A Detour That Meant the World

Black History Month Musings

by

Zafar Siddiqui

I can still feel the mix of excitement and trepidation I had as I boarded that Greyhound bus in 1991. Having been in the U.S. for just three months, I was eager to see the country beyond my university campus. After completing my summer semester at the University of Louisiana, I decided to take a Greyhound from Lafayette to Champaign, Illinois, to visit my uncle. A cross-country bus ride felt like the perfect adventure—there was no better way to see America up close and personal. Yet, as excited as I was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stepping into the unknown.

I loved the amazing route, which took me through Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, and finally, Illinois. Throughout the journey, I had the opportunity to interact with African American fellow travelers. Keeping up with my pledge to connect with people from different backgrounds, I remember being awestruck by all the beautiful interactions.

I found myself drawn into conversations with my fellow travelers—mostly African American men and women who shared their stories with warmth and laughter. Every moment felt like a window into a new world, welcoming me with open arms. My mind kept darting back to the books I had read before coming to the U.S.—Roots, Malcolm X, The Greatest by Muhammad Ali. I was finally getting a chance to connect with the images I had constructed in my mind through my readings.

One particular incident stands out. Toward the tail end of the trip, we reached a very small town in Indiana. This was the last connection I needed to catch to Champaign. Much to my disappointment, I learned that the connecting bus was canceled, and there wouldn’t be another one until the next day.

As I stood at that tiny Indiana bus stop, my heart sank. The streets were nearly empty, and night was approaching. I had no phone, no plan, and nowhere to go. I had no idea what to do next.

Sensing my distress, an elderly African American lady turned to me with a kind smile that instantly put me at ease. Her voice was steady, warm, almost motherly. “Don’t you worry, son,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “We’ll figure something out.” I can never forget her kind face and warmth. The bus that had brought us to this point was about to leave, but this lady and another gentleman spoke to the driver about my predicament.

The driver, a tall African American man with an infectious laugh and an amazing sense of humor, had kept us entertained with stories and jokes throughout the trip. Now, he looked at me with concern, then turned to the others and said, “Ain’t no way I’m leaving him stranded. I’ll take him to Champaign myself.” And he did—taking a detour just for me, ensuring I made it safely to my destination. I was incredulous with joy!

That journey was my first experience of the deep kindness and solidarity within the African American community. In a country still reckoning with its history of injustice, these strangers saw a young man far from home and embraced him as one of their own. Their generosity left an imprint on my heart that I carry to this day.

I am thankful to all these beautiful people I met along the way for giving me such an optimistic start to my life in this country. I dedicate this memory to Black History Month, forever grateful for the kindness that welcomed me to this country.