#sleepyhead

 

This sleep is for World Cup, as the Ugandan saying goes!

I am imagining her in her bedroom. I mean, if she can zone out like this in a public service vehicle aka commuter taxi, then surely, thieves can steal her out of her house!

Her hair is in curls, her lips red matte. She looks like she’s just been to the salon for some primping.

She plonks herself in the seat next to me. We’re on the third row behind the driver. She immediately rests her arms on the seat rest in front of her like she’s unwell. After a few minutes she starts shaking her head, like she’s trying to erase a bad memory. The taxi is stationary, filling up slowly and so I know that its not the motion rocking her head.

10 minutes later, we start our journey. Our small-bodied taxi driver is munching on a huge mango in a polythene bag.

I have taken the attention off my neighbor as I fiddle with the radio on my phone. When I finally look over at her, her arms are folded over her tummy. Her head is bobbing up and down. Back to front, front to back, back to front. It pulls her torso along. And when she leans too far forward, she makes braking movements. In Luganda we call it “Okutema ebisiki” - chopping wood. She begins falling all over the place. East, North, West, South.

When she returns to the East, which is where I am, I kind of give her a little shove. She does not open her eyes but returns to the leaning-on-the-seat-in-front-of-her position. One hand pokes into the young man in that seat, and he keeps stealing backward glances, but doesn't say anything. Suffering in silence. A fully paid-up member of the For-Me-I-Just-Kept-Quiet Brigade. Jesus!

But this is just the beginning because just then, her body falls on to her huge beige handbag sitting on her knees. Then it slips off and comes towards me again. Then it misses the handbag and slumps on to her knees. These are the kind of people I never want to sit next to. Sleep has really taken her captive, kidnapped, abducted her.

I wonder what her story is. Could she be high on something perhaps? But there’s no whiff of alcohol on her. Did she spend three nights awake?

Her neck is at a dangerous angle now, like she’s searching for something on the floor of the vehicle. The man sitting West of her is casting her daggers. He is giving her that look that speaks volumes.

She must be married. Her engagement and wedding rings are wedged tight on her wedding finger. They are shining in the light from the dull yellow bulb in the taxi.

Her acrylic nails look like talons, painted a shade of blue, like turquoise. She has really let herself go. I am expecting to see a stream of saliva dribble from her mouth which is half open now. Won’t she susu on herself? Hai, this is so bad!!

She has not come up for air even once! Luckily the driver has a heavy right foot, and weaves in and out of the traffic like he’s doing the safari rally.

The conductor starts demanding “Mumpe ssente zzamwe! (Please pay me!)."
We hand in our notes.

We are now eight miles out of town, ku munaana, that’s what we call our stops.

Suddenly her head pops up. She adjusts her bra straps as she peers out. It is really dark outside. Seems there's an electricity outage.

It is obvious she has no idea where we are. Her neighbors, including me, give her muted glances.

“Conductor, turi wa? Nvaamu ku mukaaga!” (I am getting off at stage six!) she states loudly in a heavy accent.