And she wasn't there
Each day - for the past two months and some - when I get off my bus and walk the couple hundred metres to the hole office I work at, I take a left turn off Union, down the dingy stairs via the back roads on to Guild street and then into work. Most days I am plugged into my iPod, listening to whatever catches my fancy on that day, hands in my pocket deep in thought. Nine days out of ten, just before I take the turn I see her - a lone black face bobbing in a sea of browns and whites, wrapped up to the nines waiting for her bus. She can’t be more than 5’-2", usually rocks a ‘fro and dangles her little bag in the tell-tale Nigerian chic ninety-degree arm pose. At first all there was were a couple of furtive glances, followed by the straight face pretending-I-never-took-a-peek look. And then with time, and the familiarity of a shared routine, there was the almost imperceptible nod and the odd mouthed greeting. ...