The Taxi: Vices
In Kampala, we give room for inequities every now and then; we say maaso awo a few metres before actual destination. We know that mere utterance of the command does not always grant an immediate halt at your intended stop. Whenever someone says maaso awo, the conductor will grudgingly turn and scan the seats. The scan is to ascertain the direction from which the command comes even when the utterer is right beside the conductor. It takes him another moment to look blank and another one to say, “ogambye kyi?” In the palpably sour seconds that ensue, as you strive to make yourself understood and he relays that information to the driver, you’ll be well beyond your stop. You’ll try to stare the conductor down and passively demand an apology, you’ll make your gripe known with words, fellow passengers will rally behind you in making the point but the conductor and driver do not offer apologies. They will rush you off their vehicle without an ounce of remorse.
After a thorough succession of these events, the taxi stopped at Kasasiro stage in Kamwokya and we waited for the disgruntled woman to move out. Only she didn’t. We’d all heard her say maaso awo, we’d watched as the conductor’s eyes perused through our souls, we’d seen his expression run blank and we’d heard the definitive question. She had affirmed her desire to disembark with a louder maaso awo but now she refused to leave. In a manner akin to the conductor’s, she inspected our faces and wondered aloud if the stage was Kiyembe. When more than a few voices observed that she had requested to get off, the woman was hysterical, “get out how, why do you want me to get out, is this Kiyembe, are you the one to tell me where I’m going?” But then...but...okay. The conductor jeered and slammed the door shut. A few seconds later the woman was frantic again. She wanted to get off. Once more, the sociable voices observed that Kiyembe was a few yards ahead but this woman, ‘she knew where she was going, didn’t need our help and if she had wanted it in the first place, she would’ve asked for it’. So she got off with Kiyembe in sight ahead, Kasasiro a little behind us and we were all left confused.
In another taxi I was in from town to Ntinda, the girl was one inappropriately proud case. She was on her phone half the time assuring a Vicky on the other end of the line that she was almost there. At Mulago stage she fished out a crisp 2k note and handed it to the conductor with just the right amount of confidence. No one gave a rat’s arse until she tilted her head disdainfully and said “onzijayo eWandegeya.” Everyone gasped. The resultant wince could've been a slight pat on our humorous genes acknowleding the mistakes we all make but hand in hand with the attitude, the effect was comical enough to silence the taxi for a long second before her neighbour politely informed that Wandegeya was behind us, it was the previous stop. “Oh,” the girl mouthed and got off. It was clear she was embarrassed now. I was embarrassed for her. Her good natured neighbour would've been of use had she dared to ask in time. She wouldn’t have had to walk off without a backward glance or the rest of her change.
In the taxi especially, pride should not be inflated. Even at 45 and beyond, no one expects you to know all the places. Youthful as I may be, I shouldn’t be expected to know all the city corners either. If I was Girl with a friend named Vicky on the phone, my estimates would’ve landed me in Luteete or Wampewo the first time I went to Gayaza. Half way through Luteete I thought I was lost so I decided to lay my trust in the good old driver and closed my eyes to meditate.
