We were at the station waiting for a train. It was sunny and pleasant and quiet, except for her loud voice on the phone.
“Is she fighting someone?” One of the mothers with kids asked sarcastically. The lady was loud and what she was saying seemed significant. She was not speaking English. Between 200 to 300 languages are spoken, daily, in London.
While we dash past the quarter era of our 21st century, phones have changed us. No more privacy. Phone speakers turned on, folks ranting about their personal lives, publicly, not caring who is listening.
Now. She was visibly large and wearing a long skirt created like a half opened book, to reveal the frontal districts, while the back was, covered. Each time the European August 2025 summer wind blew its lips, sections of this very boisterous lady’s thighs openly revealed her private red garment. Like the Swahili saying goes: “Eyes have no curtains…”
She yelled while not stopping the chattering in her mother tongue. Seconds later, the train decked in. We popped inside. He sat near me; still flabbergasted. You could see he needed to let out steam. Speak.
“You, OK?”
He continued shaking his head, wearily; glared outside at the phone-user, who had (luckily) not boarded this particular train.
“Second time… is happening in jus’ one months,” he protested, in broken English layered with African and French accents. I was trying to figure out where he was from.
Sighing and gasping repeatedly, his mouth resembled someone blowing air to fill a balloon.
“Second time?” I enquired, encouraging him to vent. Express his obvious exasperation.
“Yes! I wis’ I had no’ left ma country to go here. I don’ like living here. But is too much fighting home. So I need to make some money, and one day, one day! I go back. I am fed up! You hear me brother? Two years in London, enough! I am tired. T—i-r-e-d!” (The word “tired” was vehemently uttered; akin to “suicide” or “vanguard” or a hammer bashing a roadside).”
I nodded.
“Where from, bra?”
“Tanzania.”
“Ah, my neighbour. Me from Congo Kinshasa. Abari?”
Subsequently, the rest of our conversation proceeded in Ki-Swahili.
He said: “Three weeks ago, I returning home from work and cross .. a big park near where I live. You know ze wither is hot. OK? Three ladies are sitting on ze grass with zis little dog that keep barking. These ladies are talking and laughing and the dog is woow wooow wooow. I stop; and one of zis womens says, don’ no worry she is very sweet. She wont bite you. As I am passing, I notice ze other lady has her chest area totally open. And of course everything is exposed. I look. My God! She goes crazy. Why are you starring? Have you never seen these before? I say, what? She says what, what? Keep on walking mate, and mind yoh business. Of course I say, don’t talk to me like zaat. You are almost naked and don’t want a real man to look? She says keep walking or you will regret. The others two ladies say get lost …just like zaat! I have done nothing wrong. I have seen someone almost naked and am starring and I get abused?”
I reminded him of the Swahili proverb.
“Macho hayana pazia…”
He stopped moaning and laughed.
Bless your eyes.
