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:
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:
- The obstinate fat woman who is angry at you for taking up so much space on the seat.
- The fat, loud and obnoxious market woman.
- The sweaty, sleeveless shirt wearing fat person nudging you into the wall of the vehicle.
- The person carrying his goat.
- The person carrying her hens.
- The person who smells like he’s decaying.
- The person who looks like he’s decaying.
- The person who looks and smells like he’s decaying.
- The dissonant singer who insists on singing her lungs out all the way to Accra.
- 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”.
- The preaching passenger who expects to collect money after his sermon on the road.
- The breast feeding woman who forces (well, more of socially obliges) you to keep your head turned to one direction the entire freaking ride.
- The old man who falls asleep on you.
- The garrulous and persistent chatterbox.
- The person shouting into his phone.
- The person who just will not stop staring at you.
- The person who looks at your phone all the while you have it out.
- 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.