memoirsfromzimbawee

We arrived at the rural bus terminus late on a hot Saturday afternoon. The crowd of people, a mixture of young and old and the daily vendors selling their wares, exchanged greetings, laughed and hugged each other. We waited for what seemed ages, but still there was no sign of the bus. My mother looked restless, and stared us almost dejected. Up in the sky, thick black clouds gathered menacingly. Before long, big drops of rain were falling. In the confusion, we looked for shelter, but hardly had we taken cover when the bus rolled in. It was a scramble to get in. I slipped on a banana skin and landed on my back and a few metres from me a heavily built woman fell awkwardly, exposing her panties, but no one noticed. With my siblings we struggled through the adults, finding our way into the bus. Inside we laughed and jeered in childish behavior at the human mass of adults pushing and shoving each other. The bus pulled out with its headlights now on, heading towards our rural home on this gloomy Christmas Eve, soaked to the skin but now happy that we were on our way at long last

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