It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
“Do not eat like an animal Bomi. Wherever are you from? I told you to close your mouth while munching or you just might make others lose their appetite.” “Sorry Mrs." Said Bomi. “It is I’m sorry ma!” Said Mrs Dagogo. Bomi tried to adhere to her warnings by sitting straight, taking his elbows off the dining table and chewing with mouth closed, which lasted but five minutes. Unconsciously, provoking sounds ca me out of his mouth, food particles dropped on the table and the tarred floor was marred. The fork given to Bomi only decorated his right hand while the left did the job of the fork. These did not go unnoticed by Mrs who cursed herself for her action which she considered stupid and a spur of the moment. She was on her way to work that morning when she witnessed an angry m ob pour ing their wei ghts on a little boy accused of theft. Pleading on his behalf, she asked what he had stolen. It was an apple. Mrs paid the mob for twenty apples and brought the little ...