By Fredy Macha
At first I am wary sitting next to him in the bus.
Winter has faded away; spring casually stepping in, just like Bob Marley’s 1973 song:
“The sun shining
And the weather is sweet, yeah
Make you wanna move; your dancing feet now.”
I sit apprehensively, listening discreetly to the slurp, seep, slurping of his beer; its foam circles his lips like a thin, moist white beard.
His booze can is black like the impending London night. I smell the alcohol expecting worse.
It re-winds me to when I was travelling by bus in Latin America ages ago and a drinking woman who sat in front of me suddenly opened her window to wretch outside. However, because the vehicle was speeding, the wind splashed most of her vomit right into my face.
Please.
Try to imagine the mixture of surprise, disgust, nausea and genuine bewilderment. Took months to stop having nightmares. You know what? That drunk woman actually laughed. They kicked her out of the bus, eventually. Did that solve anything, though?
And here I am again in London, thirty plus years later, straddled alongside another bus drinker. Never judge a book by its cover though. I am much wiser than I was in 1994. The secret of ageing is patience and Deja Vu readiness.
I am not going to have vomit again. I am not going to allow a travelling drinker vomit on me again. I am NOT… !…the mantra yells in my liver. Instead of fear, awe and trepidation I am smiling at the chap who makes a happy statement.
“Lovely day!”
I agree.
He adds: “We should enjoy small moments.”
Now the odour of his liquor drifts around like a dangerous drone in Yemen.
He unzips his massive tools bag. A typical hold all carried by people working in construction, carpentry and plumbing. Scoops out a beer.
“Have one!”
I shake my head politely, trying to casually say, maybe next week; same place, same time.
His laughter erupts like a motorbike. So we become instant friends.
It is not allowed to relish alcohol on London public transport. But some drinkers do not care a hoot.
He shrugs. Wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. Gently says: “Take the beer to your sweetheart.”
Then laughs.
Loudly like a pikipiki, still.
“We rush around and never enjoy the moments,” he keeps the theme.
“Yes.” I reply. “Moments never return.”
Opens another can.
This fella drinks fast like a lorry drowning diesel.
Belching he rants: “People are very judgemental. They look at me. Dirty, clothes filled with dust and soil, grease and grime. They think: disgusting bloke. Drunkard. But I am an engineer. Been an engineer for over 40 years. Built hospitals, bridges, houses. I can construct any building. Easily. I can do a whole shopping mall. No problem. I drink and I work. I have kids and they are grown up and they are educated. I drink and have learnt to enjoy moments. I love every second of my life. You seem to enjoy life too. Been around the world haven’t you, yeah?”
I nod.
The bus stops. He picks up his huge bag. Hops out whistling.
Later I hand over my beer gift to a homeless guy who happily exhibits his broken teeth.
Bless your eyes.
Shimbonyi shafvo, if you speak Kichagga.
