If you saw Temba that day you would not have believed it. He was a grown man sitting on the concrete edge by the old kiosk at 5 turn-off. He pressed one hand against his mouth. Blood seeped between his fingers. It was not only the pain in his jaw or the sharp gap where his front teeth had been a few minutes before. Something heavier sat on him. The type of pressure that squeezed your heart and made your mind run wild.
He tried to steady his breath but each one felt like a confession. What would he tell his wife when he got home? What would his grandchildren say when they saw the gap in his smile? Would he ever feel normal again? He felt like everyone looked at him even though most people just walked past and said nothing. The world kept moving but for Temba time slowed down.
Let me tell you what had happened.
It all started at DST where Kombis lined up every evening and people fought for seats. DST was always crowded with people trying to get home. Conductors shouted at each other. Everyone was tired and in a hurry. That day the sun was going down sending long shadows across the dirty pavement. The air was thick with the smell of fried chips engine oil and too many people squeezed in one place. All around Kombi drivers revved their engines making bursts of noise and smoke that clung to your clothes.
Temba was just one of many. He waited his turn watching the conductors with their plastic bottles with discontent. Some were probably filled with alcohol to steady their nerves or warm them against the cold. It looked like just another day.
Some kids from school squeezed past carrying heavy bags talking about homework and soccer matches. Mothers balanced groceries on their heads moving carefully through the crowd hoping not to drop anything. Vendors called out the prices of tomatoes and airtime scratching their voices raw against the wind. It was just another evening but everyone seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere safe before nightfall.
He found a seat by the window in a Kombi that was almost full. Around him sat schoolchildren tired workers and mothers holding groceries and babies. Everyone carried something heavy. If not in their hands then behind their eyes deep inside their hearts.
The conductor a young man with a tired face started shouting before the Kombi filled up. “If you have a $10 note please don’t come in. I don’t have change today. Those with $10 go and look for small notes!” He waved his hand. His other hand gripped a battered plastic bottle. Most people ignored him. In Zimbabwe people were used to such warnings.
Soon the last person squeezed in and the Kombi door slammed shut. The driver started the engine weaving out of DST and onto the late afternoon road joining the long line of cars heading to Mkoba. The Kombi shook over potholes while music played low from the radio. Passengers shifted bags and jackets as the city slid past the windows. The same broken buildings, the same potholes, the same tired faces of people walking home. Temba stared out and thought of nothing.
As the Kombi picked up speed the conductor turned in the aisle still holding the bottle and started collecting fares. He moved quickly asking for fifty cents from each passenger. Most handed over coins or small notes.
Then a man at the back handed him a $10 note.
“I said I don’t have change!” the conductor snapped but he took the note anyway and rolled his eyes.
“I’m paying for three,” the man said. The conductor grumbled but took the note. He kept the $10 note tight in his hand and set his face in a frown. He moved to the next row collected more coins and small notes and held them in his hand trying to keep track of who had paid and who still owed. After all was done he counted and took out $8 and gave it back to the man who had the $10 note. He clung to the $10 note which was now the only note in his hand.
Now they were on the long road to Mkoba. The Kombi’s old engine rattled as the driver pressed harder on the pedal. Some passengers dozed off, some looked at their phones, others gazed out into the falling dusk thinking of supper, thinking of the empty fridges waiting at home. One old woman kept her arm tight around a plastic bag that looked like it carried nothing but bread and tomatoes. Two boys in the back argued softly about who had scored the winning goal at school.
One passenger spoke first asking for his fifty cents. “Don’t forget my change.” After that the man who had given the $10 note also reminded the conductor, “Me too, you still owe me fifty cents as well.” He meant the fifty cents that was left from the $8 the conductor had given him.
That was when it started.
The conductor looked at his hand. All he had was the single $10 note, no coins, no other notes. In his head something did not add up. He tried to count but his mind was heavy and tired from all the worries he carried. That morning his father called and asked for the money he borrowed two months before. His mother was running out of medicine and he kept getting messages from a girl he had not seen since she said she was pregnant. The driver told him, “Today do not mess up. We need every cent.” The pressure was everywhere. Inside the Kombi, inside his chest and even inside his head.
The Kombi swerved to avoid a pothole and a wave of dust floated in through the window. Temba coughed and wiped his face. The argument was brewing but for a few seconds there was just silence, the heavy kind that makes you wonder what will come next.
The conductor stopped looked up and his voice came out sharp almost shaky. “Two people have not paid!” he said looking at everyone in the Kombi. His words hung in the air. Then he turned his eyes to the back and said, “Hey at the backseat if you paid do so so now.”
“What do you mean back seat?” someone at the back snapped. “We all paid!”
Voices overlapped as people shouted, “Check properly!” Another said, “You just can’t count!” Someone else added, “You are always confused!” Then another shouted, “Maybe you are drunk that’s why!”
The conductor felt his face grow hot. The words stung not just because of what they said but because part of him believed them. He tried to answer but his mind still ran… bills, debts, hunger, anger. He looked at the $10 note and wished it could turn into more. It did not. He thought maybe someone cheated him or that maybe he was the fool everyone said he was.
Laughter came from the back, louder this time, almost mocking. “Useless!” someone called. “No wonder you are always here! You should go back to school!”
A child started crying in the middle row, her mother rocked her gently, whispering that they would soon be home. The Kombi’s radio crackled and a gospel song played softly, as if the DJ knew the world needed something to hold onto.
In the middle of the noise a woman by the door finally raised her voice above the rest. “How much are you holding?” she asked.
The conductor looked at the $10 note in his hand confused lost the noise pressing in on all sides. Outside the city rolled by but inside the Kombi it felt like the air was getting tighter and tighter.
That was how the argument grew voices rising the pressure building with every turn of the wheels the Kombi still moving towards Mkoba. Pressure inside and outside with nowhere to escape.
