A boy on a Boda
In a dusty, hectic visually, audibly and physically polluted city,
I saw my boy on a Boda.
He sat on the back as cool and smooth as a gin and tonic on a hot Ugandan evening.
Loose white shirt, blue shorts, dusty, dirty, overused shoes.
Sunglasses on, fake ray-ban of course.
As he weaved in and out of impossible places, through tunnels of trucks and people carrying mattresses on their heads and big SUVs demanding priority,
using no hands at all, unlike me, he did not grip on to the cheap, old metal on wheels that drove too fast, too close to danger.
Nor did he stare intently into the back of the neck of the complete stranger who could save him or end him. The exhausted stranger with dust in his lungs and honesty in his eyes.
No my boy, my cool, confident, unfazed boy, just looked back at me with a smile that would make even an impending apocalypse seem safe even an adventure.
And I melted.