Sunday is always a beautiful day for commuting. The queues are shorter. There is very little traffic on the roads. Hwindis are calmer. Commuter drivers are less ruthless with the accelerator.

I decided to go to church last week on Sunday. On the way to town I was the only passenger on the commuter omnibus until we stopped to pick up an aged man, maybe in his sixties, in a very ragged pair of overalls. He was carrying a welding machine and struggled to get it onto the bus.

Further up the road we picked up three gentlemen and two ladies, all about twenty-five years old and all carrying Bibles.  I remarked also, that they were all very smartly dressed.

When we stopped next it was to pick up another young man, about the same age as the five bible toting church goers. In stark contrast though, he was wearing a dirty pair of jeans and an equally filthy T-shirt. In either hand he had a pint of beer. His face was a dazed mask of inebriation. He staggered precariously as he stepped towards the commuter. He bumped into the side of the vehicle once or twice and then came tumbling inside. He fell in a heap next to one of the lady churchgoers and a stench of stale beer filled the bus. His neighbour moved as far from him as she could and screwed up her face in a vain attempt to block out the smell he was exuding in such copious doses.

Oblivious of the stress he was causing the latest addition to the collection of passengers raised his two bottles of beer and looked at them one by one as if deciding which one to drink from. He chose the one in his left hand and noisily took a huge sip from it.

Recovering from the shock caused by this, the churchgoers started talking. “We were truly blessed at last week’s service,” said one, “Pastor preached really well.” “Oh yes,” agreed another, “I am really looking forward to his sermon today.”

The hwindi started collecting his money. Everyone paid but it seemed the old man with the welding machine was having some trouble finding enough money. He was ten dollars short.
“Sekuru I want my money.” That was the hwindi.
“I am looking for it.” He searched every pocket on his person to no avail and then looked blankly at the hwindi.
“Sekuru, why did you get on if you knew that you didn’t have the right fare? This is what I don’t like. An old man like yourself must not do silly things like this.”
“I thought I had enough,” replied the old welder, “I don’t know what happened to the ten dollars.”
“Stupid old man. I want my money.” I thought it wasn’t necessary to say that.

All other conversation stopped and we listened to the exchanges between the hwindi and the welder.

“Who are you calling a stupid old man? I will beat you up you insolent child!”
“I want my money, otherwise we’ll stop and you can walk the rest of the way to town.”
“If that’s the case, then I’ll walk. I’ve been walking all my life.”

“Heyi pakiti!” interjected the young drunkard very loudly indeed, “Whatsa  problem? Imali inengi eZimbabwe (There is a lot of money in Zimbabwe). Don’t worry. Ngiyakusorta mudhala (I’ll help you old man).” He took out a hundred dollars and gave it to the hwindi. “Here tshomi. Give change to mudhala. Cheers!” he gulped one of his beers again.

Behind him the churchgoers had recommenced their discussion about how blessed they had been the previous week…