I don’t know why things in the city are done much differently from the normal way things should be done. By normal I mean something the village way. Ever since I set foot in this big city, I have known no peace. What with the hooting and honking of vehicles implying the end times? And have I told you about the jams? I hear the jams on the roads to the west of this city are unfathomable, everyone possibly owns a ride in those parts I think. The ones I am much well versed with are the jams on these roads leading from the central and western parts. There are no southern, neither the northern and thus you get the point Eastlando. Nice places indeed, Eastlands. But again the worst if you ask those used to the other parts.
Well, I personally don’t like the Westerners. I think they lack manners completely. How do you explain them coming to the eastern sides dressed like sons of kings with those big phones that are bigger than their palms, and still expect someone dressed in torn….wait a minute. That’s not even dressing. They expect someone wrapped, for that is the word, wrapped in sheets, to look at them and appreciate them. This is a society of the have-nots. And the haves ought to humble when venturing in this society, just like we do when washing their toilets, guarding their premises and even asking for our meagre wages from them. It’s called breaking the imbalance in the society.
And why do they even come to these sides? I guess they too have eastern friends and think it best to come and have the feeling of a poor soul. Or eat some obusuma cooked from floor milled in a posho-mill and not in those millers at Unga House. I hear those GMO goodies are always giving them complications every now and then. But they ought to come dressed decently, not like that lady I saw the other day.
I couldn’t tell what colour her skin was due to the tons of makeup that complemented her not-so-fair face. Funny, I could tell the colour of her thighs though. She struggled to make me not see but despite her efforts to pull that mini-whatever down, I still got a glimpse of them goodies. This eagle’s eye. I was tempted to ask why she dressed in that manner only to try hard in hiding her thighs. Didn’t she see that it was a short skirt?
Verbosity has got its way with me, some dirty hands. So what were we talking about? The things done differently or the jams? I guess it’s one and the same because these jams are a different thing all the same. The main road back at home is a football pitch most of the days. And small children train marble playing on the same. Those three vehicles that are the public means of transport rarely affect the other activities on the road. Are they even roads? With all those potholes in potholes?
I haven’t had peace visiting my uncle at those high brows of the city. There is one thing I am not used to doing, not that I care less, but because I fail to see why I should do it. Why should I wash my hands before eating? I have not been doing so for the better part of my life you know. And I am sure my granny hasn’t been doing it nearly her entire life. I am yet to see her complain of stomach pains or germs ingested at any point to this point when she has been crying of back aches. I bet that’s old age at puberty. But it’s OK anyway. In the meantime, I will wash them, wash them in the toilet sinks as everybody does, before eating. But not after, that’s news. Before I got myself in this jam, I ate after washing my hands.
Well, this woman seated next to me has been nagging me about some place. We are headed for the west if you never knew. To my uncle’s. And I am not even sure where to alight. I guess this woman is headed to the same destination, for the first time most probably. So I tell her to wait till we get there, I will tell her. Huh! I can’t figure out why she can’t afford her own ride.