RUSH HOUR

It’s the rush hour. Horns, whistles, babies crying, laughter of young school girls who pretend to  know everything amidst high and low pitched voices of ‘for sale, for sale’ intermingle in a chorus that marks the arrival to the bus rank. Im in a rush. The children have not dined. I must reach home, soon. I try to catch a taxi. ’Selepa?’, I raise my eye brows. ’Where?’, he raises his back. ’Surveys’, I answer .’Ko  dipolaseng, go o ko go nna bahumi, ba na le dikoloi! Ga re e koo, ga gona di customera, next ,a re laecheng batsadi”  He says,ignoring me and turning his attention to a potential customer.

Standing here does not solve the dilemma. Discrimination is across the board.

I snake towards the combis. A shiny red one is loading. It looks brand new. Im hoping to find an empty seat at the back. They get in so quickly. ’Mxm!’, Its filled up. They are packed like potatoes anyway. I console myself. There is colour everywhere. Oranges, cabbages, tomatoes, potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, green peppers, red peppers, yellow peppers, chillies, ’Did you know’ packets, clear containers of stock sweets, ’Mascom and Orange ‘ aprons adorn the rank. Fried chicken and chips heat roasted by the mid day sun hope to pounce on someone’s pity. The seller’s enthusiasm is contagious.’ Ke rekisa koko batsadi, koko ya maemo a ntlha, e gaisa le yone e tsentsweng dikhenekhene tota,Ha o e reka,bana le bana ba bana ba lala ba jele, o saver le yone gase tota.Le utlwule Tautona a re ga gona madi.Re mo ‘cessioning.’’he he he’,his laughter stems deeply from his belly. He is in  a good mood. The only problem i have, is the fact that he is laughing into my ear. I am in no mood for laughter.’Lighten up sister,it’s my pay day today.’’I decide to play mute.This is the type that you don’t engage in conversation with.A boy of school going age,in dirty dreadlocks pushes us back.’’The combi needs packing space.Do you want it to pack on top of your heads?’’ He asks,condescendingly. We move back.The guy steps forward.They engage in a heated conversation with the conductor.’Your tires are so worn out,we pay you every day and you people cant even replace tires.Look at this threads,They are barely holding the plastic together,Nna rra re santse re bata go tshela!’’

‘’hei monna,get your own car and stop complaining, you only complain at the end of the month when you have to pay us back for the free rides we give you,soka’’.They break down in laughter.I find myself smiling.Perhaps at the turn of events.’I must get a seat in front’,he says.I feel important today,im richer than Mma Kelotegetswe.Two months no pay.They thought they could get away with disobeying the government’s orders.Ke Kgosi ya rona ele,re a e obamela.I wonder how those church goers could also participate in the strike,Even I know that we have to obey our leaders,whether we like it or not.The bible says so.Wena Semakiti,do you see why I don’t go to church,church goers don’t know how to read a bible,I read it in my own room.When im from Chedu Choga,immersed in ‘ the spirit’,I start from revelations and then Galatians,and then  Matthews,ending with Proverbs.When I finish those chapters I have finished the bible.No one can lie to me that the world s ending in 2011! The Lord says my people shall perish because of lack of knowledge,hela ngwananyana ke wena,you have taken my seat,ija! Nna,nnaka kana you guys say you have rights.’’

I scramble for the back seat.Solitude is what I need.Two full figured women follow me.I cannot even begin to imagine how long the drive will be. At least the fourth passenger is skeletal. Adorning a black dress, one needs not ask why her face is lined with sorrow. I wonder if she thinks about death often. Do I think about it often. Oftentimes death cheats life out of those who think less of it. For a brief moment we are all quite, perhaps we empathize with her, perhaps we think of those we have lost and wonder where  they go. Sometimes I wonder whether people who have never heard of Christ go to hell, or who have been bought up not knowing the one true savior? A  foul stench perfumes the air. Looking up, our eyes meet. He is seated in front of me. My sister, where do you work?’.I cannot play mute anymore. ’I don’t work’, I mumble.’Be serious, you don’t work when you are this beautiful?’ Yes, I don’t work.’ ‘Can I have your number ?’’I don’t have a phone”. ’heela, don’t pay tricks with me ,I wasn’t born yesterday, I know you think I will call you when your boyfriend is around’. I smile, if only he knew.’ Re ka ikutswa gakere my sister’. Im totally irked by the comment. I nearly say something but hold back. Ironically, an HIV symbol is stuck by one of the windows. I look away, hoping he would leave me alone. ’Ema hoo!’ She shouts. ’Nnaare ware ema hoo, nnaare Makalaka le ta thabologa leng? Tell your minister to put up shelters for you’. She ignores him and heads toward Nyangabwe hospital. ’Nna ke ngwana wa bogosi….’’O seka wa re bitsa makalaka monna,you are the only one in this combi who isn’t, nkare o sotlegile jaana, ha re itse ba bogosi ba sotlega’,the conductor interjects, amidst laughter.’Ijoo,Ija!  motho a te a ree Morwa rre  a itseele ngwetsi mo bokalaka,mathata ga gona ‘tall and slender’ ‘ke brains hela’, gape le bantsho. Gongwe merafe e e ka utwana’.We all laugh.Laughter dissolves anger instantly.We laugh to dissolve prejudices that our forefathers and our fathers have encrypted in our minds. He is a joker.’’Wait for me by the bar! Its pay day.If I was in our neighbouring territory I would be a millionaire today.You know that a loaf is a thousand that side! Rona ba re phakelang re amogetse,ga re itse lona,kgarebe yame,o nkganne.Kana le bata bashianyana ba swagger? Kamoso o taabo o ntelela.Ke Dr nna,ha Nyangabwe  hale.Ne ba sa ntuela last month,ba mphirile gape’.I haven’t met him yet.I hope he is not my boss.The combi is quite once again. I  miss him already.’today’s youth is totally arrogant.In our day doctors were respectable people’,she says opening a multitude of comments from the two women next to me.’I don’t think he is a doctor’.’rich and educated people rarely brag about their financial or educational status’.Someone pitches in.Its interesting that one can find wisdom where one least expects.The combi swerves to the left.Shouting profane words that I have no courage to repeat,he frighteningly waves a fist to the driver of the Mercedes benz.Its time I got a driver’s license and bought a car.Finally,I reach the turn.’O e tshware ha crecheng ya dipolanka hoo’,I shout.’Is the day care owned by white people?’.the old lady next to me asks.’I don’t know,I just moved to the area recently’.She nods.’ This foreigners get our jobs right under our noses’,she says.I smile.People will always find someone or something to blame.He stops the combi,getting off,a cool breeze sweeps by.’Ke gorogile ko bahuming.’Looking forward to tomorrow’s conversation.