There’s that face of a lady, in a matatu that your mind drifts to, to escape the bedlam and clatter of traffic . It’s an island of emeralds, marbles, hazels, roses, Fuchsias and sweet williams ; beautiful butterflies, buzzing bees, on year long springs with sprinkles of autumn. Home to flying fairies and fresh faced elves. And friendly green mambas, bunnies and puppies . That face from whence spring floods of childhood fairy-tales. Particularly a village by a meadow in a green glen surrounded by pine, whistling pine in the arms of gentle breezes.
At dusk crickets pour their hearts out. And the birds rest their tired cords. Then from somewhere at the heart of the glen comes the voice of a violin. Suddenly all crickets are silent, all whistling pines cock their leaves taking in every ounce of the delicious tunes. Tunes, like honey lingering upon your tongues taking its time on your taste buds, stick to your ears. Then comes the silken voice, washing over your soul. All the glen is silent, all thoughts lost to the beauty of a voice. The moon is pushing apart the clouds to see for itself such beauty in a mortal;revealing her face to eyes on craned necks, and pine branches. She is the lady in the matatu, now staring at you with a knowing smile.