feels like home

Feels like home.

I board the bus and look around for seats whilst pretending to not look at the same time.
In London I probably wouldn’t get on a full bus but here it’s a different story.
The bus won’t move an inch until it’s packed to the brim.

A man attempts to catch my eye and tries make the decision easier for me.
I ignore him.
Taking the corner seat at the back, I try not to take notice of his lecherous winks, there is a fortnight’s worth of qat spittle all over his once white shirt and it doesn’t really appeal to me.

Today is the first time I’ve taken the bus by myself after ignoring my cousin’s advice.
She doesn’t think I can handle Hargeisa public transport.
She predicts that I am going to get into trouble because of my English accent.

The bus fills up with people and flies.
I stare outside the broken window and marvel at the vast amount of discarded multicoloured plastic bags, covering the entire landscape from the tops of trees to the mini chasms scattered across the landscape.
Recycling and garbage collection is comatose in this country.

As the bus gathers pace and the bus boy comes around to collect our 2000 shilling fares, the passengers are shook about rhythmically to the beat of the potholes strewn indiscriminately all over the road.
The only cemented road we have is the one headed for the airport.
When you walk, you’re either in the Sahara or climbing mount Kilimanjaro.

A young man boards.
He’s dressed up in a clean white pressed shirt and clutches a notebook tightly to his side.
His faces lights up briefly as he makes for his seat, his smile is interrupted by the young bus boy who gruffly demands the fare.

An elderly woman yells at the bus boy, stunned by the inability of the bus boy to wait before the young man takes his seat.
Sharp wit and quick tongues is what I love about the elderly Somali women, they have the loudest voices in the streets.
Unfortunately the loudness only concerns matters that aren’t considered important by men.
The rule of the iron fist still exists.

The bus boy sneers and snatches the money.
The young man turns around and starts a conversation about Ali Dheere with the old lady.
They know each other.

I see his eyes dart over to a young girl wearing a green geometrically patterned shiid dirac.
I straighten out my plain black cabaya.
Her kohl rimmed eyes flicker with recognition as she acknowledges his presence and she smiles discreetly at him before busying herself with keeping the flapping curtain out of her face.

As we enter the city centre I gather courage and silently pray that I can prove my cousin wrong.
I mean how hard can it be to communicate with your own people when you occupy the same space and time?