Penha's knuckles become rigid as she tightens her grasp around the umbrella shaft. The flooding lights of the 5 AM transit bus comes to a halt right at her muddy boots as a chilling gust of wind flings her feeble umbrella away. A gentleman standing on her right lets out a bemused cough as his sleazy eyes fixate on her translucent blouse. She's soaked.
The subsiding rain brings a chilling breeze with a slight whiff of green vegetation. Penha likes this smell, it always brought tender memories of running through wet grass back in her younger days.
The jagged door flies open and the conductor nudges Penha into the overcrowded bus, a norm on a drizzly Nairobi day. Gripping her purse to her chest, she makes a mental note of where her phone and valuables are.
Penha's eyes narrow in on an empty seat, so she elbows her way through the narrow path to break free from the stifling mass of wet bodies.
A window seat? Lucky!
YOU ARE READING
Sometimes On The Bus
Short StoryA collection of modern day Kenyan short stories. Follow the mutable encounters of Kevo, Penha and Shiru. New chapters every week.
