Interesting message right here
The driver of the Matatu I boarded was old. I am not certain though, whether it was the cruelties of life or he had just simply seen plenty of days, he looked really old though and it was alarming that any traffic policeman would let such a frail little thing take charge of as many lives as he could carry in his Matatu per day.
He had a scar right above his left eyebrow, but you had to lean close enough to see it. Wrinkles crisscrossed his forehead like lanes would on a road. His bushy eyebrows had turned ash grey and his eyelashes did little to protect his eyes from the wrath of the wind. And when he laughed at any particular joke on radio, his laughter bellowed and filled the Matatu with its richness. It seemed to come from within the stomach, rise through the chest and cause…
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Fine peace of art
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