Two Moments in Sesheke

This guy made it a point to feature in BOTH my photos

Oh there he goes again!

At the Zambian border in Sesheke during the peak times, one is torn between, frustrations; disgust and pity, confusion then utter awe. The first is first instinct drawn from the ins and outs process that mostly involves shuffling at the risk of being pick-pocketed only to scribble random information into both a gigantic and tattered book. Its pages seem to hold the stories of it writers or filler–ins if you must, their travels, destinations, experience according to the age of their passports, slant of their handwriting, shade of their ink and pressure of their hands to paper. Crammed to sardine capacity are people from different walks, within four walls where varied scents continue to tell tales on who can afford the luxury of a daily shower or that of being rooted to one place; the luxury of calling one place home; this a basic human need but often too extravagant for many. Women, women and girls, so many of them, I guess it is true then lesbianism should be justified there are definitely more women than men in the world. (Indulge my bad humour) There’s a ridiculous level of fertility and oestrogen in that room, with girls turned women, swollen they look like the slightest movement might make their water break and yet they toil; fully packed with goods for mouths born and those yet to be fed. Don’t get me started on the not so golden oldies, women who should be retired, grandmothers, great grandmothers, grandfathers, mothers, toiling. Toiling when they should be retired ‘should’ be taken care of but the reality tells all. Children nestled in bosoms or wrapped onto backs, howl and whimper, for attention, out of frustration, discomfort, hunger, I choose not to assume. Tourists from as far as the Netherlands and Japan are thrust out of their comfortably air conditioned coaches, to walk out onto the sandy dusty paths in warm welcome from the black market money-changing hustlers, to join the shoving, I like to think they get the glimpse of the ‘real’ third world they’ve been told of; thought here there is more, there’s better to be seen but alas this, unfortunately is what they see. Then like a twisted joke by Mother Nature or a quick save by God (depending on your beliefs), as you disembark from the post towards, Livingstone/ Lusaka; you see it, it tells its own story then represents the true beauty Africa deserves a real ambassador I’ll say. A vast concrete bridge stretching across the width of the Zambezi; she sits proudly, her curves on which tyre is guided by road. I’d be a little arrogant too; the people in the bus can’t contain their ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ with consequent camera clicks and flashes as Katima Mulilo Bridge strikes a pose. Like clock-work the stuffy four walls are forgotten and even after a couple of literal potholes Africa once again gets its well deserved acclaim.

That is defo the Highway to my Soul!