Look at Africa

Sticky bare knees pressed against each other in the bush taxi as we waited for the off. Outside, Serekunda hummed, heat rising like rippling steam as the locals vied for attention. We had been instructed to keep our eyes forward, to gaze at the seats with their innards spilling forth, to focus on the rather alarming hole in the floor of the vehicle which now framed the white-toothed grin of a local boy as he wriggled underneath to get a better look at the pale-faced visitors. I grinned back and alerted my companions to the intrusion. Then we were all grinning and, throwing caution to the lack of wind, turned our heads and looked at Africa.

A sandaled foot dangled in my line of sight as the owner of it scrabbled to seat himself on the roof of the taxi. It rocked slightly as he shifted and settled his weight. Women with baskets balanced on plaited heads manoeuvred skilfully through the throng of action, pausing to offer the fruit they carried to potential buyers. A few caught sight of us and soon cashew fruit and mangoes were being thrust through the gaps in the windows, obliging us to route around in our pockets for the remaining dalasi that had survived the market earlier that day. The paper currency was thin in our hands, on the verge of turning to dust and adding to poverty’s crusade.

Then came women with different loads to carry. Straps of brightly coloured cloth swathed their torsos and the fragile bodies of their babies. Most seemed content to drift through the crowds, searching for what they had come to seek, but one met my gaze and held it tight as she moved towards my open window. Her fingers squeezed through the gap and knotted with mine. She smiled joyfully and gestured to the sleeping baby on her back; I marvelled at how peaceful he seemed in such a roaring place. She gave me his name. Moses. Her eyes grew desperate as our bush taxi lurched with the arrival of our driver. Moses in the basket. She untied her baby and offered him up like a gift. Moses sailing down the river. I shook my head as realisation dawned. Moses sent away by a desperate mother. I held her gaze as the engine rumbled and Africa blurred into a painting caught in the rain.