I stand in queue waiting for the buses to pull into the terminal. The crowd presses in on all sides. All around me, people pace from one direction to another. Briefcases in hand, rucksacks hanging on their backs, handbags hooked on their arms -all carrying something; all headed somewhere.
Men in suits and ties head towards their offices. Women in silk dresses and pressed work attire move along, trying to earn a living. The casual college student in ripped jeans walks past with headphones on, in pursuit of an academic credentials. Strugglers thread through the crowd, trying to make ends meet however they can. A man on the pavement holds out his hand, hoping for a coin to carry him through the day. An entrepreneur talks rapidly into a phone, already negotiating before the morning has fully begun.
The floodgates open. Vehicles surge in chaotic unison. Personal cars weave and push against the PSVs, jostling for space, ignoring traffic rules. Red lights flash and are ignored. Horns blare, brakes squeal, engines strain. A small exchange at the intersection, a nod from the men in blue, and the rush presses on. No-one bats an eye; it’s just a Tuesday after all. Buses flock the same lanes, cutting corners to escape the inevitable traffic snarl up, carrying people to the same destinations, day in, day out
The children are dropped off at the school gates. It could be a Monday or a Friday. It’s all the same with the only exception being a marker on the Gregorian calendar. Matching uniforms, crisp shirts, pleated skirts, pressed trousers, tidy shoes — a matching set. Clean-shaven heads and beautifully plaited hair, not a strand out of line.
They move in patterns rehearsed, small routines repeated. Rows of children at desks, notebooks open, pens poised. Lessons follow in strict order: two of forty minutes, a short break, two more, another break, then two before lunch. The cycle repeats in the afternoon. Every time a teacher leaves and the next enters, the children stand together, greeting the newcomer. They then settle, turn the page of their books, that will see them through the year. Round and round it goes, like clockwork, and we watch them, knowing that one day they too will join the endless cycle of desks, offices, and buses that we navigate.
The adults head to their work place of decades, moving through familiar halls and seeing the same faces they have grown acquainted with. By the strike of eight, pleasantries have been exchanged. We gather at our desks: computers humming, reports generated, budgets planned, meetings held and progress reviewed. As the day eases, we catch up on industry developments, comment on the latest political scandal, whisper about rumored office relationships. Lunch passes, the hour hand ticks and by 5p.m. we file out towards the evening buses that will take us home. We try and salvage what little remains of the day. The same route awaits us tomorrow and a paycheck at the end of the month
24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 4 weeks a month – 365 days a year. The sun rises, the children return to the gates, take their seats at desks, and the rhythm continues. Tests are taken, certificates issued, gowns worn, and eventually they are acclimatized into adulthood. Leaving behind their uniforms, they rise to put on adult attire and go to work. Bills are cleared, reports filed, appraisals done, progress reviewed.
The buses will return tonight.
The children will return tomorrow.
The salaries will be wired at the end of the month.
The bills will be cleared.
I will lay my head tonight to rest.
And then it will begin again
