The Couple Behind us

I force my way through the torrents of people in town, jump a few open man-holes, and wonder why 

they were actually named ‘man-holes’ but decide the person who named them that was some sort of 'chauvinist' working for the other side, then finally decide to drop the whole topic. All over are politicians shouting in the streets at the top of their voices in a bid to win some mediocre positions as members of this and members of that. A random fattened town hotel cat jumps out of the way of a madly driven matatu. Its pure chaos.

Am headed to a strange land, a land called Kangemi, but an exciting land, since it has a big market full of fresh juicy farm produce and pick pockets, a place of mixed race, a place where everyone knows everyone though everyone is very different from everyone else. It’s a land I call ‘confused’ when am talking to myself, not really talking to myself than seeking brilliant ideas. (ego alert)

I board this bus, well, it’s not as fancy as the buses I use. It has a fresh cologne hanging around, which scents somewhere between fumigator and a little more fumigator. I look around and see two big sticker notes on the rear exit door, one shouts “We sell fumigators, call us on Blah blah blah.. we kill bedbugs…” I remember the Swahili said ‘Lisemwalo lipo na kama halipo laja’ there must be a few gnawers in the bus. The second sticker shouts ‘Beware of Pick pockets’ and adds that thine neighbor is thine picker.

The bus is filling up in a snail pace, I pick a perfect spot, below one of those tiny speakers supposed to produce treble, in a hope that bedbugs fear music, because they are tiny and tiny crawling things fear much noise. I settle down, next to a lady who is so engrossed on whatsapp, I can’t figure out the color of her facial skin, but I catch her hands, which are a pale chocolate.

Classic 105 is coming through the speakers, and the tunes promising heaven.

As it fills up, a lady pushes herself through the door, she is carrying a kid on one arm, and the other arm carries a fowl (the kind which have no feathers on the necks), which seems uncomfortable boarding these busses, as it keeps flapping it’s wings with each turn and twist the lady takes. She is dark, a rich kind of dark.. Only closely comparable to those starless nights in the lost vastness of Kieni, at the twilight hours. She looks strong, the kid looks fluffy, they must be a healthy family I guess.

“The bags…” She calls out behind her, indicating with her lips.

Hotly behind her is a well built man, seemingly in the sunsets of his forties.. He is wearing an almost white shirt, and a black collar peeps out of the whitish one. I almost laugh, but then remember am wearing mismatched socks from the morning hurry, and hold my horses. He is carrying two big bags, and for once I hope they have not been chased out of their home, but again, they wouldn’t be as lively as they are, at least the lady wouldn’t be. Muscles bulge from his shirts, every time he lifts the bags up to avoid hitting someone’s head.

I remember the one time I had a gym membership, which I abandoned halfway through the first quarter since Hiram and Sorghum strongly suggested that I had better things to do with my money, like giving it out to those homeless ladies in town late at night wearing small clothes which seem to belong to their small relatives. We had discussed on that day that it was very unfair that those ladies deserve warmer clothes from well-wishers, to avoid a widespread of pneumonia to their innocent looking bodies. They must have innocent looking lungs too. Didn’t they have homes? Do they really have other clothes? Sorghum had concluded that there was need for the Government to chip in, even mtumba cardigans would help.

The lady wriggles through the bus and settles behind us, and as she passed us, the air changed, the fumigator smell vanished and was replaced by a strong ammonia-like scent. It was so strong that my female neighbor sprang her head from her screen, and with just her eyes managed to convince me to slide open the window. She was beautiful, and her face complexion matched her hands.

“Give me the shawl…” I heard the lady tell her husband as he struggled to settle the two bags on the carriage above us.

“… Baba Mwani, I asked for the shawl..” The lady repeated, this time with some matter of urgency.

We could hear the man panting, “… A minute…”

“Shindwe katika jina la Yesu…” She lady cursed. I was surprised, and the lady next to me, let’s call her Forehead, was equally baffled.

I glanced back and saw the man pull out a shawl from one of the bags and hand it over to the lady. My eyes accidentally met the lady’s, and I turned my head very fast, and swore to not look back, even if I heard people sharing food.

Forehead went back to her phone, and I went back to, nothing in particular. I was just looking around and wishing for take off, and secretly wishing that the song playing would change to something more violent, to get me ready for what awaited. The bus filled up and we literally flew out of town, since the traffic was funnily scattered for such a busy day. I watched as trees flew past, fed my eyes to the irritating scenes of badly printed campaign posters hanging on anything that stood on the roadside, trying to scream for a little more attention  for their master, like they were being paid by the campaigner on commission. Some had been torn, most probably by opposition, and left an ugly wheat-flour scab. I secretly wished the campaigners would be forced to scrub the walls and electric posts with razor blades wearing shorts for defacing our lovely town.

“Shindwe katika jina la Yesu….”  I was startled by another curse from behind us, and this time Forehead did the turn, and what she saw made her quickly turn back. What would the poor man have done?

The bus jerked to a stop, to let some passengers alight, and like one struck by lightning, baba Mwani jumped to his feet and settled on an empty seat ahead of us, in the urgency of a chicken running from a hungry jackal. From the corner of my eyes I could see the lady settle her child on the now vacant seat, as she broke into song, quite embarrassingly loud. Forehead was also following the happenings, and she looked my direction, and when our eyes met, we both broke into childish giggles (a loud laugh held the risk of receiving damning curses from Her majesty).

“Baba mwani, the feeder..” The lady called, raising her voice to the man seated a few seats infront. Like any other man on such a situation, baba mwanii played deaf, which energized the lady, who by now I had concluded was the ‘Mama Mwanii’, and the ammonia leak ‘Mwanii’.

The fowl startled, flapping its wings, and I could now feel it touching my legs with the tips of it’s feathers.

“BABA MWANII, the bottle, aii..… And the chicken is running away, come and pull it back for me..” She added, this time louder.

Everyone in the bus had joined in our soap opera, with others laughing loud. Baba Mwanii left his seat, his head hanging loose, and he made his way back, scuffled through the bags and found the feeder bottle and gave it to her Majesty. He then bent down underneath, and pulled out the wailing fowl from under my seat, hitting his head on the seat a couple of times as the bus swerved on the road. All this time he never said a word.

As Baba Mwanii was busy picking chicken and handing over bottles, the bus stopped and picked a number of passengers, who filled up the remaining seats, including the one Baba Mwanii has sought refuge. Mwanii was sat on his father’s seat like a boss, and the man, now sweating from embarrassment and fatigue stood beside the seats holding onto the rod used by standing passengers.

“Just sit down and hold the kid..” Mama Mwanii said, with a distant fake concern. Forehead was now laughing into her hands, as I struggled hard to avoid looking back. Baba Mwanii stood rooted there, swaying to the movement of th bus as it avoided potholes, and completely ignoring his wife.

“Baba Mwanii… Sit down, you will get tired” She repeated, this time with some authority, the same authority the daughter of my grandmother used to tell us to ‘Sit down and behave’.

“I will just stand..” Baba Mwanii forced the words between a closed mouth. I noticed the deep voice somewhere deep, a deep voice which sounded weaker from the many jabs he had received to his Ego.

Mama Mwanii this time round broke into a softer tune, completely outdoing the classic tunes coming through the car stereo, a soft tune which slowly but surely changed into a sound of victory, as the bus jumped into the land of Kangemi.