SNOW SHIFT

Mawazo came out of his sleep rather reluctantly, where again his dream had floated him back to Salmini village, in his home country Abantonea. His mobile phone alarm had roused him from camaraderie with his childhood friends. The alarm was a muffled siren-like sound that began softly, but gradually grew to a crescendo. If he didn't stop it, it would wake up everyone in the whole flat. He reached out his hand to the low-lying coffee table, where it lay wailing, and its dim light throwing a strange blue light on the settee opposite him.

He pressed the tiny stop button and ended the disturbing sound.

Across the room where the blue light shone, an outline of a man's face stared back at him. His heart raced as he stared at the face which was very pale; the unmistaken face of a well-known personality in his home country. Now in real panic, he raised his head to look at it keenly, only to realise that it was the reflections of the light on the decorations and the buttons on the settee. Eerie and strange images, had of late been playing on his mind, and this unsettled him a lot. The state of his mind followed the turbulent political events from his country some of which bordered on the macabre.

His bedsit room felt chillier than usual and he began to think about the warm cosy cottage that housed his wife and children in Salmini. At this poignant moment, he could give anything to be where they were. But he had to earn a living and fulfil the promise he had made to them twenty-four months ago: to buy a piece of land and build them a permanent house.

The irony of his circumstances made him laugh nervously at himself. Here he was, living in a bedsitter, in Vikony, a small country, but whose currency enabled him to raise enough wealth to improve the lifestyles of his own kith and kin. Were it not for the fact that the menial wages he toiled for in Vikony translated into a comfortable income in Abantonea, he would have thrown in the towel and headed straight back home. But a sense of pride and the hope of a better future propelled him to hang on. The time difference between Abantonea and Vikony meant that it was approaching dusk at this time in his home country. Mawazo wondered what Amina and his children were doing now. They were probably seated around the hearth on the couch, telling folktales and shelling the maize and stacking them in sisal sacks, ready for storage in traditional barns.

He jumped out of bed, dashed into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and dry-cleaned himself using a wet sponge. Although he normally took less than five minutes to take a shower, he thought it was already getting late, and he needed to move much faster. Once he was done with his bathing, he packed a sandwich and some fruit juice into his back-pack, dressed himself warmly against the winter cold, and headed for the bus-top down the road. Outside, the pavements and the narrow streets of Dale City were snow-covered, and cold rain mercilessly lashed at him. As he walked briskly towards the bus-top, he saw two white girls, probably coming from a late-night party, walking towards his direction. When they noticed him, they quickly crossed the road at a trot, to avoid meeting him.

He sighed sadly, but nevertheless told himself that they were doing what was in their best interest. However, he could never comprehend what threat he posed to those who evaded him. Only he knew the deep sense of rejection he felt, owing to the fact that warmth was the by-word for Salminian character. Warm weather embraced you all the year round, and complemented the laughter and the warm nature of the people, he thought. Abantoneans only ran away from dangerous persons or a deranged man.

As he approached the narrow glass shed bus stop, he saw two thin chocolate coloured females. He recognised them as the newcomers who had joined Minster Coleslaw factory the previous day. From their features, it was really difficult to tell their gender. Apart from the high pitched low voices, their thin bodies betrayed neither feminine bosoms nor waistlines. With half their faces hidden under woollen hats to keep their heads warm, it was really difficult to tell whether they were actually teenage boys or girls. Their faces brightened a little when they recognised him. They chattered in a guttural language which came out in a trembling hiss as their teeth clattered because of the cold.

Mawazo wondered which gale storms had washed them onto these shores, and why they were here on their own. Nevertheless, they chattered away, totally oblivious that Mawazo was concerned about them.

As five-thirty in the morning approached, more people filled the now crowded bus shelter. It wasn't really a shelter as the wayfarers were getting wet from the sleet that was falling on them at right angles. The bus taking them to Minster soon arrived and stopped at the edge of the shed. The winter chill this morning was so biting that Mawazo felt pain in his fingers and knees. It was as if sharp needles were pricking his fingers and knee caps. Three males arrived just as the bus stopped. It was hard to distinguish their half-hidden faces because of the hoods covering their heads. They queued to board the bus, three pairs of catlike eyes twinkling out of dark caverns where their faces should have been.

The bus, an old double-decker Ford Leyland was hired by The Personnel Agency to carry temporary workers from Dale City to Minster Coleslaw factory twenty miles north. Inside the lower deck of the bus were two dozen or so hooded personnel who sat or crouched silently in their seats as though journeying to a fateful destination against their will. Apart from responding to quiet greetings from acquaintances, they mostly remained silent or slept during the twenty minute's journey.

In a short while, the darkness outside and the silence in the bus created a repressive atmosphere which engulfed the reticent human cargo travelling north. Fifteen minutes or so later, as the Ford Leyland droned towards its destination, a dark stocky bespectacled man who introduced himself as Willy Notter (he pronounced it Nutter) appeared from nowhere with a paper in his hand. He read what he said were the Agency and factory regulations which had to be strictly followed.

'If you f......g can't follow this simple rules', he said, cursing profusely, 'then you better catch the next f......g bus back to Dale.'

'The Agency cannot cover for your big-headed stubbornness', he went on, 'and we pay you for obeying the rules and doing a good job.'

He went on to welcome all new comers to the factory, and wished them a rewarding Christmas work. He suggested that if anyone wanted to continue working till mid-night they could see him immediately as there were few places to fill. When the bus came to a stop next to Minster Coleslaw factory Willy Nutter led the group in a single file to the factory changing room. Here a factory orderly was standing sombrely, in all whites, like a surgeon waiting to perform a difficult operation. Absurd as the comparison was, his duty of directing workers to different sections of the Coleslaw factory was a much loathsome job. Even though all sections of the factory were equally detested, he was still seen as the executor of workers misery. Like a doctor conveying bad news to the next of kin, he the bore brunt of the workers' hatred.

In the meantime, perhaps to fill in the time or for the benefit of the orderly, Willy proceeded to instruct the newcomers what size of Wellington boots or overcoats to wear. Satisfied that he had done his bit, he laughed uproariously and wished them a good day as he headed for the bus.

Even though Mawazo had gone through this drill numerous times before, it appeared like a dream to him. The agency supervisor's strong language, the cold weather and the bizarre hour of starting work all combined to make his experience surreal. On the other hand, the mute-like deportment of the workers, most of who were foreigners reminded him of his history teacher telling their class of a people who were shipped in chains across the seas to work for their masters in far lands. In his lifetime Mawazo had done odds and bits of work. His claims that the work he once did in a morgue could never compare to the chilly atmosphere at Minster factory was as unbelievable as it was chilling.

True the temperatures at Minster Coleslaw were deliberately kept far much below freezing point, even in winter. For some strange reasons the supervisors' ill-tempers added to the misery of the weather. Mawazo thought that the management either intentionally employed foul-mouthed temperamental supervisors or the cold rooms changed their behaviour.

This morning as these thoughts went through Mawazo's mind, he could not help wondering how unreasonable life could be. He thought about the favourable climate at home, amidst the backdrop of short supply of well-paying work. Working in a cold room for eight hours would not be such a punishing ordeal in Abantonea, he thought. He could even do the extra shift if it was as well-paying as it was here. But life was not a straight line.

He grabbed the nearest large white coat and slid his feet into size nine wellington boots. Just as he was trying to evade the gaze of the factory orderly, he heard him say:

'Hey you! Yes, Mawazo. You are in the mixing room today', he stressed gleefully as if paying back a wrong-doing. Knowing that the man's word was final, Mawazo entered the washroom to wash his hands, in readiness for the frozen conditions of the mixing room. He steeled his mind and body for the next eight hour ordeal by visualising the sunny weather in Salmina.

Quietly whistling the tune madh mari kata tin (have your own drink however little) he put his heart and soul on mixing mashed potatoes, cabbages and milk, looking forward to another dawn shift.