Hip to hip in a matatu.

Here was I.  Torn between bliss and torment. To my left, a pretty cute lady and to my right, a buxomly, sweaty old mama. My being was tortured by the conflicting sensation. Good and shame/anger. For your information, I was there sandwiched in a matatu by two ladies of two different centuries. One a 19^th century lady, another a 21^st century mortal. As a young man, the mere thought of a pretty lady sitting by you in a public service vehicle is pure niceness. On the other half, sitting next to a sweaty old village mama with a handkerchief for a money purse and a polythene bag for a handbag is every young man’s nightmare. Unless the old person is a relative. Otherwise…
Well, the journey was unbearable. Much as I would have loved to enjoy the heavenly scent of the young lass as it wafted all around the vehicle, I could not still my jittery nerves, fighting to create a one metre wide gap in between me and old mama.

This is because there is something so wrong about a young man seated in close gross proximity with a lady old enough to be my grandmother’s last born sister. In this case, even an arm touching or brushing by her bosom is beyond sacrilege. What? At least, that is what it is from this part of the world. Africa. As I pushed away as far as possible from the old mama’s contact, I saw the young lady on my left move away from me into the walls of the matatu.  I’m no mind reader but I could read her mind telling her that I was one of ‘those’ guys. The gropers…
I was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. I swear I saw even the street urchins look at me in scorn, full of disapproval. I lifted my right arm to avoid any contact with the old mama and in so doing, I ended up leaning towards the heavenly perfumed lass in result. It made her think that I was trying to cuddle her in a matatu! All this while, the old mama was lost in her world eating ground nuts. As she shelled them, the husks fell on my once ironed trouser and my once neat shirt. I wanted to alight but on this route, public service vehicles’ plying this route come few and far between.

This is Africa and public transport isn’t for those running late for appointments and also not a place for those trying to travel and arrive in style. Unless you have what some call ‘My car’. In this particular matatu, we were tightly packed like tomatoes in a crate, ready for a market in a faraway town. We were like tightly packed like cows meant for slaughter atop a Kampala bound lorry. (You ought to see the said cows transported for slaughter. Very inhumane.)  Tight, crammed, packed. We were hip to hip and the lass’s hip bone dug into my thigh. Men! Talk of campus figure or is it malnutrition. On my right, the old mama was plump and in result making my right leg go numb…I could feel gangrene eat up my toes…

I whipped out my smartphone and deftly scrolled through it with my left hand and guess what? The lass on my left whipped out the latest Windows phone…Wait! This is deep in the village and sighting a smart phone of that nature is akin to picking a dollar in a busy town…Rare is the word. As she scrolled through her phone, I knew that she was no villager…Like me. Her well manicured nails said it all. I resorted to peering at her phone with a deft sideways look. She was on Twirra. Mh! I could bet that she was the only person on this side of the earth’s surface on Twitter.
As the matatu tossed up and down on the potholed road, I came to hate the zero distance between the beauty and the old mama. My now numb legs would not let me sit better.

As I stepped out of the van, my left side smelled of roses and lavender…Whatever that is. My right side was an amalgamation of sweat, ground nuts and something in between, thanks to zero distance.