His hands were callused, rough and massive. His nails were short but dirty. His face was creased and his brow furrowed in concentration. He held a saw and he was singing to the wood. He stopped every now and then to murmur something under his breath.At his side was a young man, tall and lean with a ghost of a smile on his face like he knew something no-one else did.In his hand he held a carving, a small elephant not quite exquisite but striking all the same. The older man’s gaze was fixed solely on the brown, splinter-riddled, unfinished work. The stool that was yet to be.
She had on a kitenge. Absentmindedly she kept flicking the long sleeves back. A girl stood behind her, she had brown skin, a shy smile and a black pouch in her hands. The girl never quite stopped fiddling with the bag’s zip.The older woman had a serene face, not quite beautiful but one that spoke of a silent dignity. Her gaze was fixed on her frying potatoes in a wide brimmed pot. She was at work.
It is 6:00 p.m The sun is setting over the horizon, the younger man tugs at the older’s sleeve, he is an apprentice and the man his master. He points to his watch and his face holds a pained expression. He enjoys working but he will miss his ride home, and he has got to get to the bar before the big game begins else in order to stay and watch he’d have to buy a drink he could scarcely afford.
During the day they exchanged very few words. The master is, by nature, reserved and very much keeps to himself, the apprentice a daydreamer whose hands fashion beauty without his having to work at it. His was pure talent, his hands like a spider’s appendages- agile, quick and whose patterns at work ensnared all who looked on them.
Neither was made to speak with their lips. Neither much likes conversation for its sake. They pack up their tools, apprentice hurriedly and master in a slow deliberate manner. They are opposites in that and much more. One gained proficiency through years of tedium and ardour while the other is one of those peculiar people born with beauty and talent already in them.
As the sun set and rush hour truly began, the girl sat down beside the woman. Hands became busy as knife cut into potato and potato found itself in heated oil. She never stopped talking that girl. Her spirit was warm and bubbly and the very air around her drew people in. The woman wasn’t quite the opposite really, only that age had mellowed her and now her presence went down easier with a mind made for slow conversation and unhurried service. She didn’t dawdle exactly, but neither did she hurry. Her pace was her own and sometimes the customers left in a rush muttering about the old lady who never took their orders quickly enough and the girl who didn’t seem to do anything but peel the potatoes. There were those who knew of patience and the sweet sweet taste of mwitu that was the result and to those the sweet girl spoke. She regaled them with tales that didn’t have any particular beginnings or endings often stopping to laugh. A soft, chime- like laugh that had the young apprentice entranced. He never said a word, only looked and one day he fashioned her a knife handle that was exquisite.
But it was sunset and the young man didn’t hear her laughter today. She didn’t mind, she wasn’t one to dwell on anything but her potatoes and her stories. He would come back and she would have his knife handle unfitted with a blade yet but always by her side. She would wait. For now, there was the zip to unzip, the change to be handed out and smiles to be gifted. As for the old woman, the mistress, that silent crone whose produce was the joy of rush hour? Well, what’s left to say? There she was, on her stool.
Kimondo 