The Tourist

With one mammoth step forward, he 
sidestepped the holes that decorated the uneven path, 
and swiftly,  
he reached the ageing and rickety bus, 
filled with sardine passengers with a mix of 
confusion and eagerness in their eyes. 
With a heavy tug, 
his kitchen-sized luggage lagged 
behind him, 
stuck in the confines of 
here and there. 
Another quick heaving tug, and the worn, rusty doors 
freed it, 
allowing it to escape with its owner. 
Eyes darted to him suddenly, 
pupil-wide glances moved up and down,  
then 
just as quickly, 
just as suddenly, 
eyes whipped away, 
not wanting to engage with 
this                 stranger. 
We knew of course. 
We all knew. 
From the way his 
hawaiian shirt dripped in sweat, 
and clung to the hairs of his chest, 
under the punishing sun. 
From the way his 
dark green khaki shorts 
kissed his knobbly knees. 
From the way his 
tousled curly, dark brown hair 
splattered across his forehead, while a 
handful of high-spirited ringlets danced above his   eyebrows. 
And most of all, 
from the way his milky smooth skin glistered, 
begging to be kissed by the 
roaring sun. 
We knew. 
We all knew. 
Everything about him was wrong. 
No.
Different. 
Strange. 
We definitely knew who he was. 
Onye njem nleta.