Bomb

The newspaper vendor’s hoot came to a halt. His lean frame bent forward, peered and scurried away. The ice-cream cyclist swerved to the other side of the road, bumped into a waste bin. The old beggar  standing nearby hobbled towards the lamp-post. Honks. Clenched fists peeped out of a braking Camry at the flustered cyclist followed by a resounding “God punish you”. A swarm of startled faces turned towards the speeding car and then back at the bicycle-man. He shrugged, adjusted his bike and pointed away. Some pausing to see the source of his distraction, maybe lunacy. 


Nothing else was more evident than the imposing structure of a 25-storey building; Amex Plaza. Some ran gazes along the walls of the building, and its rusted metal-work to its top till their hands visored their eyes.  A few looked back at the ice-cream seller, shook their heads and shifted their feet as more people pushed their way out of the teeming crowd. He pointed again towards the building but at something else. An overweight silver trash can. Worn-out blankets sitting against the grey pavement. Condom packs. Plastic bags. Crisp dry leaves and broken twigs. A bent, folded Ghana-Must-Go bag. Rustling polythene bags. Rats, cats or snakes perhaps. It didn’t make sense to those dressed in suits, whose laptop bags chafed against their buttocks whenever they moved. They left, at first in twos, then in threes.