It was the second time I had met her. She still wore her white shirt a lot of material bigger than her scrawny self. I had never spoken to her but whenever she had sat in front of me; I had taken long absorbed gazes at her.
The skin on her face was never flattering and her eyes—they seemed too distant to be in the present. She looked like someone with a simple past yet too afraid, somewhat timid and tightly shut to the outside world.
From two seats away, she would pick her black kinky hair unaware of her behind; struggling futilely to relax the fairly done twists on her head. They stood like spikes on a porcupine—defiant and determined to remain where they were.
She would steal several glances at the side mirror from behind the bus driver as if to show her discontent with the image that stared back.
She could easily be ignored but there was an oddly striking thing about her. She looked so frail and yet seemed so strong. She reminded me of an old fishing town several miles away from Lome, inhabited by mostly grandmothers and grandfathers.