Jesus and chickens: surrealism on a boda

I’m sitting on the back of a bodaboda, fighting to keep my skirt from flying up. Night is falling, and the headlights of the cars are just beginning to outshine the glow from the sky. The traffic before the clock tower roundabout is the usual jam: a complete standstill, cars packed seven deep. Once through the intersection the formation doesn’t change, only the speed. Cars, trucks and bodas whiz along in concert like one interlocking unit. My boda, which usually slices through the traffic like an agile swimmer heading upstream, gets stuck behind a huge lorry. It’s piled with row upon row of yellow plastic jerry cans. I count six high and five wide and there must be at least 40 deep. They are all tied on with rope and secured with a tarp, but the arrangement still seems precarious. I wonder how long can all those individual plastic units continue moving at the same speed in the same direction? The truck is enormous: its back fills my entire field of vision. The space behind the truck, framed by cars and bodas on the remaining three sides, becomes a stable little universe with all the planets barreling along at exactly the same speed. We travel like this for five minutes, maybe more. Time seems to stand still. I can see all the details on the back of the truck including, clearly, a tiny red sign that says “keep back.” Then I look down: below the bumper of the truck, on a giant mudflap that stretches across the entire backside, are the hand-lettered words: “The Lord is my Shepherd.” My mind flashes to the rest of the verse: Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. With a shock I discover my lips forming the words. Though I’m afraid, I have to laugh at myself. If the truck should betray the harmony of our little mobile universe and stop suddenly, I would slam headfirst into a cartoon picture of Jesus and his flock, mouthing a prayer about sheep. Then, as if confirm my suspicions about the absurdity of the situation, I notice that the man on the bodaboda to my right has attached, upside down by their feet, two live and immobile chickens, one on either side of his passenger seat. I stare into the beady little eyes chicken closest to me, and he stares back. I’d like to think that he, that the universe, winked. “Well,” I thought, “there’s someone in a significantly tighter spot than me.” Then suddenly the traffic shifted and the conspiracy of momentum was broken. A gap opened to the left of the truck, and my boda maneuvered us out of the charmed pocket. I waved goodbye to the chicken and we continued on our way, bobbing and weaving around potholes and pedestrians as if we had been doing it our whole lives.  ¶ 12:21 PM