Eight hours ago I had reluctantly made my way to the bus rank. The driver sat at one side of the bus and ate a large amount of sadza but he was soon justified because he first slammed the stirring, kicked the gear lever, spat into an engine tube, sweared, cursed, yanked some electric cords and yelled ten times the Taliban Jihad war cry before the starter kicked in.

The bus roared to life, as if eighty grinding mills all with amplifiers were running simultaneously. It revved twice but it belched out ten tons of black smoke. The speakers in the bus suddenly spurted out, blasting music-or to be truthful-shrilling a noise that sounded like someone frying meatballs and screaming at the same time.

This was a journey I really didn’t want to make. After completing my teacher-training course, I was shocked to be deployed to a rural area with a name, which sounded like a recently discovered planet. I was ready to pay with my liver not to go there, but apparently the Education Officer and his chums overheard me; they replied that they were vegetarians.

After only a mere two hours of travel, the bus hit a dusty road with holes and stones. It kept swaying from side-to-side, up and down and you couldn’t tell whether we were traveling forwards or backwards. The windows rattled happily towards such a treat of a lifetime.

Three hours into the jungle, the sun dipped below the horizon to be washed by the sea so as to prepare it for the next day.

Suddenly the man seated next to me burst into lively talk. He had been gulping down opaque beer since the start of the journey. Now with each word he said, he emitted alcohol fumes which were capable of making the whole bus go drunk twice-over had all the windows been closed. He kept repeating the word Balak and I concluded that he was talking about dinosaurs.

As if that was not enough, another lady opened her lunch tin and the rice inside smelt like it had been fermented inside a frog’s stomach for a year.

That wasn’t the worst. A generous granny gave me some homemade bread-with a smile which made me feel like I was traveling in an aeroplane without a pilot-which I regretted ever accepting. It tasted like a shoe! She talked in a whisper, which everyone in the bus and those in the bus overtaking heard without straining an ear.

Senseless cows kept crossing in front of the bus and we had to allow them to pass as if they were royal motorcades. With every stop the bus violently jerked everyone forward, one would imagine that the seats inched closer to the driver. No wonder fat people had to squeeze themselves on to the seats. To make matters worse, the bus burst its front tyre. I dared not step a foot outside lest the brainless cows read my mind and poke me with their ivory. I wasn’t the only one who remained inside the bus. A slim lady who wore red all over (probably on a solo protest to change Valentines day to the eight of January) kept sniffing hard at her book in the hope that “tha-blond-bloke-in-tha-book”would spring to life and hug her.

The bush mechanics fitted another wheel but for all they had done we might as well have been stationary. At one moment, I pushed the seat in front of me with the hope of increasing the speed.

At a narrow bridge, which the other passengers called “Gwembe Bridge” amid ululation, another hitch rooted us to a spot for thirty minutes. A scotch cart loaded with timber burst a tyre- with no casualties- at the center of the bridge.
Some obviously happy passengers took time to gym using the logs. In a one sided tug-of-war, they pulled the cart out of the way-no food for lazy man? All the lazy bones lounged in the bus whilst other people sweated. I almost throbbed them with my belt, now they were enjoying when the bus was moving. I remained in the bus because I am scorchcartophobic.

Then the most frightening thing- the driver twisted the steering ten times before there was a sign that we were turning. After completing the turn he had twisted the steering fifty times. At places where engineers prefer to call grids-which in actual fact are rail roads embedded under the road: as if a dozen trains would cross there at the same time, the bus vibrated a lot and it reminded me of a thief who stole a cell phone and it vibrated before ringing. He threw it away imagining that it had turned to a tokoloshi.

I disembarked to stamp on cow dung! Bats darted around, baying for blood, missing a collision with my head by a few hairs.

It was so dark I couldn’t even feel myself breathing. At one moment I thought that maybe I was a spirit. Someone grabbed my arm and I let out a crushing squeal- inwardly by the way.

They were happy to meet me, they said. I will be teaching them, they told me. Teaching them! Teaching these giants who were even taller than me.