Your tools of the trade comprise feet, chalk, dusters and voices
You walk to and fro blackboards, write, rub off, ask questions, get answers or sometimes stares, advise and emphasise
The pay is poor but you persevere
When candidates pass national examinations few of us credit you
But when they fail we demand either for your sackings or transfers
During passing out parades you pledge to serve everybody without fear or favour
You wear blue shirts, blouses, trousers, berets, black boots and bear arms
The pay and accommodation are pathetic but you persevere
When crime escalates we say you are inefficient, corrupt...
When you kill armed suspects we accuse you of violating their human rights
When you die in the line of duty your families grieve alone and suffer financial meltdowns
We wake up every morning and find you have prepared breakfast
We wake up every morning and find you have ironed our clothes and polished our shoes
We rush to school and work without thanking you or wishing you a nice day
We come back in the evening and find you have cooked dinner
We come back in the evening and find you have cleaned our homes
We accommodate, feed and even clothe you, so why should we pay you the minimum wage?
But you persevere
Your hourglass figure attracts fathers and sons
Daily your fists bang matatus' bodies as you yell for passengers
Uncombed hair, unironed clothes, cigarette breath, facial scars are your badges of honour
Your speed and sometimes the old-boy networks determine your wages
After passengers fill a matatu, conductors toss you a 'blue' coin to your thirsty palms
We question the relevance of your services
Because who doesn't know his/her destination?
We heed the call that the youth should employ themselves instead of searching for employment
Some of us then buy socks, skirts, kitchenware, bras, blouses...
Line them on pavements and beseech passers-by to buy them for a song
But shopkeepers complain we are blocking their entrances, ruining their businesses and evading taxes
The local authorities criticise us for littering the streets after we leave
The government bans hawking in the city centre but we defy it, prompting riot policemen to bang sense into our skulls
Sometimes we flee peacefully, sometimes we first torch electricity transformers
copyright 2007: festus mbuimwe aka wamoronjia
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