Highway to hell?
Some things it is so hard to appreciate, like life, until that day when you are rolling down the highway in a PSV. It is considered a pleasure, a little bit of an honour to find the seat next to the driver, to be the conductor, an accomplice in the sharp descent to madness. There is no sambaza there after all, and there is never excess, but sitting there is akin to booking first class tickets to a madhouse.
Talk of cruising down the highway with a looney at the wheel, playing raucous, lewd, and ethnically insensitive love song that sounds more like a divorce, with a blubbery mouthed driver shooting saliva in all directions, from the window and down to the glass, talking about his women and his sons who have refused to go back to school and instead harbour dreams of driving lorries, of his ugly wife who would not cease to beg for money and of his crazy boss who did not care about the barrenness of the day, only his money.
You realize with time that the driver is talking too much, and that the car is basically driving itself, and you let your eye meander to the speedometer, and alas, it is still reading zero, and the fuel gauge is reading empty, yet you have travelled for fifty kilometres and you have fifty more. You look at the meaty hands changing the gear and the bones inside of you jar with the immediate acceleration of the car. Along the road he raises his hands and greets everyone like he is a relative, then orders boiled eggs which he does not hesitate to devour as you sit there, watching the rogue tomatoes peeking out the side of his mouth, and as the dirty yolk, probably with an old chick goes down his throat, and you realize that it is time to say your last prayer.
The banter resumes after he had had his fill and you resume the role of his psychiatrist, and you hold your heart in your hand for the rest of the way.
When you arrive at your destination you swear to never get into those rides again, and to maybe book a taxi instead. Two weeks and new-year celebrations are over, and there you are, at the stage, and the man with the matatu throws a knowing grin your way, and you feel like running away, but oh, you know that he is your messiah.
Some things it is so hard to appreciate, like life, until that day when you are rolling down the highway in a PSV. It is considered a pleasure, a little bit of an honour to find the seat next to the driver, to be the conductor, an accomplice in the sharp descent to madness. There is no sambaza there after all, and there is never excess, but sitting there is akin to booking first class tickets to a madhouse.
Talk of cruising down the highway with a looney at the wheel, playing raucous, lewd, and ethnically insensitive love song that sounds more like a divorce, with a blubbery mouthed driver shooting saliva in all directions, from the window and down to the glass, talking about his women and his sons who have refused to go back to school and instead harbour dreams of driving lorries, of his ugly wife who would not cease to beg for money and of his crazy boss who did not care about the barrenness of the day, only his money.
You realize with time that the driver is talking too much, and that the car is basically driving itself, and you let your eye meander to the speedometer, and alas, it is still reading zero, and the fuel gauge is reading empty, yet you have travelled for fifty kilometres and you have fifty more. You look at the meaty hands changing the gear and the bones inside of you jar with the immediate acceleration of the car. Along the road he raises his hands and greets everyone like he is a relative, then orders boiled eggs which he does not hesitate to devour as you sit there, watching the rogue tomatoes peeking out the side of his mouth, and as the dirty yolk, probably with an old chick goes down his throat, and you realize that it is time to say your last prayer.
The banter resumes after he had had his fill and you resume the role of his psychiatrist, and you hold your heart in your hand for the rest of the way.
When you arrive at your destination you swear to never get into those rides again, and to maybe book a taxi instead. Two weeks and new-year celebrations are over, and there you are, at the stage, and the man with the matatu throws a knowing grin your way, and you feel like running away, but oh, you know that he is your messiah.
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