26 April 2007, by Natasha Msonza. Last week I boarded a "chicken bus" (you know; the ones with the not so comfortable seats, ugly, dirty looking and often associated with the poor, because they are cheap). I was in a mad rush to get to Gweru and back the same day.
There were all kinds of unpleasant smells in the bus ranging from unwashed bodies to boiled eggs. Along the way the bus made a point of stopping at every major rank, picking up all kinds of folk, some of whom were bare foot and dirty, carrying live chickens among other things. I started to feel out of place in my casual corduroy pants, sneakers and designer shirt.
 
The bus was getting overloaded with standing passengers as we made slow progress towards Gweru. I began to regret and curse my lack of hindsight. The bus was moving at a frigging 60km/hr! Fruit vendors and beggars jostled in and out of the bus whenever the bus stopped. I kept my nose pressed into my shirt and prayed for speed, glorious speed.
From the back of the bus a loud, desperate voice started singing something that sounded gospel. The voice belonged to a disheveled blind woman being led by a similar looking girl most certainly less than 10 years old. The two were struggling to make their way to the front of the bus, begging each passenger for money.
 
When the pair got to me, I heard the young girl whisper to her mother, "apa pane murungu, ndotaura sei?"- translated loosely - "here is a white person, how do I communicate with her?" I got offended not at being called white, but at her failure to realize I was just a light skinned person who is one of them. While I"m better dressed, the fact that I was also in this bus that"s cheap indicates that I"m also struggling, just like them.
Slowly I began to subconsciously direct my anger elsewhere: towards the forces that have reduced most of our people to dirty beggars; towards the egotistical few that have enriched themselves and destroyed our economy making sure everyone else lives below the poverty datum line. I looked around the bus and thought - these are the real Zimbabweans, and among them were the real freedom fighters who ought to be the ones crying out - "We fought for this country!" Yet they are the very ones who occupy the bottom rung of society. As I pushed my way off the bus at my destination, more traders and beggars jostled to sell their wares and beg and I wondered if it will ever be possible to take back from the selfish government ministers what rightfully belongs to everyone in this country.
 
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