Bus for someone going somewhere
1630:
21 guns aren’t saluting my imminent farewell to my beloved Durban (loved not for it’s blackened heart but for it’s familiarity). Instead, too loud R & B sings about nothing. I should hate it. Afterall, an anthem like ‘Highway to Hell’ or the ‘Road to Nowhere’ would better suit the moment and my cynical self. Yet words about “nothing” may be entirely appropriate for my lack of possessions, the life i’ve discarded and the final destination i’m unaware of.
Let the adventure or misadventure begin…but does “nothing’ have to be so fucking loud?
* * *
The Earth's beautiful vagina opens for the day
1145:
It was 19hrs crammed into a bus that soon reeked of African sweat and Pink Panther farts. We, the 90 or so, resigned ourselves to our mobile jail. Thankfully, black toddlers are so much better behaved than their spoilt, white counterparts.
Cultures seperate too often so when i discovered i was only 1 of 2 pale skins aboard (the other infinitely sexier but too many seats removed for benefit), i feared boredom would kill me after the overhead lights proved too dim to finish the novel, Clive Barker’s inventively, otherworldly, Abarat. But Sive (i hope that was her name) dispelled my negativity and proved to be a wonderful black companion whose scope as an intelligent, warm woman belied my prejudgement of her position as a mechanic if i’d chosen to prejudge. Coincidentally, she worked in Pietermaritzburg, a temporary city i’d walked out of my life before returning to sinful Durban.
I twinged with uncomfortableness when she asked for my number before debarking at a studious town just before dawn. My only answer could be “no”. Where’s the place for friendship in this future uncertain?
