Waiting for a bus

There he stands at the street corner. The delicious morning breeze chills the sweat crawling down his protruding spine. The rising sun peeps through the canopy of neem leaves and blinds his Casio’s face. That very watch was a gift from his tenth birthday.  It had moved from being a timeless chronometer to a sentimental reminder of a period in time.
Combustion engines swished by like cheetahs on the loose, billowing his neatly pressed faded shirt. They didn’t notice him. They were too busy achieving what they were built to do. He was too busy trying to do what he wanted to do. And there he was on the foreign aid built pavement,  oblivious of the bus conductors repeating their destinations in a rhythmic loop. In an eager ploy to fill their buses, the stench from their un-laundered shirts discomfort the passengers near them. A group of unkempt kids in rag like attire in the guise of a school uniform hurried past him.
He didn’t mind them or any other detractor in the environment. There he stood on the street corner, with his made in Ghana shoes rooted to the ground.  Absent minded but active minded. The indistinct chirps were not perceived by all inhaling the monoxide filled air that hung like stockings at Christmas.  The leaves rustled, acquiescing to the wind. Nature abound but no one noticed.
So here he was on the street corner, admiring the withered brown leaves sway to a gentle drop. Paying attention to the indistinct songs being sang by the free birds, flapping the wind the wind beneath their wings. There he was paying attention.

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