Stories from Zimbabwe - Riding in the Rural Bus
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This is a true story written by a man who lives in central Zimbabwe and is currently struggling to make ends meet, as are all his fellow Zimbabweans. He has access to a computer and the Internet through his work, and he has the talent to tell stories.
I edit his stories and try to find outlets for them, so that people can read the real story of Zimbabwe, told from the inside.
Any revenue earned from this story will go to help a needy family in a country where hope is at a premium.
I had waited at the terminus for close to three hours and was almost giving up hope when the bus pulled in. When it stopped at its rank, the rush to get on was incredible, with everyone pushing, shoving and pulling. Elbows crashed against jaws as the men and women struggled and fought their way on board. Handbags and pockets were relieved of their contents, buttons torn off and shoes lost in the melee. I held on to my bag firmly, muscling my way through.
The struggle lasted ten minutes. I felt my body to be hot and sweaty, and my thighs were damp inside my trousers, as if I had wet my pants. Soon I realized that my wristwatch was missing, “Damn”, I cursed myself. So it had been a handful of pickpockets at work. The terminus boys had done their job well today, and now the vendors came along, hoping to make a sale.
Welcome to the rural ride. “Do not forget your box of matches”, said a short man with puffed shiny cheeks. Behind him a popular beggar squeezed his way through, singing a gospel tune. “Mind young man, he will empty your pockets, they call him gold fingers”, warned an elderly man. “Be vigilant, beggars are expert thieves”, he advised me.
All of a sudden we were jerked from our seats. The old bus puffed out thick smoke, coughed once and rolled out of the terminus. “This must be number 54, do not panic, it will pull through,” said a tall young man, reassuring me. As it rolled out, a woman with a baby strapped on her back jumped from the moving bus, almost falling. Luckily, she did not hear the barrage of scoffing remarks, some of them bordering on the obscene.
There were jeers and giggles and laughs as we left the terminus. “Conductor, my daughter, please”, cried an elderly woman. Her pregnant daughter, who had been eating thick porridge (sadza) with brown cooked vegetables laced with peanut butter, had been left behind, relieving herself at the terminus toilet. The driver was now enjoying the croaky sound from his old cassette player, and his head was dancing to the tune of “MaDube”.
Not long, and we were now bouncing along the dusty road, swerving from side to side. Those standing in the aisle were in their own world. Two young boys, half drunk, shared a mug of cloudy beer, known as “scud”. “Let’s drink our diamonds, Mafero”, shouted the other young man, almost falling close to a dozing policeman. “Officer, wake up, there has been an accident.” he teased him. The policeman blinked once, opening his tired red eyes. They laughed at him, and so did the whole bus. Poor policeman, in his faded uniform and torn cap, he was used to being ridiculed.
As the bus rolled up and down the steep slopes, traversing the countryside, the bumps became intense, but nonetheless the passengers enjoyed the ride. Thick dust filled the bus, some people coughed, some laughed, and others shouted in hoarse voices. I looked back and was waved at by another drunk whose face and hair was all dust save for his red lips. “That is piri piri that did the damage”, remarked a man seated opposite me.
Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes. He had missed a donkey by inches, which continued grazing at the side of the road as if nothing had happened. “Hit that stubborn moving corpse!” jeered another drunkard. His luck then ran out, for he spun round awkwardly and fell backwards, spilling all his beer. Getting up but dazed by his fall, he licked his soiled shirt and laughed derisively. The passengers were not amused by his behaviour, and he was almost beaten for his troubles.
Fortunately it was not long before we left him, as he was dropped off at a local township to relieve himself. The passengers laughed at the sight of him running, or was he staggering drunkenly? We could not see him for long, as he was soon hidden by the cloud of dust from the bus.
Exhausted, tired and worn out, at long last I arrived at my stop, and as I gazed at the disappearing vehicle negotiating a blind corner on the wrong side of the road, I chuckled, picked up my two bags and headed towards my grandmother’s rural home.
