Strong girl Anathi

She wiped away the sweat forming on one delicate brow. The sun beat against her face mercilessly; the wall behind her was no comfort either. The bricks were too heated to lean against. She blinked away the black dots from staring at the sun too much and squeezed the envelope in her pockets- her payment for the month. A smile lit up her features and anybody whose eyes found her would be dumbfounded at her beauty. The money would be enough to cover her basic expenses and maybe- just maybe; she could start pursuing her lifelong dream. A rev of engine brought her back to reality, her sweaty back straightened to make a rush for the bus. It wasn’t her bus. Disappointment sat heavily on her shoulders. 

She had stood far too long than normal at the station today and that sucked. Usually, a thirty-minute wait would suffice, but she was hundred percent sure she had stood for more than an hour. The sun was unrelenting but she could sense dusk would take over any moment from now and she may have to resort to walking or picking a taxi. The cars never came after 3pm anyways. Both ideas were not relieving because she would have to walk for hours before she got to her house and a taxi meant extra cost- cost she didn’t budget for. Mental note: make money; buy a car ‘cause public transports suck. Two more buses bypassed her. The tires making an irritating crunch over the graveled, undeveloped road. They left a puff of dust behind which elicited a not- so-cute cough from her.

 “Tsk, tsk, tsk, so the car won’t come” the woman beside her clad in a long Hijab lamented, clutching her toddler close to her. The kid was pulling at her mother’s hijab with dirty fingers from playing in the sand. She was on the verge of tears, snot running down her nose. She didn’t know if the woman meant to ask a question but she quickly looked down, avoiding conversation. The woman obviously didn’t get the hint, going on about how “evil” drivers of today are and how the cars have “decided” not to come, switching between Hausa and English. 

“Ah ah wait, let’s pick Taxi eh. 5, 5 cedis each is good” she suggested, features lightening up like Christmas lights, already looking around for a taxi. Her chapped feet suddenly were the most beautiful thing her deity had created. She kept staring hard at them, for how could she tell the woman that five cedis was a luxury she wouldn’t- couldn’t, afford. Dust sheathed her fair skin like a glove, the brown crust making her self- conscious of how she looked. Her toenails were crusted with dirt, the smell from her dress wasn’t welcoming either after working for more than eighteen hors the day. The pink shirt dress the store keeper had gifted her five years ago looked worn out and tiny on her tall frame- as it should. The familiar yellow and white bus came, saving her from answering the persistent woman; however, the people in it were not familiar. The bus was almost full. Every eye in the bus swiveled to the woman and her and the self- consciousness morphed into anxiety. The familiar heat pooled behind her head which suddenly felt heavy. The heat descended grabbing hold of her thin neck in vise- like grip squeezing the life out of her. She quickly climbed into the bus before the panic got worse. The Muslim woman and her daughter sat next to her, sandwiching her between a man with arms thrice the size of her head and the woman with her daughter by her side as part of the cargo. Her lightheadedness came back with a full force- the oxygen in the car used and recycled leaving behind a stale atmosphere. 

Anathi searched through her large sack bag for her book and pen to while time away. The trip would be short but better occupying her mind than breathing in others’ breaths. The books were two- her worn out notebook and a new diary she had spent all her savings on two months ago. She picked her pen from the pouch on the side of the bag and put the diary back into it. Not yet. She’d promised herself to write into the new diary as soon as her English bettered, till she could write huge words and complete rational sentences. That had been her lifelong dream, although circumstances had bested her and she’d not had the luxury of a good education, she still wanted to write. Two things her deity had granted her; her life and her words. Regardless of the mess that was her life, her words made up for it. So what if she could not write? The words were at the tips of her tongues- only; anxiety shrouded the words in stutters and undertones of fear. She could speak English well, perfect even, thanks to movies she saw at the community cinema nobody went- except her of course. But writing gave her courage, she was sure of it. She picked up the pen and started writing in scribbles.

When she was young, this was the first thing she did after she put a pen on a paper. At the time, she had been too fascinated at the feel of the pen on the paper to mind the fact that her aunt, now dead, would hit her for writing in her cousin’s exercise book. The glide of the pen on the paper to create every line or mark was too entrancing. The same was as her obsession to write- that she could create the world with her words, a world too big to live and survive in but on paper, it was like her world. It seemed beatable then. So she would wait- and learn. She would wait till the word “ambitious” was too small to write but big enough to embody her, till she could write her world and maybe speak it. Till then 

Scribble, scribble, scribble.