The Dala Dala crests a bump
swings in to pick us up.
Conductor hanging out the window.
Sliding door, bodies bulging
out of the broad opening
in the van’s flank.
Inside, a pool of faces, school uniforms
I search for space.
Next to the seats there are
smaller seats, that flip open,
and then there’s always the ledge
over the engine
where latecomers perch.
The conductor, thin youth,
bangs on the roof,
engine growls
Pavement begins
to go past...
Inside the Dala,a young girl clutches her books, I
can’t help reading. Neat
numbered flow
of paragraphs, lines
A baby in a tiny hoodie
in her mother’s arms.
Tiny face
like a miniature
a painting an eggshell
drawn with the tip
of a thin brush.
Features so delicate
it’s almost as if my gaze
might bruise her skin
On the radio, someone
is singing about Arusha. Slow,
heavy bass beat. Hypnotic...
Warm,
vegetal smell of corn on the cob
drifting from the pot
of a woman squatting low in a corner.
by the side of a pewter pot,
black, on a clay cooker, flickering
licks of flame
and her chicken-wire grill
on which she watchfully turns
the half-cooked maize
once in a while.
Grey ash,
hidden gleam
of burning coal.
She is having dinner,
two banana’s
cooked in a stew.
“Sawa Sawa”
A boy on a motor-bike weaves
to avoid us, accelerates
into a dusty halo of tawny light
framed by the headlights
of oncoming traffic
like a caricature
in black ink.
The words
make me think
of a hammock’s
pendulum-
swing
A girl in her teens
has curled up on a chair,
just inside the verandah
of a small house.
She is texting.
Children pour out of Kijenge church
bounding about
with pent-up energy
like baby goats
or Dik Dik
Smooth voice
unseen mouth sculpting,
shaping syllables...
Bottles of beer
on the tables of a roadside bar
men sitting on plastic chairs
dusk softening
their outlines.
Past a cobbler’s bench, (three planks
arranged in a triangle,
surrounded by slippers
of colours.) and a sugar
cane cart, with small rustling
see-through bags of chopped
sugar-cane hanging
from its corners.
...of Swahili like whorls of clay on
a potters wheel,
ductile, clipped...
A heavy bodied old woman
climbs slowly off
with her wares in a big plastic bag
She rests a moment on the roadside,
to catch her breath.
...and round at the same time
speeding up into rap, staccato...
The conductor’s (fake?) leather jacket
is loose on his thin shoulders
coming apart at the seams
under his left arm. I
wonder how much he takes home
when he and the driver split
the crumpled 500 tsh notes and worn
coins, after paying the boss.
He tells me
he went to school near Njiro
where I live.
Failed out two years ago.
He is shy about his broken English
...then slowing to a lilt.
Hip-sway. Pouring
oil.
A gaggle of girls run across the Kijenge bridge
to dodge traffic. Bags heaving,socks flashing.
Past the bridge,
A pane of glass leans against a wall.
Colours gleam incoherent.
The speakers have seen better days,
they vibrate, I
keep wanting to move
to the beat
tap my foot on the engine casing.
The voice fades, leaving
thumping bass
and I think of Ebenezer…
(at the orphanage that I visit
sometimes on Saturdays, there
is a kid called Anderson
he likes to sing a song
called Ebenezer,
shouting out the chorus.
When we sang, it was the first time
I saw him grin)
I hum the tune
My conductor friend,
mostly silent
“ssss”es through his teeth
to bait more prey
there is good hunting today, people
standing, ambling near a shoal of picki picki bikes
beached by the side of the road.
He tempts a young girl
With the promise of a seat
We pick up speed,
bumps come thick and rapid.
Sudden yaw, engine
roars up an embankment
bumpy with balding, rocky outcrops.
A woman sweeps the road
with a brush broom (twigs
emerging wild
and uneven),
in a billowing
shroud of dust
as cars roar by
How unlike
the robot
that they plug-in
to clean the pool
at the Impala Hotel
where dust is not even a memory
and traffic a comforting rumble
beyond the palms.
...and then we bank, rickety
getaway plane,
down a dip
back onto to flatness
of asphalt
The mud has spread
on the uneven metal floor,
in glistening patterns.
A hole in the door exposes
its metallic innards.
The door-handle is a stub, a
digit from a long dead
rusting, metal creature.
Music is pounding
from a tiny shack
with CDs on its walls
A girl leans in past the counter to browse
tall, graceful body. A
sewing machine surges, slows
to speed of a women’s
pedals. She guides
the dipping needle
along a patch of fabric.
We accelerate
past Kijenge
Outside,
a child pauses,
hops over a puddle
Swing away
tramp steamer, rusty
steering hard a-port
in a choppy,
rising swell
of dust and rut...
Four toddlers in a row, past my window,
little brown peas in a pod
Hair so short they’re
almost bald
eyes shiny,
luminous with curiosity.
Next to them, their mother is tall and still
Silent sentinel.
For a moment I am envious
(always a stranger
in a strange land
spirit tugged from Clingendael
to Colombo, Sydney to San Francisco…)
of their warm, intangible
cocoon.
...overtaking a line of traffic,
bounding over potholes
like a galloping beast of burden.
Smoke plumes flare
from the exhaust of the Dala Dala ahead
into a grey flower
that disperses.
At Mister Button
a young boy sits behind his sewing machine,
reading the paper
with his fellow tailors.
Smooth-faced
beautiful woman
selling peanuts. A child tugs
at her dress, tiny baggy pants
mottled with dirt.
We pull-up
near the clock-tower roundabout
The Swahili hesitates on my tongue
But I say shuka hapa
Step out
into the fading light.
