Bougie on a Bus (5)

The bus was stale with aromas of cheap cologne and hair spray. As Zan stepped into the bus, she kept her head hanging low. Her two brothers followed behind her. The bus was more full than usual. In the front of the bus, a group of younger school children scowled at Zan and her brothers in their private school uniforms. Zan shrugged off the judgement and shuffled past the women in KFC uniforms who were talking between the aisles. She found the nearest pair of seats and sat down, placing her school bag next to her. Her brothers sat in the pair of seats behind her. She pulled out her prescribed English literature reading and started reading as the bus left her stop.

At the next stop, a heavyset woman struggled up the stairs of the bus. She balanced herself using the rails and moved slowly, concentrating on each step she took. The fresh sweat stains on her tight domestic worker’s uniform grew darker. The woman finally stopped in Zan’s aisle and clutched the seats to prop herself up. Her breathing was shallow.

“Khaw’suse lo bhaka mntanandini,-” the woman wheezed. Move this bag, child.

Zan tried her best to look apologetic but could feel herself grind her back teeth and let out a subtle sigh. Zan preferred to sit by herself. She detested the invasion of her personal space. She grabbed her school bag off the seat and placed it on the dusty floor. The woman lowered herself onto the seat and grunted. She edged herself closer and closer to Zan and with every inch, Zan felt herself panic. The air around her felt unbreathable and her palms became clammy. Zan knew that if she said anything, she would come across as the stuck-up foreigner on the bus and chose to pick her battles.

Zan began to shuffle closer to the window to give herself space to breathe, but it was futile. The woman pulled out a piece of paper from her handbag and began to fan herself, resting her elbow on Zan’s shoulder. When Zan flinched, the woman furrowed her brow and kissed her teeth.

“Yintoni wangathi uyandonyanya?” The woman questioned. Why are you acting like I disgust you?

Zan was taken aback by the directness of her question and the frustration in her voice. The woman looked at the book Zan was reading and analysed her school uniform.

“Oh, uhamba kweza z’kolo zabelungu?” The Woman started. “Yilento usenza ngathi ungcono kunam?” Oh, do you go to those white people’s schools? Is that why you act like you’re better than me?

Zan’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak but remembered that her Xhosa accent would be an eyebrow-raiser and knew that replying in English would confirm the woman’s suspicions.

“Uz’ukhumbule ke uba awusoze ube ngomnye wabo,-” the woman said, wagging her finger at Zan. Always remember that you’ll never be one of them.

Zan only barely understood the sentence, but she had heard enough. She knew that it would be fruitless explaining herself or her family finances to a stranger on a bus. For the rest of the bus ride, she looked out of the window and watched as the landscape transformed slowly from run-down tuck shops and littered streets to large, well-kept buildings. As the bus stopped outside the tall, bright gates of Silverstone Private School, Zan’s brothers stood up in unison and her eyes began to well up with tears.