The sweet, sticky heat makes my clothes stick to my skin. I am damp to the touch, dripping with the unavoidable refuse of my art. Yes, I am an artist my friend, although you may not think so. How else can you explain what I do? I walk the town like a vagabond of the vanguard, a viscous fluid in the arteries of Bongo streets, providing for your every need.
All it takes is a single look, you know the one, while you inch along in the snaking foleni hoping for some form of respite, and you pleadingly glance out your half-rolled down window, I see the yearning in your eyes. Before you even know what it is that you desire, I will be there, with karanga na maji and perhaps a cigarette or two. I will provide. You take what I offer with subtle contempt, annoyed that I know you better than yourself, but alas, what is an artist to do?
Excerpt from ‘I am machinga’ by Hafiz Juma