What they sell

Sometimes I leave work extremely tired. This normally happens mostly on Mondays and Tuesdays. By Wednesday, I usually have gotten into the swing of things so that by the end of the day, my body is able to easily cope with the fatigue that’s usually there.

Then there are those days where I get off feeling all rejuvenated and raring to go. This happens especially on Fridays. On such days, I feel like I could go on for another eight hours. Nothing can easily spoil my mood and home is like the last thought in my head. On such days, I don’t really mind the loud music in a mat, nor the annoying condas who hurl insults. Everything is easy and I just let things flow as they come.

So anyway, there is this evening that I had had a really terrible day. All I wanted was to get home, crawl into bed, curl myself into a fetus and suck my thumb. The matatus were overcharging; normally I wait until much later when the rates have reduced before I board one. But this day I just couldn’t get the energy to do that. So I just got into the first one that came along.

I lay back on my seat and closed my eyes, hoping that the vehicle would get me home. After a few minutes, a man jumped on board. I didn’t pay him much attention until he started speaking,
“Kalamu kalamu kalamu! Kumi! Kumi! kumi!”
“Nunua kalamu poa kabisa, Nunua hata unaweza uza tena”

A broad grin lit my face. Unwittingly, this man had just made my evening. He was selling pens, and he had to use any means at his disposal to get people to buy.  I imagined myself buying the pens and then reselling them again just for the fun of it, then quickly discarded the thought. Business savvy I am not.

A handful of the passengers bought a few pens and at the next stop, he alighted. He was probably targeting another vehicle to continue selling his pens. I felt a little disappointed to see him go, maybe because I was expecting him to provide some more comic relief for me.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat once more and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew was a man chanting loudly,
“Wakati wa uponyaji umewadia mandugu na madada,”
“Tubuni dhambi zenu msije mkatokomea motoni!”
He had this hoarse crusty voice that was so strong, you had to sit up and listen. The vehicle had not stopped to pick up anyone, so I assumed he had come in as a passenger. He was on a mission. He was screaming on top of his lungs, screaming his message.
I wanted to alight.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to rail at him for ruining everything.
I did none of those things. I decided to concentrate on the bald patch I had spotted on the head of the passenger seated in front of me.