Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Unsplash

The lone tricycle cab [‘keke’ as she knew it in her country] coursed its way through the thick black night that even the dimly lit road could not dissipate. A gloomy aura overwhelmed her in this foreign land even as she battled with the biggest mosquitoes she had ever seen. It was her first time in Pindicapolis and she had felt scared to have arrived in it after midnight. This small open cab [for the low class] was what she could afford with her meager means.

Its driver was wearing a yellow khaki shirt and a wrapper around his waist. He had a long unkempt beard and a moist tattoo dotted on his fore head. He smelt like sweat mixed with spices; in fact, the whole place smelt of a mixture of spices. It was what hit you on alighting from the plane. The smell was just more pungent sitting closely behind a driver it oozed from. It felt unsafe to be so exposed on an unfamiliar road and at such a time but she took the risk anyway, anxious to get into the safety of a cozy hotel room and rest before dawn.

Back home she had checked a couple of Pindicapolis hotels posted on the internet; they all looked nice and sparkling and so she chose the one that promised comfort at a cheaper price than the others... continue in INTROSPECTIONS



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