Walking the Streets of Blantyre

originally written June 22, 2008

The minibus door opens.  I step outside, my footsteps barely audible amidst the bustling traffic and the chatter in the city streets.  My eyes turn right, then left, and I cross the street.  Looking down the boulevard, my view is consumed with a myriad of shops, a collection of concrete and paint reducing in the distance as perspective dictates.  I walk along the sidewalk, passing women sitting at red plastic tables, some with their head in their hands, others looking listless, staring into the distance, waiting for a customer to buy some cell phone units.  In between the tables, men sit, with packs of shoe polish, waiting for a customer.  One notices my dusty shoes, remnants of Lilongwe, and offers to polish my shoes.  "Ee-aye, zikomo", a polite refusal.

As I continue walking, underneath the canopies of concrete balconies, passing stationary stores, hardware dealers, bakeries, I notice a boy walking toward me.  He must be less than 5 years old, and even more striking is that he is alone.  His attire is a direct contrast to the rest of our surroundings.  He is wearing a parka, with the hood pulled over his head.  It is cold this morning.  His eyes catch mine.  I expect a request for money, but the only word that escapes his lips are "Sharp!", a common greeting for children.  A smile forms on my lips.  As we pass, I look back, as he hurries forward with a determination that contradicts his age.

I cross the road again, negotiating a roundabout, looking for an opportunity to pass through the never ending parade of cars, trucks and minibuses.  In the centre of the roundabout a clock stands alone, supported by some strange architect's nightmare.  Its hands struggle to give accurate time, but its efforts are fruitless.  It is frozen in time, a relic of the past.

I turn a corner and pass under a railroad bridge.  The word 'Carlsberg' encompasses the entire side of the structure.  Underneath, I pass a woman, sitting on the ground, huddled in a blanked, its warm cloth pulled over her such that her face is barely visible.  She is shivering.  My feet arrest my forward momentum, and then turn back towards the woman.  The rest of my body follows.  One hundred kwacha finds its way into my hand, then finds its way into hers.  Is it enough?  No.  I continue up the road and see an abundance of minibuses, some idle, some revving their engines, their conductors yelling out destinations, "Chileka!", "Limbe!".  I climb aboard the one I'm looking for.  I fold down the seat and sit down.  I am the last passenger.  The door slides closed.  The driver shifts into gear.  The world passes by anew, in a flurry of colours blurred into homogeneity.