Somethings In Life

Mateso Kazembe

I had boarded an express bus going to Mzuzu at Limbe depot at 6 PM and had the double-seat to myself until a young boy of about 12 got in and sat next to me. He, for a minute or so, concentrated on settling himself comfortably and then offered me a greeting to which I responded with a smile. I was about to ask him where he was going when he abandoned the seat for another one that was behind me.

I hardly spared the boy any more thought and shifted my full attention to the interviews I was to attend in Mzuzu the following day in the afternoon. This was to be my very first interview since graduating from college the previous two years. A bulk of my classmates had landed themselves jobs in various government and private institutions and it seemed I was among the unlucky minority that was still languishing in joblessness.

Casting back in my mind, I recalled to have applied for over a hundred jobs, but for some mysterious reasons, I was not called for interviews. As I marvelled why fate had chosen to treat me in such a way, I offered a silent prayer to God to give me this job, as it was my only hope and lifeline.

Finally, the bus pulled out of the depot leaving behind a cloud of black-oily smoke from its exhaust pipe. As it made its first stop at Kachere, just some 5 km from Limbe, the 12 year-old boy who had initially sat by me amused everyone when he asked the conductor if we had reached Salima.

The conductor wearing an amused smile on his lips answered the boy with a flat no frivolously and continued issuing tickets. At Namadzi as the bus stopped for the second time, the boy was at it again. He hesitantly asked from the lanky conductor if this was Salima. Again, he got a flat no, but this time the conductor’s tone depicted some annoyance. Considering the boy’s age, my earlier surprise began to fade. I realised that it was just a safety precaution from him to make sure that he was not lost. After all, as young as he was, he was alone in the bus without a guardian.

But still, I began questioning the motive of his parents at allowing a small boy like him to embark on such a long journey alone and at night and to a destination he did not know. I felt sad for the boy and told myself I had to do something. As I reflected on how I was to assure the boy that I would tell him when we reached Salima, he was at it again when the bus drove into Zomba depot.

“Son, let off the pressure and cool down, I’ll personally tell you when we get there,” the conductor promised impatiently, “just take a little sleep.”

“Worry not kid,” I added assuredly, “Salima is a long way. I’ll tell you. Just sleep.”

The boy humbly obeyed and truly went to sleep.

The driver never allowing the engine revulsions of the bus to drop drove into Balaka two hours later from Zomba. From the way the bus was moving, I was impressed. I had not anticipated being in Balaka by 10 PM. This meant I would arrive in Mzuzu at a good time and fully prepare for the interviews.

The little boy was forgotten. Half the bus was asleep and those who were still chatting were in the dark about the little boy’s fate. The conductor was preoccupied with issuing tickets to passengers that had just boarded. Even I myself though I was fully awake at Salima depot, I had completely forgotten about him.

Now as the bus made its next stop in Nkhotakota, the boy woke from his slumber and asked again. Immediately, I was conscious stricken, so was the conductor and everybody that knew the boy’s fate. Guilty was written all over the conductor’s face. He tried to force a smile but it dissolved into an affecting grimace. He had betrayed the boy. I too kept silent in shame for letting him down. I did not posses the courage to look at him.

There was only one way to help the boy. The bus had to return to Salima and drop him. Despite there being protestations, a consensus was reached and the bus set off for Salima. One and a half hours later, we reached Salima again.

“Son, sorry for everything,” the conductor apologised, “this is Salima.”

The boy made no move, to everybody’s surprise. But instead he unzipped his bag and started fumbling for something.

“Hey, little imp,” an old man close to the boy, said angrily, “You’re wasting our time. Didn’t you hear him; he said this is Salima as you wished.” And the response that came from the boy resulted in a silence that was heavy and lucid as crystal for a moment before the whole bus exploded into gales of laughter. The little boy confessed in a calm voice that his mother had given him some food that he was supposed to start eating when he reached Salima, but he was going to Mzuzu.

I was the one who laughed most. But the conductor laughed all the way and he was not ashamed to brag the story to anyone who boarded the bus along the way. The old man who was close to the boy had tears running down his cheeks. Everyone was amused.

The bus finally arrived in Mzuzu at 5:30 AM.

And as if by coincidence, in the interviews that afternoon, I was asked to say any story when I confessed that I was a writer and I diligently said this one. I was told that I had gotten the job the following week.