Leo I was at Mlolongo, heading back into town via Jogoo Road, running on pure hope and 80 bob in Airtel Money. Kabla nipande, I asked the conductor, “Hadi Doni ni how much?” “70 bob.” I offered 60. Classic test. Sometimes they fold. This one didn’t. So there I was: either alight at Donholm and walk like a pilgrim, or pretend I paid all the way to town and pray the conductor develops selective blindness. I boarded the Embassava, sat down, and immediately started having an existential crisis. Five hundred metres later we stopped to pick more humans, and a short girl with cornrows and a face card that could start wars sat next to me. She smelled like she had her life together. I, meanwhile, smelled like overdue rent and unfulfilled LinkedIn applications. I wanted to say hi. I wanted to compliment her. Instead my anxiety did what it does best: turned me into a malfunctioning NPC. Also, I had exactly 10 bob left. I’d heard those legends of men paying a girl’s fare to look chivalrous. With 10 bob I couldn’t even look charitable. My sister called. I answered in French: “Hurira after thate minutes ndî matatu îna inegene, please.” The Mpongo Love babe side-eyed me. I could feel her reassessing my entire bloodline. For a second I felt like the mysterious bilingual girl in a matatu romcom. Then the club bangers kicked in, MC Mido saying unspeakable things, and when “Shake It to the Max” dropped she sang every word. Gen Z confirmed. Early twenties. Going for hepi. Me? A geriatric millennial whose idea of excitement is refreshing job boards until the Wi-Fi cries. Then it happened. She put her head on my shoulder. Looked me dead in the eyes to check my reaction. And just… stayed there. Scrolling TikTok like this was normal. People in the matatu started giving us the jealous couple stare. We looked cute except stuck in traffic between Syokimau and Pipeline with no memory-erasing machine in sight. Every time the bus hit a bump her head shifted… and she put it right back. I could feel her body heat through my black hoodie. I said nothing. Not a single word. But for a few minutes I forgot I was jobless, living at a relative’s place that had reached the “they hide the toothpaste and tissue” stage of hospitality, and refreshing job sites like a man waiting for a miracle. It felt like when a strange cat chooses you, or a baby smiles at you for no reason. Warm. Temporary. Dangerous. Maybe God sent that pretty little girl with cornrows just to distract me from my problems for one Monday evening in October. I might never see her again. But I will remember that bus ride. We got to Donholm. The conductor, who had clearly been watching me the whole time like a CCTV, asked for the remaining 20 bob. I told him the truth: I was broke. He sighed the sigh of a man who has seen every trick, then dropped me at Jogoo Road where I was supposed to alight anyway. Anyway, good people… if you know of any marketing jobs (or literally any job that doesn’t involve flying planes or performing surgery), please connect a human. My dignity and my Airtel balance thank you in advance.