Zwanga

Early in the morning a dust cloud rolled closer and closer to the truck with its load of sleeping Bears and when it stopped Zwanga the mechanic emerged from its center, untied his toolbox from the backseat of the motorcycle, crawled under the truck and pointed a flashlight into the dark mass of twisted wiring and tubing.

Pearl Nobuntu who had slept sitting up in the driver’s seat, rubbed her eyes and listened to the mechanic’s curses for a moment; then she slid out of the cabin and greeted him with a whispered,
“Not in front of the Bears’ you wouldn’t want their first African words to be swearwords.”

She was speaking to a pair of splattered tennis shoes and the legs of stained and torn overalls, but when he heard her voice Zwanga rolled into the open from underneath the engine and looked up at her stately figure.

“Oh, don’t worry so much Pearl; they’ll learn plenty of proper words when they get to the school.” With a quizzical look at her tent-like skirt he continued, “Have you been underneath this truck? Have you ever been attacked by loose pieces of metal and leaking hoses? By dangling wires? Have you tried to turn rusted bolts?” He sat up, then raised his body to its full height and finished his rant, “If you haven’t, then don’t tell me to be quiet.”

“I didn’t mean for you to be quiet, just choose your words more carefully.”

“Oh dear, I don’t seem to be able to find Miss Nobuntu’s pfffft, because black motor grease decorates the underside of this truck. Ah, here is a nice sharp edge; I must get out of its way before it caresses me. Please, whatever you do, lovely automobile, don’t drip oil into my eyes. If I can’t see I can’t fix you?”

As quickly as Zwanga’s temper had flared it subsided, and he laughed. “Good morning Pearl! I hope your night was not too uncomfortable.”

By now a pair of eyes watched from the window and waking up noises could be heard from the interior of the truck.

“Good morning to you, Bears.” Zwanga said in a loud voice, “One of you come out here and get the bread and thermos of tea from the backpack on the motorcycle.”

“It’s a lovely morning,” Pearl Nobuntu chirped, “let’s have tea before you fix the truck.

Zwanga looked at her and for a moment he regretted his disorderly attire and the axle grease that had invaded the crevices of his large hands during many years of coaxing life from old vehicles. “I better get to work before the wilderness wakes,” he said, “but you and the Bears enjoy your breakfast.”

Miss Nobuntu was disappointed. She liked his company. The Bears could take care of themselves for a while she thought as she followed the mechanic to the other side of the truck. “I’ll stay here with you,” she said, “somebody has to protect your skinny old legs from wild beasts.”