Pressure does not choose people. It finds everyone in ordinary moments, in places we pass every day, and sometimes it hides in the smallest things like fifty cents.
The argument in the Kombi refused to die. It grew with every word. Each new insult made things worse. Temba sat in his seat and listened. His chest felt tight. He could feel his heart pounding under his shirt as if everyone else could hear it too. The conductor waved a lonely ten dollar note. His eyes looked wild, his voice sounded tired from shouting. The man who paid with the ten dollars was tired of asking for his change. The woman by the door looked annoyed. She kept asking, “So how much are you holding now? Just count it. Count it in front of us.”
But the conductor was not only fighting with passengers. He was also fighting with himself such that he even wondered if the problem was maths or if the day was just too heavy. He remembered all the money he owed his father. His mother kept calling asking if he was forgetting his parents because he visited them less those days. Then there was his girlfriend who had a baby on the way. The driver kept looking at him in the mirror, not saying anything but making the conductor feel smaller every time their eyes met. Strangers around him believed he was stealing or maybe just slow. Pressure was everywhere. The Kombi started to approach Chikumbiro. The road was full of potholes and the windows let in dust with every bump.
Some passengers, tired from work, closed their eyes and tried to block out the noise. They leaned their heads on the window or let their minds drift to the rice and beef stew waiting at home. Others enjoyed the chaos. They jumped in with their own complaints, advice, and words. They shouted, “If you do not know how to count, why are you a conductor?” Someone at the back added, “Next time bring your calculator.” The Kombi rocked as laughter and arguments bounced off the metal roof.
But this was nothing compared to what I saw one night at Chikumbiro. It was the same place, the same season, but later in the night. The city was quiet except for a few Kombis going home.
A Kombi had stopped under a flickering streetlight. The metal rattled every time the engine turned. Two passengers stood outside. One was big, the other was slim. They wanted their fifty cents change. The driver was short but loud. He shouted, “You people do not know who I am!” He waved his arms like he was chasing away bees. “I have big people behind me. If I make one call, you will regret ever asking for change.”
The big man looked strong enough to lift the Kombi but he kept quiet. He stared at the driver with fearless eyes. The slim man liked to talk. He argued with the driver about his fifty cents. The conductor joined in supporting his driver, making threats and promising a beating. Even the few passengers who had stayed in the Kombi kept quiet, hoping the matter would be over soon.
After much noise the driver found fifty cents for the big guy. The strong man took his change and left. Maybe he went home to eat sadza and tell the story. But for the slim man, it turned bad. The driver and conductor refused to pay him. They laughed at his effort and with the stronger guy gone, they were certain if it came to that, they could take him down easy. They told him he would get nothing because of his “attitude.” After touching his collar and pushing him a bit, they jumped back into the Kombi and tried to drive away, leaving the slim man shouting.
Then something happened. Before the Kombi left, the back window exploded with a loud bang. “Boom” it rang. The slim man had thrown a big stone straight through the back glass. People screamed and ducked. Some caught pieces of glass in their arms and faces. There was confusion everywhere.
The strangest part was that passengers started shouting, “Drive, drive, before he breaks the windscreen as well. We are already injured!” The driver, full of pressure and fear, sped off. They left behind the slim man making empty threats that he was going to find him. The slim man was now fifty cents poorer but the driver now had a broken screen. The glass cost more than seventy dollars to replace. The slim man lost his money yes, but in that moment, maybe he felt like a hero or maybe a villain. In Zimbabwe it is hard to tell.
Let us go back to our Kombi with Temba. At last, someone spoke up. He told the conductor that the money in his hand was his. Nine dollars belonged to him but the fifty cents was for the man who paid with ten dollars. Another man joined in and asked for his own fifty cents change. It took a while but the numbers started to make sense. Slowly, people calmed down. The conductor handed over the fifty cents. The man who had been waiting for his change took it and sat back. The other man got his fifty cents as well.
People in the Kombi sighed and relaxed. The trouble had ended. For a moment, the air inside felt light again. Some passengers started talking about something else. Some looked out the window at the city, letting the last bit of anger melt away as the Kombi rattled along the road. But not everyone let the matter rest.
Temba could not keep quiet. Even after the problem was solved he kept at it. He muttered that conductors were only in that job because they dropped out of school. He called them names and said, “You have no manners. You are always drunk. You cannot even count simple change.” Others joined in. A young man with a shaved head shouted, “Conductors are just idiots and school drop outs.” A woman in a pink headscarf said the Kombi business was finished if people like this kept working.
The conductor tried to ignore it but the words kept coming. He started to shout back. “You think it is easy? Come and do this job yourself.” No one listened. Instead, the insults grew louder. Temba, still upset, kept talking. He wanted the last word. He wanted everyone to hear what he thought. Some people laughed. Some shook their heads. The Kombi felt smaller as the argument took over again.
Soon, the Kombi reached 5 turn-off. The driver stopped. The doors slid open. Cool air came in. People stood to get out. Temba also stood up. As he made his way to the door he kept talking about how some people should not be trusted with money. The conductor watched him. His face twisted with anger. His fists closed tight.
Before anyone could stop it the conductor went after Temba. He hit him hard in the face. Blood and two teeth dropped to the floor. The Kombi went silent. Time stopped. Temba held his mouth. He felt pain and shame. He could not look anyone in the eye and sat on the edge of the road with everyone watching.
Pressure. Sometimes it is about fifty cents and sometimes it is about pride, words and knowing when to keep quiet.
