MONDAYS ARE FINE, IT’S YOUR LIFE THAT SUCKS
Why don’t we like Mondays?
Because they are blue, sad and slow. Stressed humans move around like automated robots, cursing at their own paranoid thoughts of police and city council askaris who prey on civilians like temperamental rattle snakes on the sides of the sidewalks. Hungry pickpockets with sharp antennae and high affinity for other peoples’ property carefully slide slim fingers with swift and precise operations like a hungry team of fisiz chasing on some dik-dik to pick pockets. Traffic jams your path, sight, thought and sentiments as responsible adults haggle for space into overpriced and air deprived matatus to go look for livelihood.
At the end of the commute, a passenger will be hurriedly left in a thick cloud of carbon-healthy smoke as the matatu rushes away for more. Sometimes they will have lost a phone or a wallet. An innocent college student will have their back pack slit on the side in an attempt to steal their laptop, calculator, vibrator, whatever.
Another will take the nearest ndudhi in pursuit of the jav hoping to get their change that the kange is already using to buy goks at the next illegal bus stop. So he ends up losing more because the bodaboda rider wants to be paid extra for the failed emergency operation anyway.
A train wails then waits for a minute as the last commuters push closer to one another. It then belches a thick dark cloud, belting the same old tune it has been singing for a century as it stretches out into the industries infested plains towards the CBD. A few ballsy ones will also become the lucky ones when they manage to run and jump on the slowly accelerating train.
Inside the train, cheeky students lock themselves up in the old toilets to touch one another’s private parts and to avoid spending their coins for a snack at school the next day.
A thirsty woman strategically sits across from the men standing in the isle to offer them little previews of the light at the end of the tunnel through calculated openings of her Thighland gates. Hopefully, the one that wants it badly enough will make a chase at the end of the journey.
Grown perverts and the lusty ones stand behind women so that they can bump on their asse(t)s whenever there is a push. One day, the cabin was so overcrowded and covered in a thick enough blanket of darkness that one such idiot pulled out his little pen and stained the back of a woman’s bumper. The woman, because women always know even when you eat with just your eyes, turned to find the wet paint already spreading and drying on her skirt. Headline the next day, “Man Wets a Woman’s Skirt In Commuter Train, Get’s A Good Pounding from Women ”. Because asiyefunzwa na mamaye, hufunzwa na Wanawake Wa-Random.
Elsewhere, a bunch of high school boys after an hour of waiting, finally get into the coolest nganya with the largest screen-playing the best music on their way to school. The moneyed ones sit and then have pretty girls sit on them. A few will touch boobs in disguise of the graffiti covering the windows as the standing ones rub their thingies against the girls’ niniez. It’s a pleasant ride until when a boy has to alight out into the glaring public eye with a serious hard-on. So if you ever see a school boy fix his shoes laces immediately they jump off a jav, they are convincing Dick to literally calm the F down.
At a city primary school, a teacher stands at the gate wielding a red plastic cane to jump-start circulation in tiny numb hands for coming to school late. Marceline was standing behind the teacher at the bus station when adults started fighting for the door. She thought about joining in the struggle but she feared that her teacher may see her and punish her at school for public display of disobedience. So she stepped back and unzipped her back-pack to check if her 10bob fare is still there.