Purple Dawn
It’s just past 6am and I am walking down the street that leads to the highway. There I will join a taxi that will take me to the airport. I am being as brisk as I can, even though my flight is not until 9am. In these parts, everyone has at least one reason to be hasty. It’s in the way they stomp on the gas, in their strides, and in how they pull their kids behind them like rolling luggage.
The only thing that goes unfazed though is the column of smoke that spirals up into the purple dawn. It drifts slowly, deliberately, as though relishing the soft rays of the sun. It disappears somewhere above; it seems however, to do so contently. The column of smoke is rising from a kiosk somewhere at the end of the street, and I’m wondering if that is where the smell of frying puff-puff which is tickling my nostrils is coming from. At the kiosk, there is a man standing over a pan with a long spoon and there are about a dozen people in front of him. He tosses some wood into the fire. The fire blazes and I see his face: it’s a lady, fair, slender and pretty. I walk past the stall and wonder if I can spare some time to buy some puff-puff. Glancing at my watch, it’s 6:09.
The street pours into the highway and I join the small group of people who are waiting to cross the road. They are flailing their arms, trying to make the cars stop. The highway is like a cashew tree branch dense with ants scuttling back and forth.
A woman with a short broom is bent over, sweeping the side of the road. Headlamps dazzle her orange coveralls and when she stands to pull her tiny cart to herself, her face is veiled. I wonder if it is to prevent dust or to keep her from being recognised. She glares in our direction for a while, then abruptly resumes her sweeping. A cock jumps on her cart and crows. She swipes at it with her broom. My watch says 6:12am.
The peddlers soon find us. I cannot elude them, I know, so I buy a pack of lozenges. The woman with the baby and the ghana-must-go beside me is skilful at warding them off. I observe her closely as another peddler brandishes something in her face. At first, I think it is a piece of wood, then I realise that it is the stub of an arm — from elbow down is missing. He asks for some money for breakfast. His voice is very croaky. The woman looks straight ahead, an impassive sneer set in her face. The man turns to me. I imitate the woman’s sneer for what seems like an hour. The man doesn’t leave. I sigh and give him the change from the lozenges I bought and then relocate to the far side which seems safer. I set down my bag and pat my pockets to ensure that nothing is missing. Then I mentally note that I must work on the perfect sneer.
We wait still for a break in traffic. Our number has grown considerably. A fresh set have taken to flagging down the cars. Someone in the crowd murmurs something about the government not being up to par since they could not envision the austere need for a pedestrian bridge. Someone else notes that since the roads are better, the cars will not give them up even for a moment. She says the cars as though the cars actually have a mind of their own. Another says he wishes the fuel scarcity will return so that motorists would be fewer. I curse him inwardly. He has no idea the things I had to do just to get two litres of fuel last Tuesday. Those kinds of hard times should only be wished away. The conversation swings to who’s been laundering government funds and which community has not had electricity in months while senators and legislators buy private jets.
A short stocky man wriggles out from somewhere behind me; he wants to take advantage of the tiny lapse in traffic. I am wishing that I hadn’t been distracted when hands suddenly reach to pull the man back. I turn to see why: a one-eyed car is speeding against the traffic on our side of the road and is making for us. I hear someone shout something about drunk drivers and their mothers a split-second before we scram out of the way like a herd of stampeding bison. We beat on the body of the white van and curse after the driver. The driver presents us a splayed-out palm, veers into the street and disappears in a rush of debris and smoke. It’s those fayawo people, someone says. I shake my head and wonder briefly if Dominic Toretto and his crazy team are fayawo people too.
My watch says 6:21am as we regroup again. I am now far back in the crowd. The woman with the baby and the bag is still in front. She shifts from foot to foot, trying to calm her sulking baby. Some people speak of going through another route. I consider it too. The other route is actually in another part of town, farther off from the airport and with terribly poor roads. Going that way will certainly mean missing my flight. This would wear down soon, hopefully.
I am popping the last lozenge in my mouth when a megaphone screeches to life. Headlamps catch a man spotting a vest, reflective kinds they wear at airports. He is standing to our side, at the tail end of the street. He clears his throat into the mic, twiddles with the controls a few times, then begins to pace a short distance along the street. His voice, slow at first becomes gruff as he affirms that everyone who does not listen to him will go to Hell. Over the din of the zipping cars, I can hear someone else preaching, without a megaphone. His voice is throatier and less mean. He’s more likely to get people to hear him, I think. Headlamps catch the vest on the first preacher again, the word brimstone glints on the vest. The time is 6:26am.
A beat-up truck pulls to a stop not far from the brimstone preacher and obstructs our view of incoming traffic. Cloaked men silhouetted by headlamps hurtle from the truck and dart behind the shops on the side of the highway. The brimstone man stops and abruptly walks away, down the street, away from the truck. The cloaked men reappear tugging at large boxes and drums, all of which vanish into the back of the truck. Just then, a baby starts to whimper. It’s the child of the woman with the Ghana-must-go. Ominously, two other babies follow in rapid succession. Maybe it’s the dust, I think. Someone grunts. I look around in time to find hands groping inside pockets and bags, hankies materialising to drape faces. By now, my hands as well are shuttling in and out of my pockets in frantic search. I cannot find my hanky. And my tight-fitting shirt will not come close to my nose. I tuck my face into my elbow and hold my breath.
Of all the Hydrogen Sulphide I have had to inhale during lab practicals, dead mice in secluded rooms, rotten cabbage, there’s no equal for this stench. It purges the atmosphere of the quaintness of baking dough; it obliterates the smoke that is escaping into the clouds; it even tints the purple dawn a dull green. Pent-up breath forces itself out of my lungs and my eyes sting with tears.
The waste truck revs up and bellows more gases into the air. Its left indicator comes up and it begins to advance slowly into the traffic. We cannot help but be bewildered at what it’s doing. We would shout: can’t you see that the cars are moving really fast? Do you want to cause an accident? Do you think we are fools for patiently waiting for a break in traffic? But our lungs are marinated. The truck narrowly misses a Volkswagen Golf as it inches forward ever so slightly. It is 6:31am.
The incoming vehicles do not stop; instead, they manoeuvre around the truck into the other traffic lane, resulting in near collisions. Honks fill the air, but the truck does not give up.
Then I see it, an opening. I sneak up beside the truck and others follow warily behind me. The truck chooses that moment to rev its engines and we are again baptised in a miasma of truck-fart and thick stench. My palms are over my nose, but I do not care as much any longer, as long as I am almost on the other side of the road. The truck takes over the incoming traffic lane and a motorcycle crashes into a nearby kiosk in its failed attempt at manoeuvring. The other traffic lane loosens up and finally halts. A hail of obscenities from the hot-blooded motorists trail the truck which yet reverses to align with the road before driving off. We cross successfully to the other side.
We congratulate each other and disperse promptly. The Red Sea we have just crossed closes up swiftly and the motorists resume their Formula One championship.
It is 6:36am when I realised that I crossed without my bag.
