I am not afraid to wave my hand and show my neediness by the side of the road and take my time to remember
then slaughter
the name of where I want to go.

I am not afraid that everyone is waiting
through all of my mistakes.

I am not afraid to climb into the rustling wagon with its roaring
wheezing
struggling
engine
and negotiate the broken seats. Other hands help me negotiate (my needs have already been seen.)

I am not afraid to take out my phone and scroll or text or listen to music and space out
like the others do.

The buses here are colorful pieces, works of art really with patterns and blessings written on them. The bus-boys in Senegal don’t call out the names of the destinations like they do in Mozambique. Here they ride in the back, sometimes sitting on the last seat, sometimes on the ledge outside of the back door, holding on to the ladder leading up to the roof or to the open door itself. They fold the bills lengthwise and keep them around their ring fingers with the edges sticking out like colorful flowers. They don’t need to look to count the coins. Here is the place where I am (almost) never scammed about the price; I pay the same as any other Ousmane or Mariama returning from the office. I always get my change.

I am not afraid (anymore) to ride without a safety belt.
I am not afraid to sit tightly together;
In fact I enjoy this.
Shoulders legs hips touching, pressing into each other,
shifting a seatful of hips so that another pair can fit it;
some times other people’s luggage or
other people’s kids
in my lap.

(Yet how I understand the people here longing for the comfort of leg space and whole seats and predictable time tables I grew up with,
yet how I am convinced that this way of sharing, crowding in second-hand cars is what we all will need to learn as we tumble towards climate catastrophes and our over-consumptions and needless luxuries must be re-negociated–)

There is so much tension I carry from the countries I grew up in. Afraid of touching any body. Now I practice relaxing as my flesh touches every body.
The bodies next to me are relaxed, too.
I copy them.
I can feel their breaths through the shoulders
and sometimes I focus on that
as we are bouncing together on the uneven roads, constantly starting and stopping and jerking.
Everybody having their own somewhere to arrive.

I am not afraid (most days) to raise my voice,
again demanding the attention of every body when I want to get off
again waving
every body getting up for my sake
helping
taking my time climbing out
getting stuck on seats and strangers on my way
until I am steady standing on the ground
and then and only then
the bus-boy’s bang on metal doors
and the driver stepping on it, the engine heaving off again.

I am not afraid at all.
In fact:
I am in love
proud
of having learned this.

…

(This story told in pictures.)