The
sun is hot—terribly hot. I am standing in this long and winding queue to
Mpolonjeni, my home area. Slowly, I begin to wonder if this sun is focusing all
its rays on me. Just to spite me for something I did to piss it off—an old
quarrel. But as far as I recall, there’s been none.
There
is incoherent chatter all about: people talking; the honking of horns; an
occasional expletive hurled by one driver to another as if it is a polite
greeting and; vendors arguing with customers, the former are insisting on
higher prices and the latter are hell-bent on cheap deals. This is the bus
rank—Mbabane bus rank.
I
turn, and try not to look at the sun directly. My mother has always told me not
to, if I could. That is why she had shaken her head grimly when I got my first
pair of eyeglasses. She was convinced I’d been staring at the sun in private.
Well, that is another story altogether. Anyway, the heat continues unabated.
Now it feels like I’ve a boiling three-legged pot strapped on my back.
Such
heat is probably not good for my back too, I say to myself. What if my back
melts? And there and there, my whole torso disintegrates until my big head
rests on my waist? Crazy thoughts I’m having. Thereafter
I hear the unmistakable grumble of my stomach. Ah, hunger. That is why I’m
having such insane thoughts in the first place; thoughts of my back melting and
stuff. Then I try to rearrange my thoughts; to shift focus from the current
untenable position I find myself in—lodged in an unmoving queue, under the
merciless stare of the glorious torch of Heaven.
I
then begin to wonder when I’ll leave here. Mechanically I crane my neck
forward, then slightly to the side, and I see that I might be lucky to be part
of the next load of passengers en route Mpolonjeni. Presently, one kombi
swerves into the hither-to empty get-on spot and boy am I relieved to see it!
My relief comes not from its appearance or my belief in its road-worthiness. No!
It stems from the fact that this particular kombi has never let me down before
(if you excuse the pun). It has always managed to rattle all the way home.
Thus, I am a happy man.
The
person at the front tries to slide the kombi door open, but up to no avail.
Then the driver promptly works his magic from the inside. Voila! It opens. Lethargically, the passengers climb in, and
patiently I shuffle forward waiting for my turn. Suddenly, two students cut in
from the front and manage to get in. No! I moan inwardly. Dastardly teenagers!
But,
God willing, I manage to get the last seat and it is at the front, next to the
driver. I haul my hull in and then proceed to give the two teenage girls that
cut the line a stony stare that I feel adequately depicts the contempt I have
for such behaviour. They are not moved. They look at me and then burst into one
of those senseless hormonal laughters. Quickly, I turn to look forward, fidget
on the middle-seat in a bid to find some comfort, and the kombi takes off with a
cough and a spurt of dark fumes from its rear exhaust pipe.
Along
the way, I am disturbed by a few things concerning the mechanics of my trusted
vehicle. Intermittently, the wipers screech on the dry windscreen for no
particular reason. Then, after we’ve just joined the MR3 highway the taxi
begins to gain speed and, concomitantly, the speedometer hand begins to twitch
violently, like an epileptic patient. The sound it produces is like that of a
clock counting in an unknown measure. At that very moment, the hand alternates
violently from zero to eighty kilometres per hour. I am troubled. Then it sort
of dawns to me why most people usually avoid the front seat of this vehicle:
there are many distressing things that happen here.
All
the while, the other passengers are involved in passionate conversations. There
is talk about the weather, politics and other inconsequential things. This is a
taxi going to a small community; so everyone seems to know someone. As usual,
there is that one man who has an opinion—expert opinion in his view—about
everything that is being discussed. He turns his head sideways to comment about
the state of the crops; then backwards to echo another speaker complaining
about the state of the roads; and then looks to the front again, and continues
to expand his discourse about all that is wrong about this country’s politics.
Frequently he runs out of breath from the constant blabbering; but he seems to
enjoy it. He enjoys the attention.
Unexpectedly,
we suddenly hit the gravel road and a cloud of dust rises behind the taxi. We
are tossed back and forth inside as the vehicle tries to negotiate the pot-holes
and rain-made furrows, in vain. Shortly, the driver makes a quick swerve to
avoid an adamant cow on the road, and only misses it by a few inches. It is
clear that he has absolutely no regard for life and I say a short prayer.
The
station at which I’m supposed to get off is still a long way. Anything can
still happen. I vow to myself that I am buying a bicycle; that I’ll cycle to
town.
