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Dear Diary,

I have decided to be rich. Because I don’t ever again want to sit in those hot, rusty, congested and terribly spaced, unsanitary, seat belt lacking, shock absorber deficient, tin can minibus-esque vehicles we call trɔtrɔs:

A trɔtrɔ

Adenta Going! ‘Lasss’ Two!

Well, not really; I’ll always use them, because they’re cheap and, as you know, I love cheap. But I certainly don’t like sitting in a trɔtrɔ, that’s for sure. As if the bone rattling ride weren’t enough, I always seem to get the absolute worst possible person to sit beside:

  1. The obstinate fat woman who is angry at you for taking up so much space on the seat.
  2. The fat, loud and obnoxious market woman.
  3. The sweaty, sleeveless shirt wearing fat person nudging you into the wall of the vehicle.
  4. The person carrying his goat.
  5. The person carrying her hens.
  6. The person who smells like he’s decaying.
  7. The person who looks like he’s decaying.
  8. The person who looks and smells like he’s decaying.
  9. The dissonant singer who insists on singing her lungs out all the way to Accra.
  10. The person who “came to visit her mother but doesn’t have enough money to make it back to Lartebiokorshie and would like me to pay her fare”.
  11. The preaching passenger who expects to collect money after his sermon on the road.
  12. The breast feeding woman who forces (well, more of socially obliges) you to keep your head turned to one direction the entire freaking ride.
  13. The old man who falls asleep on you.
  14. The garrulous and persistent chatterbox.
  15. The person shouting into his phone.
  16. The person who just will not stop staring at you.
  17. The person who looks at your phone all the while you have it out.
  18. The person who keeps touching your thighs.

Sometimes it feels like the universe is just picking on me. Sighs. Well, at least misery loves me.

Gloomy,

Cheese.

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