If heaven is peaceful, then the opposite of heaven is any bus rank at month-end. That place is not a transport terminal. It’s anger with parking bays. Nobody at the rank is emotionally okay.
The conductors are angry. The drivers are angry. The hawkers are angry. Even the lady selling fat cakes looks one wrong question away from baptising somebody in cooking oil. And the day hasn’t even started yet.
You arrive peacefully, assuming you’ll just get transport quietly. Mistake. Immediately, a conductor materialises from nowhere, screaming destination names directly into your bloodstream. ‘MBABANE! MBABANE! SIYAHAMBA!’
Calm down. The kombi is still empty enough to host a church conference, but the bus rank people don’t communicate normally. Everything is aggressive. Even pointing directions feels personal. “Where are you going? Mashibhini. THIS SIDE!”
Now you’re being dragged through the rank like stolen livestock. Conductors don’t guide passengers; they herd them. Why are they so touchy? A conductor can grab your elbow, shoulder and lower back in one movement like he’s teaching ballroom dancing during a national emergency.
No personal space. No warning. Just public manhandling before sunrise. Hhawu! And nobody smells calm at the rank. Some kombis smell like boiled eggs and regret. You enter the vehicle and immediately your nostrils file a resignation letter. The windows are closed.
A man nearby is eating polony with confidence. Another passenger removes his shoes as if this were his lounge at home. Now everybody inside is suffering together in silence because Africans would rather perish respectfully than tell another adult: “Boss… your feet are enhancing global warming.” Public transport teaches endurance.
You cannot be arrogant while sweating beside a stranger carrying live chickens and a crying toddler holding snacks. The rank humbles everybody equally: Pastor, teacher, CEO or side-chick with emotional damage. All of you will suffer together in traffic near Matsapha. The noise. My God! The bus rank sounds like Satan running a music festival. One kombi is blasting Gospel music. Another is playing Amapiano loudly enough to rearrange internal organs.
A preacher nearby is fighting demons through a loudspeaker purchased in 2021. A hawker is screaming, ‘TWO FOR TWENTY!’ Meanwhile, a baby is crying like it pays rent. It’s chaos. Beautiful, stressful chaos.
And every rank has ‘too helpful’ people. You ask one innocent question: “Excuse me, where do I get the Ezulwini kombi?” Suddenly, the entire transport industry gets involved. “This side! No, there! Hhayi, not that one! Run!” Now you’re jogging emotionally while strangers debate your destination like United Nations officials handling the Gulf region crisis.
A man wearing one torn flip-flop will confidently send you to Nhlangano while you’re trying to get to Mbabane. That’s society in general. The least informed people always speak with the confidence of prophets. Then there are the bus rank philosophers. Every rank has one unemployed uncle standing near the fruit stalls discussing politics with terrifying authority.
“The economy is collapsing because young people don’t listen.” Bafo, respectfully, you’ve been wearing the same leather jacket since 2004. Relax. Honestly, people are angry at the rank because life is hard. Everybody is tired. Everybody is broke. Everybody is late for work. That’s why small things become dangerous. One accidental shoulder bump and suddenly two grown men are removing jackets publicly over E2 change.
Psychologists say when angry, count to 10. Count to 10? At a bus rank? At three, somebody has already insulted your bloodline and stepped on your white All Stars. Personally, I’ve developed survival techniques. When somebody starts shouting at me at the rank, I stop seeing a human being entirely and begin identifying which animal they resemble. This method has saved careers and possibly lives.
One conductor shouted at me so aggressively I thought: “Hhawu… this is kasongo that learnt how to collect taxi fare.” You know how warthogs behave? Angry for no reason. Built like unfinished furniture. Running around with confidence they did not earn. The neck movement. The snorting. The random aggression. And the skinny jeans made it worse because now he looked like a warthog that discovered Amapiano and heartbreak simultaneously. Pure kasongo behaviour.
Then there are the baboons. Usually, loud men arguing about football with veins popping out of their necks like they’re negotiating peace talks. And like your workplace, every rank has goats. Chaotic people.
Always pushing. Always shouting. Always chewing loudly while participating in confusion, they didn’t start. Goat behaviour. And kombi drivers? Kombi drivers genuinely believe they are Formula One drivers trapped inside public transport. A driver sees a gap the size of a lunchbox and farts through it.
Now the whole kombi becomes religious. One-woman whispers, ‘Jesu…’ Another clutches groceries like they’re life insurance policies. Meanwhile, the driver is overtaking trucks with the confidence of a man who owes child maintenance. That’s why everybody arrives at work already angry. The rank has damaged them spiritually before 8am. So please, fellow citizens, protect your peace. Carry earphones. Use deodorant aggressively. Avoid arguments while hungry.
And if somebody starts shouting at you tomorrow morning at the rank, don’t react immediately. Study the face carefully because once you realise the angry man insulting you looks exactly like a kasongo that discovered skinny jeans and temporary authority, the anger disappears instantly. Honestly, that may be the only thing standing between civilisation and two grown men fighting next to a kombi called No Stress.
Adios, folks!
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