Bus gods
Buses in Casablanca have a strange, mythological aspect to them. With no fixed schedule, they come and go as they please, indifferent to your wishes and prayers. Like cold, bored gods, their only entertainment is your torment. As you’ve finished your ten-hour shift, you join the rest of the faceless people on the bus stop, find an adequate looking wall to lean on, and pray to the cruel bus gods. I’m tired, I’d like to go home. Would you please have a working AC today? Could I please have a square meter for myself and my very tired feet? But the sun is blazing and the gods are laughing at your misery. A few buses pull by and away, but none of them have the magic number you’re looking for. The adequate wall you were leaning on was, in fact, not as adequate as you first thought, judging by the paint marks left on the back of your sweaty shirt. You groan in disgust, and the bus gods raise their cups with a thundering laugh, enjoying the show. Half an hour comes and goes, then...