Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Trinité bantoue

plastic wrap, then in tinfoil, after that in newspaper, then in big Mbânjok bags. My mother had frozen them for a few days. Without fail, Kosambela put them in the freezer as soon as she got back to Lugano. And now, the bus’s delay threatened to screw everything up. All my provisions could melt like margarine in the sun. Cioè! Finally, the bus arrives, almost an hour late. I grimace and let out a long tsssss! before getting on. With a small cloth, I wipe the beads of sweat that cover my head. My burning Kongôlibôn relaxes in the coolness of the bus’ air conditioning. It feels good. The old lady is still cursing the delays, public transportation, etc. They’re the shame of this country, she must be repeating in a loop. I’m angry too, especially since I have six more hours on the road to get to Geneva on the other side of this country. It ’s a long trip by train and I have to pray to Nzambé that my provisions will make it home unspoiled. In the bus, I stare at the driver ’s face in the rearview mirror. He’s a short, stocky, bearded man. I wonder if his feet reach the pedals. I put my bags where they’ll be safe from any possible mishap. How will Ruedi, my little Grison, react to the sight of this avalanche of food from Africa? Since I know him so well, I know that, first, he’ll smile at me. He’ll be reserved. Then he’ll ask me if the World Food Program got the wrong address. We’ll both laugh. We’ll crack a few more

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