, I found peace.
You see, introversion doesn’t know that silence exists inside noise too. That you can sit in the middle of voices and still be alone—in a good way. That peace doesn’t always require quiet, just space to breathe and observe.
As we drove, time slowed. The road stretched like a ribbon of memory. I watched trees bend like dancers and houses peek from behind bushes like secrets. We passed towns I couldn’t name but instantly loved. Villages that smelled of firewood, fried fish, and unbothered joy. There were boys waving at us with dusty palms, women carrying trays on their heads with posture more graceful than ballerinas, and roads that seemed to disappear into the sky.
Somewhere between the motion and the moments, I exhaled. And in that breath, I felt free. Not the kind of freedom you announce, but the kind that settles quietly in your chest. A knowing. A shift.
The woman beside me, without a word, offered me puff-puff wrapped in brown paper. I took one. It was warm, soft, kind. In that moment, I didn’t need to talk to be seen. I didn’t need to speak to be part of something.
My name is Great Osekhenmen Okosun. I don’t speak often, but I travel deeply. I collect moments the way some people collect magnets and T-shirts. I take home the sound of unfamiliar laughter, the smell of roadside cooking, the look of contentment on the faces of people I’ll never meet again.
Introversion doesn’t know that a cramped seat with no legroom can be a seat of healing. That you can be surrounded by strangers and still hear your own thoughts clearer than ever. That movement can be medicine, even if the destination isn’t Paris or Dubai.
I didn’t post about it. Didn’t tell my friends I was going to Edo. But when I returned, I knew something inside me had shifted. Like part of me had seen something sacred, and grown. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But deeply.
We introverts may not talk much. But we go deep. We notice the small things. We listen to the journey. And when we come back, we come back changed. Quietly. Without announcement. But different all the same.
Because we carry places in our chest like heartbeats. And sometimes, all it takes is a long road, a crowded bus, and a moment of stillness in the middle of motion to remember who we are.
Introverts don’t know, they say. But we know enough to go. And come back quietly changed.
“I’m not going to lie because this is just a message to tell introverts that travelling hurts lesser than reading a book”
You don’t know what you don’t know!
Travel Introvert was written by Great Osekhenmen and was first published by More Cream Than Coffee in Travels & Thrills magazine Vol.1: Issue 3.
