Suddenly, we were thrown against our seats. The bus
driver swore, jumped out and slammed the door behind him. The passengers
twisted round to see what was going on and the old chadori woman
muttered under her breath. The bus driver was shaking his fist at a motorist
who had rammed the back of us; the motorist was swearing, insulting the bus
driver’s mother and sisters. A crowd of curious passers-by was closing in.
The dispute could go on for hours, but class would begin in fifteen minutes:
I would have to find another way to get to school.
I left the bus, avoiding the old woman’s disapproving
eyes, and stood on the pavement, scanning traffic. A taxi was crawling along
on the other side, and I rushed across, dodging motorbikes, and knocked on
the window. “Can you take me to Shemi
