hair and eyes, a smattering of pimple scars like paw prints on his forehead. ‘It’s not a deep question,’ he said.
The older gentleman sitting in 23D across the aisle broke in. ‘The young lady must have been thinking of the question of the chicken or the egg.’ He smiled stickily at Thandi.
‘Mmm?’ Thandi smiled back, suppressing her impatience.
‘You know,’ 23D adjusted his spectacles, ‘that profound question: which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ His accent was somewhere between English and Zinglish. He nattered on about poultry and embryos, snakes and tails, the problem of origins, the origin of species…
‘But what if the first chicken ate the first egg?’ 23C interrupted with a laugh, the diamond stud in his ear flashing as his head tipped back. Brenda leaned forward to look at him over the drink she was pouring for row 22. Her cart bumped Thandi’s cart, which slid towards her. Thandi stopped it with her foot and set the brake.
‘Nice move,’ the young guy murmured.
Thandi smiled grimly. ‘Chicken? Or beef?’
‘Oh, ya, ya. Beef, please.’
She plunked a red-striped tiffin on his tray and turned to the other side of the aisle.
‘Chicken,’ said the older gentleman in 23D. ‘And what is your name, young lady?’
Nerves tingled in the back of her neck. Name requests often preceded complaints. She pointed at her badge with pursed lips.
He squinted at it. ‘Thandiwe! A good Ndebele name. I am Dr Bernard Phiri.’
She shook the doctor’s hand, then promptly undid the brake and backed the cart. She had a job to do. So she did it, offering chicken or beef to a boy with his hand cocked into a gun; to a fussy woman who wanted fish; to a sleeping man she hesitated to wake up, so beguiling was his slumber. Thandi noticed that, when Brenda reached row 23, she leaned her bosom into the young man’s view, poured him a double shot of whisky, let her hand linger on his wrist. Several rows later, Thandi could still smell his CK One cologne and Dr Phiri’s tobacco breath.
These scents mingled with the gross puffery that came from the lavatory soon after, forming a thick aura in the kitchenette. Thandi and Brenda rotated silently through it, cleaning up, then sat in their separate folding seats.
* * *
Ding. A softer bell. Someone had pressed the call button. Still strapped in, Brenda turned to peer through the curtains, then unbuckled and jumped up. ‘I’ll get it!’ she said peppily, her curvy body wobbling rapidly down the aisle. Thandi unbuckled and stood and peeked out, scanning the ceiling for the red nub. 23C. Brenda was already leaning over, smiling and tossing her hair weave. Thandi rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a bit much,’ she snarked to Ghostfriend Brenda. ‘The age difference alone…’ Real Brenda glanced at her and Thandi ducked behind the curtain. After a moment she peeped out – damn! Spotted. Brenda beckoned her. They walked towards each other in the aisle, Brenda looking slumped even under her shoulder pads.
‘He wants you, of course,’ Brenda clucked over her shoulder as they turned sideways to pass bum to bum. The ‘of course’ was about skin colour – Thandi and the young man were both coloured. Thandi frowned until she reached 23C. Then she turned and smiled with closed lips.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Yaaa…’ he said, staring at Thandi’s breasts as if willing her uniform to split open. His smile faltered as he took in her posture. He cleared his throat. ‘Are you…Zimbabwean?’
‘Yes?’ she said, wondering if he was. His tackies looked expensive.
‘I’m just wondering if you’ve had passport problems—’
Thandi sighed. Not this again. Dr Phiri across the aisle caught her eye and shook his head.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Thandi said to the young man. ‘But we cannot advise—’ She saw the kitchenette curtains open at the end of the aisle. Brenda appeared, waving and pointing grumpily at her watch. Time to clear the trays. ‘You can address any questions about your passport at immigration in Lusaka.’
‘Um, actually—’ He motioned her closer. She leaned in cautiously. His whisky breath was sweet and stringent, sugar cubes strung on a line of acid. ‘I just wanted to tune you for a beat. Can I get your digits?’ he whispered.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I—’ She shook her head stiffly.
‘Ya, ya, no warrries,’ he said, exaggerating his accent. ‘It’s cool, it’s cool.’
She smiled with closed lips and stood up straight. Just as she stepped back towards the kitchenette, she felt it – a hand cupping her bum. It could