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Sitting on the back of the truck, biting his nails, watching drivers in their cars fly past him as the foreman drove him towards his house. His was always the last stop of the day.
He was a tall man, out of proportion in a way that his arms and legs didn't quite look like they belonged to his body. He had coarse, dark brown hair, which would probably be a shade lighter if he kept it washed. Although, his eyes matched his hair colour, so dark that the pupils were indistinguishable. His face, dark and wrinkled from the years in the sun and his beard shaven, except for the patches just under his jaw line that he always missed.
He had on his usual work clothes, blue overalls, arms tied around the waist, with only a white vest to protect him from the harsh sun. You could tell he was a labourer his whole life by the strength, clearly visible, in his fore-arms. His hands bore signs of hardship, scars, maybe from fighting, that weren't allowed to heal, across his knuckles and nails which were bitten as far back as his teeth could reach.
He was responsible for making sure that every load of bricks was carried up the ladder, onto the roof of the half-finished house in a suburb who's name so fancy that he couldn't even pronounce it. Years of mundane work had taken their toll. There was no ambition left in his dull eyes, just a robotic "yes sir" attitude which pushed him through the eight hour day.
It was a long drive out of suburbia and into the slum area he grew up in, but he was used to it by now. Two and half hours in the back of that truck everyday, watching the rest of the world go by. Sometimes he would manage to get a little bit of sleep, especially in the mornings as his four hours of sleep at night was never enough. But now, in the middle of summer, the sun was up too early and beating down on him.
He often thought about the lives of the people he saw in traffic, and how they lived. He already knew what kind of houses they lived in. He knew all the details, the types of wood used, the weight of the wall tiles in the kitchen, and the fact that one toilet cost more than four weeks worth of his wages.
He could never comprehend how so much money could be spent on such unnccessary luxuries, especially when he had a family to feed. His house was nothing more than one room. Four walls covered with ageing timber, acting as a roof, which almost completely keept out the summer rains. By now, his wife would be cooking dinner, most probably maize meal, and a small slice of cheese each. They had saved well over the weekend.
She could not find a job, and as much as she wanted to look harder, she did not have any time after caring for the children.
He was almost at home now, he woke up from his light nap after the truck veered onto the dirtroad of his informal suburb. As the truck came to a stop, he grabbed his small bag and jumped out of the back. The truck sped off without a word from the driver at all. He thought again about the people he had been watching in traffic, and although his foreman was rude and didn't even talk to him, at least he had the luxury of being dropped off at his front door everyday.
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