The sweet tongue of the bus conductor

Amusing observations

‘Tis the season for – for those who don’t own cars – hurrying to the bus station with your entire family firmly fastened to your back while the luggage is securely balancing on your head. You know, to protect yourselves from that inexplicable moment when all the conductors scramble for you, poor, unprepared customer(s). In fact, you will see a thick cloud of dust blowing high ahead of you as they all hungrily speed towards you, putting cheetahs to shame. It happens in a blur. They are coming, then suddenly they have surrounded you, all talking at the same time, then suddenly you’re sitting down in a bus while holding change and a receipt, then suddenly you’re wondering where the rest of the family is. Then you find out that one conductor whisked the young first born away to a bus going to Trwqyta, while the last born is lost somewhere in the boot of a large coach bus. Another one has sneaked your adult traveling companion into a bus headed to Xxckizs Qfpl and the engine is already revving. And another one threw (the) most (important part) of) your luggage on top of a bus bound to Ycbngiuvt, and the ‘express’ bus left 38 seconds ago. With tonnes of luggage heavier than all of Africa’s elephants carelessly piled up on top of yours. Oh, the mental anguish as you imagine how horrifically mangled your luggage must be, and how everything inside it is definitely damaged!

If you don’t go to that bus station armed and decided, you’ll start your journey late, with an emptier pocket, migraines, and a new-found hate for traveling

However, if the conductors don’t steal your family, and, instead, choose to employ almost-romantic persuasions and skillful negotiations to woo you into their buses, and even passionately debate and fight over you amongst themselves, they’ll make you feel so special, so wanted and desired, that you’ll think about breaking things up with your partner(s) via a brief text because you’ll realise that you deserve better.

Even if you look like you live in a filthy garbage pit in a village of degenerates, those conductors will use esteemed titles to refer to you, making you feel so distinguished and eminent that you’ll be tempted to saunter into State House importantly, while loudly feeling offended by the distasteful interior, to personally give the president stern instructions and warnings while pinching his ear and poking his forehead with your forefinger, strongly enough to make his head shamefully go back and forth. Then walk over to a wide, open window and stand a foot or two away from it, with your hands casually in your pockets, and as you gaze through the window as if you’re thinking about a heavy global matter that needs your intervention, you arrogantly order him to go wash his legs and sleep before you change your mind. And then, as he quickly and fearfully scuttles off to wash his legs, you finish off by clicking your tongue dramatically; slowly and loudly, so that even everyone else in the residence can know how sick of his shit you are.

In their attempts to get you to board their buses, they’ll inflate your ego so well, massage it so masterfully, that you’ll consider calling your boss to tell them that you have fired them, calling them by their last name in an authoritative tone, and even print out their mugshot in the national newspapers warning the public against transacting any business with them, as they are no longer AN EMPLOYEE of that company.
Heh. Fear them.