One Cold Evening

He stands at the taxi stage, hands in his pockets.
Looking at nothing in particular
The taxi touts seem to have given up on him.
Oyo alabika ali kubibye, they must be thinking
So they scramble for the other passengers, leaving him be
He seems to be deep in thought.
I wonder what he’s thinking about
Is he trying to solve the equation that is life?
Is he thinking about his bad day at the office?
Does he work at an office?
Maybe he could be wondering whether his rolex guy is still at his mudaala.

He looks up to the sky, sending a silent prayer perhaps?
Or perhaps, he’s just speaking to the heavens to hold on alittle while longer before they open and pour out all their anger on mortal beings.
Perhaps he’s holding the skies up, like Atlas
Far-fetched? Hehe, perhaps.
He just may want to take a dump and the skies hold the answer to when he’ll get to do that.
I don’t know, he just looks really pensive.
He then looks to the right and to the left.
Probably to determine which direction he should take…
Or he’s just following the rule of crossing the road.
Look left, right and left again, those primary school teachers said.
His eyes zero in on me.
I look away immediately and start whistling, fighting a guilty smile.
My eyes wander back to where he stood, after awhile.
He seems to have disappeared.
In his stead is an old guy with a government stomach.
He seems lecherous.
He leers at me, confirming my suspicion.
I turn and walk away, the people-watching postponed to another day
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Author: Mable Amuron

Totally African. Simple, Complex. Shy. Wannabe Writer. Reading Junkie. Cynical Optimist. Christ Representer

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