Don't Call Me Ugly

Chapter 3

At a quarter past four, the rising sun peeps into the room prompting me to jump off the sofa. The first thing on my mind is to get familiar with the interview questions printed at the café yesterday. I soon leave for the bathroom to prepare for the big day, wary of obstructing Abdul who usually leaves the house at half-past six.

Menlyn, the interview venue, isn't far from Arcadia. A single taxi ride will take me there in about thirty minutes. I set eyes on leaving the flat at seven, making a mental note of not being the first at the venue, neither must I be late.

Donning my security attire, I join the queue of commuters at the street-junction taxi rank. Unsurprisingly, eyes turn on me from left and right. Eyes which query if I've been hired for a job somewhere. Eyes that rejoice with me though unsure if I'm employed or not.

Though some of these faces are familiar, I absorb the motives behind their stares with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it feels good to have somewhere to go so early in the morning. Yet those whose flapping eyes query my presence here keep my feet rooted to the ground. As for the jealous ones envying my outfit, I reserve my comments until I return with a favourable result after my interview.

Not to offend anyone with my action or inaction, I nod in greeting to those who lock eyes with me. Who knows what someone may do wrong on a day like this when a job opportunity is in the offing? I put on a friendly face and try to be polite to everyone around.

Soon I hop into the half-filled fifteen seater bus heading to Menlyn Mall, sitting in the far corner of the back row. Other passengers follow suit and in no time the bus is ready for the trip. But for some reasons, the driver refuses to kick-start the vehicle.

"Contribute your money from the back," he says eventually, mouthing some gripes while looking into the rear-view mirror. He won't move an inch until we all pay up.

"Let's go, stop wasting our time," a lady says with a Sotho accent. "We will pay you on the way." She issues a prolonged hiss, apparently peeved at the driver's delay tactics.

This isn't the day for theatrics, I reckon from my corner, peeping out of the window. Nothing should make me arrive late for the interview. Checking the time on my phone which displays quarter to nine, I quickly take the initiative to collect the fares from the back row, urging others in front to do the same.

To my left is a lady carrying a baby shrouded in a pink shawl. I nod in greeting to the mother and she does the same. She should be in her early twenties. She hands over the ten-rand taxi fare and so does the other two people on the row. I hand over the sum to those in front for onward delivery to the driver. Others also contribute their money and the driver doles out changes to those that need them.

As soon as the bus moves out of the rank, the baby yells.

"Feed your baby," the Sotho woman advises. Perhaps her fifty-year-old face qualifies her as everyone's mother. Issuing instructions to strangers or advising youngster isn't uncommon in this clime.

Reluctantly, the mother breastfeeds her baby. Flanked by men on both sides, she's uncomfortable with exposing her breasts but feeding the hungry kid in necessary. Somehow she keeps him silent.

"How old is your cute baby?" I ask.

"Nine months."

"Oh, almost a newborn."

"Yes."

"Happy mothering."

"Thank you."

I love babies and enjoy playing with them. The opportunity just doesn't present itself often. My Limpopo sister's kids are no longer toddlers. And Arcadia mothers don't allow strangers to come close to their children. Well, when I finally get a job, the opportunity to date a girl will present itself. And then I can have a baby of my own which I'll play with as much as I want. At twenty-seven, siring a child doesn't sound odd.