On any particular day, when l decide to use a certain street in the bustling city centre of Harare, l always come across a baby in a red crate a little way away from her blind mother who begs on this particular street.
It is a heart breaking sight but what has always struck me is the joy that radiates from the infant’s face. She is a bright spot in her mother’s otherwise dark world and distressing situation.
However, on this day though l looked forward to seeing the baby in a red crate and hearing her unique gurgle, l was distracted. I did not even register her presence. Harare and its energy had lent me a restlessness l could not shake off. Being sometimes superstitious l was inclined to think something ominous was about to happen
I was tense as l dodged and zigzagged my way in between traffic to get to Copacabana –the bane of my existence. You see it is the bane of my existence because of its chaotic nature and filthy surroundings, where anyone can get away with utter rudeness that will leave you shell shocked. The chaotic nature of Copacabana rank with all of its combi’s and Zupco’s is further exasperated by the sheer noise of hawkers and touts shouting out whatever they please.
So you can imagine how on this particular day, tense as l was, Copacabana left me disoriented and irritated as all twenty-two of us pushed and squeezed ourselves into a fifteen seater shuttle. I tried to calm down and become more aware of my surroundings.
That is when l noticed by the seat closest to the door of the combi a man in a sharp suit. What caught my attention amidst the restlessness inside of me, was his posture. His back was so straight, l humorously thought his spine was made of steel. His head was held high. His posture spoke of a man who was sure of himself and his place in the world. I was envious of his confidence and ease.
I assumed that he was probably in the combi because his car was being serviced –it did not occur to me to assume anything else his appearance had given it all away.
Alas, l had to rid myself of my day dreaming as l had reached my bus stop. As l called out my stop he made a sharp turn and looked at me straight in the eye, l was left unbalanced by such a penetrating glance. I thought he had seen right to the heart of my disillusionment with the world.
So you can imagine my surprise when l called out my stop again and he banged the roof of the combi to signal the driver to stop. He was in fact the conductor or ‘hwindi’ in the vernacular. For a moment all l could do was sit with my mouth hanging open in shock.
As l disembarked, all l could feel was an overwhelming sense of sorrow for the person l had imagined him being and the reality of his situation. I could only imagine what his dreams had been growing up. Was his wearing of the suit still an acknowledgement of the dream within or a rebellion against the hand life had dealt him?
In that moment l realised that is the reality for many, we never get the chance or opportunity to live the dream and so we lose sight of it and give up. You see the baby on the street with her blind mother who begs was not the only stranger l met on the way, neither was the sharply dressed hwindi. I was also a stranger l met on the way, l no longer recognised myself nor the world l now lived in. l could not accept the hand life had dealt me.