Nana Ray
People say taxis are for those with some money to burn. Those people don’t know what they are talking about. If you don’t ride a taxi in this economy, I am curious about the kind of stuff you are made of. I take taxis, every day, all day. I dream about which ones I’ll take the following day to whatever destination the Lord has decided I will grace with my presence. I carefully sort out the coins and notes that I will need, so I am never caught in that trap where the conductor is looking at your 20k note with a look of disgust because he has no change to return to you.
There is also another thing I hate, especially in the mornings: rain. You know, the type that starts when you wake up at five a.m. Sounding like bullets on the iron sheets and waking you up so rudely you’d wish you could spank it. Hours later, it is still raining. Raining like it has been paid. At that, on a Monday. A Monday when I’m returning to work.
It’s so strange that the sky is being such a crybaby, for three hours straight. What on earth could be going on? Just yesterday, my umbrella had given up the ghost…okay, more like the metal thingies that hold it together. My salon lady lost her uncle, so she was still away, burying her dead. This means that the current state of my hair leaves not much room for compliments. This unsightly Afro is reducing at a steady rate. By the time I get to work, I’m going to be down to a centimetre. You know how much energy it takes to stretch 4C hair back to its normal length? I dread the sceptre of the hot comb. Maybe I should go for the “big chop”. That would definitely solve a lot of my problems.
So here I am, standing on the veranda of a shop. It has the bright green colours of a GoTV advertisement: Live it, love it. There are seven other people here, all trembling and cursing, holding wet bags and rubbing their hands together for heat. There is a woman trying to brave it, but the wind is also trying to put into her the fear of the season. Her umbrella is upturned, and she starts to run to shelter as she tries to pull it down. There are other people standing on the verandas of many other shops, cursing why they got up late or why whatever plan they have for the day had to be today. I inch away from a man in a very thick blue knit sweater. I hate those types of sweaters. They always look like there could be a bedbug nestled somewhere in there. No. Not today.
A taxi slows down. I eye it as the conductor slides his window open, slightly shoots out a hand, and gesticulates, pointing upwards. I look at my watch—8:15 a.m. I am already late, but I must get going, so I wave him down at the same time as two other people on my veranda. Wow, you mean we have to race for it now?
The taxi stops a few metres in front, right next to a puddle. The driver must be blind or something. I don’t even have the grace to frown at the conductor because, you know, my crowning glory doth vanisheth by the minute. Time has no assertiveness to slow down and not just go, and these other potential passengers are serious and already running towards the car.
As expected, I get there last, and there are no seats. My heart drops…until the conductor moves from his seat and urges the other three passengers at the kameme to extend. Ha! The looks of annoyance as they make half-hearted attempts to squeeze in are something I can relate to. But in this moment, I care about getting out of the rain and the cold, and on my way to work. Not the recent health cautions about Ebola in the country and whatnot. Are these scarier than my boss? So I enter and also squeeze in. The man I sit next to grumbles. Maybe it is the unbearable dampness of my jacket against his stupidly thin shirt on a very rainy Monday morning. Or perhaps it’s the fact that my gorgeousness cannot quite be handled by the common eye- who can say?
The conductor gets in and occupies practically no space at all. It’s like he is made of string that can fit anywhere. He is so skinny and small, I wonder if he is a child? I am not very sure, though. He has a bit of a beard and large hands, but a confusingly small stature. And he is sweaty. It’s a cold, rainy morning, but he’s already sweaty.
The man angles away. I am convinced it is my gorgeousness. You haven’t seen me in the rain. I am just so glad he is trying to minimise contact. I don’t want to lean against somebody else’s warmth either. It feels like something is coming from the inside of them to the very inside of me. I hate it.
There is a woman closer to the window with a small girl in her lap. The girl is wearing a red and white chequered uniform and a red sweater. I know where that school is. All I’m thinking is, I’m going to have to get out so they can exit the taxi. Ugh. Why do these things always happen to me?
I look ahead through the windscreen to see where we are going. I’m not very sure how far we have gone, though. Is the driver really able to see? All the windows are shut fast and fogged hard. The warm feeling in here, I cannot believe I am letting myself stew in the vaporised perspirations, accumulating exhalations, perfumes, wet car odours, and a million other things I have no courage to name. All this is coming from these irresponsible passengers who are not wearing face masks. COVID-19 is a hoax these days, so people say. No one believes it is an actual reality anymore, unless you work in a hospital. Me, I believe. My friend was diagnosed just the other day and has been having a terrible time with hacking coughs and easy fatigue. I cannot have a simple two-minute conversation over the phone without having my eardrums almost burst from her violent coughing.
Just four months ago, that story was mine. COVID-19 gave some people holidays to hang out at home under the excuse of sickness. It put me down. A pounding headache, a runny nose, a loss of appetite, and the worst cough you’ve ever heard. By the time I had recovered, I had lost three whole kilograms. You should have heard my mother’s woeful cries!
Yet here I am today, a willing casualty, navigating the battlefield without my armour. I have left my mask on the dining room table, like an amateur. See why this type of rain is the spawn of evil? Sending me out like a Maji Maji warrior.
The woman with the child finally says, “Maas’awo!” She wants to get out. I seethe as I get out of the car.
The rain has reduced, but not much. The woman goes, and I sit better. The conductor seems to also gain some form to fill up the small bit of space that has appeared. I want to feel cold, but the warmth is crawling into me. Stop thinking about it!
As we continue, the man next to me keeps clearing his throat. I keep thinking he is going to say something to me, but probably not. He has been at it for a few minutes now. Morning passengers tend to be so gloomy that there are no conversations taking place. However, when I filter out the rattling of the taxi, I hear something weird coming from him. Like something trapped inside him. Like bubbles of air in a fluid.
He lets out a small cough, and I grimace. He did not even cover his mouth. Now there are particles floating around the enclosed space. Who knows if there are germs riding along on those droplets, waiting for
A terrible cough comes from the back of the taxi.
PWACK, PWACK, PWACK!!!!!!!
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