One Of Adoration And One Of Gratitude

 

 

 “Love may have the longest arms, but it can still fall short of an embrace.” ~Megan McCafferty

 

 

One of adoration and one of gratitude

I see it happen. I say nothing. Someone would have to pay his fare or he gets a freebie. Papa Atta would not be happy. We all have to earn our living. My voice is hoarse at night from all the shouting I do to earn mine.

The fumes are thick in the air today. Just like every other day. I see the good-looking girl who took the backseat press a pristine white handkerchief to her nose. The man sitting next to her scowls. He is probably thinking, even if I stink, you don’t have to cover your nose. Who doesn’t stink sometimes?

I would guess he stinks. His clothes give him away but you can’t always judge a book by its cover eh dirty clothes this time.

“Ejisu, Oduom, Ahomaso!” I shout. There are two seats left. Mine, which I’m going to give away and another beside the big woman in the front. God save the body unlucky enough to get that seat. It is already half taken by her voluptuous hips and thick flabby thighs.

I step right in one lost-looking girl’s way.

“Ejisu, Oduom, Ahomaso!?”

She shakes her head and clutches her purse tighter. Two other scavengers pounce on her as I move on to my next target. A short guy in dark-blue overalls who looks like he’s going to complain about the fare. I know his type: they never have enough coins or would do anything to have the last pesewa of their change.

“Nero!” papa Atta shouts, “It’s full.” Apparently it is.

I scramble in to squeeze next to the “fitter” in the overalls. I’m not psychic but I predict his next words to the syllable.

“You people like money too much! Your own seat kraa you sell. You would sell your own mothers for groundnuts.” I ignore his words and look pointedly to the back. I wouldn’t sell my mother for groundnuts, maybe for my dream house and my dream girl, I’d consider, most days.

Papa Atta is moving out of the haphazardly half parked vehicles onto the road. It’s a miracle how he manages it all without as much as a scratch. He doesn’t escape some murderous looks and searing insults. Of course Papa Atta doesn’t take it lying down. He fires back in equal measure.

Everyone has handed over their fare but for the good-looking girl in the corner. She seems to be lost in a daydream.

“Sister! Sister!” she comes to herself and hands over her fare, looking abashed.

I turn to the people in the front seats and who should I see sitting next to Maaame Obolo, patting his front and back pockets in puzzlement. I had avoided him like the plague but obviously he slipped past me.

“It was just here.” He whimpers, “My money was just here,”

“It must have been one of those unscrupulous mates that picked you.” Maame Obolo says. I don’t flinch at that, we are all capable of such feats. Instead of offering to pay, she’ll point out the obvious and leave it at that. I smirk. Papa Atta looks straight ahead, like he didn’t hear a thing.

“I’ll pay for him.” I hear a nasal voice and turn to claim my money before she changes her mind. It’s the plain woman sitting next to my “fitter” in overalls. I see the look that passes between them as I add her money to my stack. One of adoration and one of gratitude. It looks like a love story is brewing right under my nose. When they alight at the same stop, I know someone is definitely going to shoot a shot. My money is on the woman. I hope it doesn’t end in tears.

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