Its almost six, I have made it to the dusty road in record time.
I roll up my windows, knowing fully well that there will be nothing but dust until I get home. I wonder why this road is yet to be tarmacked. Promises were made, measurements taken, blue and green plated vehicles were seen parked everywhere, pretences of work being done. Politicians, the scum of the earth.
The arduous six kilometres to my house makes me wonder why. Why I live here. Why I endure this. It must be foolishness, attachment to things at too high a cost, my time. The peace and quiet, the birds chirping all day, my lungs whispering a thank you every time I inhale, the space, wide open spaces where my young can play. Do I really need all this?
I am bobbing along, listening to Cess. I hear her voice, but register nothing. She is a soothing experience, a proper companion to this slow ride. I feel slightly envious, she is paid to laugh. From the time I tuned in, I have listened to her throaty laugh more than I have heard what she said. Some people just have it good, am I in the wrong trade?
There is an unusual number of cars, all inching along, fearing that the rough road will finally pull their machines apart. I suspect there must be an incident, maybe those bloody thugs have finally been shot down and the bodies put on display. I wish these were the days when flogging and possible hanging were an option, allowing the public to deliver swift judgement upon sticky fingered people.
We drive past the first barrier, nothing to see but a dust covered watchman who cannot be bothered to raise and lower the barrier with every passing car. I pity him, sitting there all day, having to deal with lorry drivers who refuse to pay the toll and offer bribes that can barely buy a soda. Cess is laughing again.
I am tired, and need to use the bathroom. I step on it, apologising to my car for the rough treatment. I pass many of them, as I look for the reason for this “traffic”. Then I see it but do not believe it. Surely it cannot be dry season for all these people! I know kula na macho, eating with your eyes is a thing but I did not think it was literal! First I saw legs. Shapely mustard coloured legs. Too much of the legs were on display. There was five of them, meaning there were ten legs being ogled at. They all ended at the tip of hot pants, hot pants that held bottoms that were causing this snarl up. I mean come on! But wait, these must be bunnies, I doubt any parent from these here parts would allow their daughter outside the gate dressed like that. They were walking slowly, deep in conversation and oblivious of the lack of dust. Had the cars been zooming like they usually did, they would be coughing and not laughing at whatever stories they were telling.
I guess gentlemen do exist, given the right incentive.