On Thursday I was as usual folded
into four in a Nissan matatu headed for Westlands.
It was a lovely day, though a bit sunnier than usual. I distinctly
recall some passing crows with sunglasses.
Everything was going swimmingly and we were on the University way
roundabout when a lass in the seat immediately
in front of me gave a loud howl.
Naturally this attracted all the attention of us travelers. From
the savagely plaited plaits to the dome
of her forehead to the angular curve of her jaw
(a bulldozer came to mind) it was clear to me that she was formidable
at best, and what was attracting her full ire was the gentleman
next to her.
It was a dude who reminded me strongly of a gentleman who has been
to a barber and been serviced by a drunk
and inexperienced one-handed intern.
The patches of head on his hair
(pun intended) spoke volumes of a visit gone wrong.
Bulbous eyes, yellow teeth and
a nose that reminded me of railway tunnels completed
the picture.
Apparently this gent very cunningly opened his newspaper
over her hand bag and surreptitiously tried to
relieve her of the cumbersome weight of her money
and personal effects. I have always wondered why
we call women the weaker sex and
what transpired lent still more credence to my query.
Eloquence such as I had never heard before issued
from that good lady's lips. His IQ was questioned.
His parentage was questioned. His lineage
was questioned. That he was a man was also questioned.
She supposed deep down he was some sort of animal.
As a matter of fact, that unpleasant smell in the
matatu was due entirely to him. Was he in the habit of carrying
sewage in his back pocket? She was puzzled how
a grown man had the audacity to steal from her.
The gent in question tried in vain to get a word in edgewise
but once started the good lady's torrent was not
about to abate. I would have loved to stay to the end but the matatu
was pulling to my stage.
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