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It didn’t take them long to start feeling the heat sticking to their bodies as they sat on the bus. Even though June was a cold month in Namanga, by the time it got to the afternoon, the sun had burned away any hint of cloud, and the heat was seeping through everything. Riding inside a crowded mini-bus requires more than finding a way to stay cool, especially if you didn’t get a window seat. It also calls for mastering the art of clenching and unclenching your buttocks to time the rocking of the bus on the bumpy roads.
Mother let out a little sigh, every now and then, presumably to coincide with clenching and unclenching, but Zag was enjoying the rare treat of a bus ride. He was scrutinizing everything with the wide-eyed fascination of a five-year-old.
A man wearing a hat that had a picture of a soccer ball on it entered the bus at the next stop. He was carrying a brown chicken under his left arm. The chicken’s feet were tied together with sisal string - the same kind of string that Mother used for her yam bags. He went and sat at the back of the bus. Another man came in who was selling ripe yellow bananas. Zag looked hopefully at his mother. She seemed oblivious to him and to the presence of his favorite food. He knew she wouldn’t buy him any - that money was for Mukalo! But it didn’t stop him at least trying.
He went back to his scrutinizing. Why is that man collecting money? Why does he give some people some money back and others not? How much money is there on this bus? Why is there a goat at the back? Do all the animals have to be at the back? Do goats have brothers? What about chickens? I hope they don’t poop in here. That will be very smelly! He wanted to ask his mother all these questions, but she wasn’t in the mood.
He already knew that!
He knew that she was taking a liking to the money collector guy. When Mother paid her money she deliberately chose to give him a large note so that he would have to give her some money back. That way he would look at her twice - once when she gave him the money and again when he gave her back her change. He’d heard Mother thinking this, so it wasn’t a surprise when they seemed to linger longer in eye contact when he gave her her change. Zag also noticed that for the first time since they left home, Mother was not humming Mukalo’s song in her head.
He seemed a nice man, the collector of money. Like someone who you could ask to play with you and he’d probably say yes. He seemed to know everyone on the bus because he called most of the people by name. But he called Mother “Sister” because he didn’t know her name. She seemed slightly disappointed at this, but she didn’t know his name either.
Zag was listening to her think: I’ll have to find out his name somehow. Maybe the driver will call his name out. Or maybe one of the passengers that come on at one of the stops. We have a long way to go. And maybe he’ll look my way more often. If we get a chance we will move to the next row, which is closer to where he is standing. That way he doesn’t have to turn his head to look in my direction.
Zag listened as silently as he could as his mother plotted her strategy inside her head. He dared not move in case she noticed and decided to change course.
The Money Collector man was dressed in a tight-fitting white tee shirt and faded blue jeans. The jeans were slightly discolored from him frequently wiping oily hands on them. He had a tattoo on his forearm - a picture of some kind of bird with wide wings and a sharp beak. Whoever the artist was that did it was very good, because it looked very realistic. It was not very often that you saw someone with a tattoo in Namanga. But this bus was not from Namanga. Money Dude had a stubbly beard and unkempt hair that made him look ruggedly handsome. He spoke from his chest - a deep voice that made you feel comfortable. He seemed to smile with his eyes, except when a passenger gave him the wrong amount of money. When that happened, he would furrow his brow, squint his eyes and return the full amount back to them with the words “Wrong amount”. It happened three times during this journey and each time, the passenger would smirk and return with the right amount. He had a natural way about him, the Money Man!
Kura! Kura! Kura! A man shouted man from the back of the bus.
Stop here! Stop here please!
My brother, this is not somewhere we stop. The police will give us trouble, the Money Collector Man said.
His name is Kura, Mother thought. His name is Kura.
His name is Kura, Zag echoed in his mind. What a nice name. Kura.
It was the owner of the goats who wanted to stop. He insisted.
My goat is sick he said, we don’t want any accidents in here, so please stop. I’ll walk the rest of the way.
Kura asked the driver to stop and he did. In order for the goat and his handler to get out of the bus, anyone who was seated on the left side on the retractable seats also had to get out of the bus to allow them through. Zag and Mother climbed out, along with five other passengers. The goat-man and his goat managed to get out, amidst some laughter in the bus at the goat’s inability to navigate itself out of a tight space. A couple of other passengers decided they were close enough to their destinations to walk rather than get back on the bus. In the reshuffle that happened next, Zag and Mother found themselves in the front row. Zag was sitting right next to where Kura was standing - the only thing between Kura and Mother was him.
Kura smelled of a combination of fresh earth and used car oil. It was a comforting smell. He seemed to breathe slowly and deeply. Zag could almost hear the air moving above him as Kura inhaled and exhaled. Zag noticed that Kura had several chains dangling from his neck. One of them had a cross on the end of it, another had a moon crescent, and another Zag could not figure out. It looked like a mask, but also like a flower. It was made of dark wood that had been oiled and varnished to make it even darker.
I wonder what that is? he thought.
He heard Kura’s deep chesty voice again:
Next stop Kablah! Who’s stopping at Kablah?
Mother raised her hand - and just in time because the bus almost immediately came to a screeching halt. They had almost missed their stop. Zag and Mother climbed out.
What a nice man, Zag heard his mother think.
What a nice man, Zag thought.
And just like before Mukalo’s song started playing in Mother’s head:
Wind chime, go far
Move through the night
Gently, slowly
Wake up the stars.
Wind chime, come near
Pierce through my skin
Help me to follow
The luck of the wind
Credits: Artwork by Theresa Le