"This is where we are supposed to meet."

The driver opens his door and leaves the minibus.
Putting my bags on the floor behind my seat I exit the passenger side.
At the gas station I'll change cars and ride an hour to the city with a new driver.

You know this place. You came here on the way to the village.
You saw the children selling oranges, candy, soap, apples, jewelry, bananas,
designer jeans, soft drinks, small television sets, tennis rackets, assorted nuts,
and dress shoes in the middle of the street. You remember the trash burning,
the roadside in flames, the car accidents, the smog, the blackouts.

Your mind drifts away.

Why does this hotel exist when a single night is equivalent to a person's annual income?
Since we are here to educate, why should we overlook gender equality?
Although colonial rule ended in 1964, are we not here in the same capacity?
When she asks about what you are thinking, you have no answer:
"Mpenzi?"
"Hapana."

We're waiting for the second bus to arrive. A shopkeeper suggests a walking stick,
then a ring, then a hand-carved wooden statue. He retires and instead starts talking.
His entire family is from the country. He has lived here all his life.
He knows the geographic position of my home. He asks me what time it is there.
He confirms it with his watch that shows time for any location with a press of a
button.

"Have you stayed here long? Have you seen the life? Life is so hard."