The taxi money on the living room stand with my mom and younger brother nowhere in sight. I’m late again.
A straw basher and black blazer with a red crest neatly knitted onto the pocket lies in anticipation to be worn on my bed. I proceed with my weekday morning ritual. Methodically, I get dressed in my school uniform, have a small bite for breakfast and rush out of the house. Locking up is the obvious task of the last person to leave and in this household, it’s usually performed under hurried conditions. So, I do what is expected of me, lock the door and gate.
My first instinct kicks in, I listen out for a taxi. There’s none to be heard. I move away from the excessively locked gate and make my way down the street. Most of the front yards are already occupied by garbage tightly knotted in black plastic bags, it’s a Monday. The air is already stale from the weekly leftovers torn violently out of the garbage bag in front of kaDube. It must be one of those neglected dogs that live at the house located at the end of the street. Still looking out for a taxi, I manage to completely untangle the white earphones that I dug up in my inner blazer pocket. Ah, the Nokia Express Music with Kendrick Lamar’s “Tomorrow Without Her” ready to be played on repeat.
At the corner of the street I’m met by a white Toyota Hi-Ace, uSiyaya. A lanky middle-aged man wearing a loose-fitting faded black shirt and a pair of old cream white chinos stood outside the taxi. He’s seen better days. It’s a nippy and misty Maritzurg morning but this man is wearing leather sandals. Sandals? Self-preservation isn’t a priority to some. These brown straps of leather on his feet look like they have long forgotten the touch of polish; their last memory of being cared for came before they were in his possession. He raises his index finger high above his unkept grey and black German cut. I duly respond with the same gesture and rush into the taxi.
I can feel the passengers’ deep stare as they await their acknowledgement. I respectfully greet them. The tension in the air instantly loosens. I passed the test. I tightly navigate to the empty seat by the window only to be stunned by a breath-taking sight. There sat a petite brown-skinned figure looking out at the horrific remains of the attack on the garbage bag kaDube.
I thought the taxi would look like a late autumn Milady’s lookbook with a bit of Truworths in the backseat and one sat behind the driver’s seat. My peers are usually nowhere to be seen round about this time. It’s just middle-aged ladies whose previously mentioned garments suggest that they probably work in an office. Joined by old men whose demeanour, when addressing you, forces you to prove that you have a natural grasp of the Zulu tongue even in your model C school uniform that reeks of twang. The driver too, was old, a steadily built short man who looks like he spent a fair share of his youth in the gym. He didn’t speak much, he just did his job.
Yet, during all this...
I was struck by her beauty as she put her heavy schoolbag on her lap. I felt compelled to unburden her. Her looks were unassuming, yet they suddenly had me in an unbreakable grasp. Her rich black hair newly braided into thin and precise locks, probably by her mother late in the afternoon on Sunday, hung on the side of her head. She had long turned away from the gruesome sight that now lurks out in the far edges of the slightly fogged up backseat window. She was facing me with her mouth shaping to utter something. Her “sawubona” comes out with a melody foreign to this township. Intombi yakwaXhosa.
And there it is, a feeling all too familiar. The first symptom had already reared its ugly head. My throat already stiff and not in coordination with what my mind wants it to say. My mind disconnected from what my heart asked of it. Down low, my knees weaken with my legs feeling disjointed. Yes, the second symptom. When the goosebumps and elevated heart rate joined the party, I had already diagnosed myself with gwababa. Ujamu.
My mind goes racing into conclusions about her: She is probably well equipped in the art of curving niggas before they even mount a charming approach. She goes to a co-ed school, she definitely has a boyfriend. Or she’s a player? Maybe one of the homies is going for her. I was clutching at anything that would give my gwababa a shade of dignity.
All these silly thoughts mean nothing now that we have reached her stop. The conductor slid open the rowdy door. Cold autumn air soon circulated all corners of the previously warm taxi. She tried to exit as gracefully as she could with her burdensome bag. The air felt aggressively cooler when I realised that I might never know her. Left only with the idea of her.
And here I am, alone in a taxi with nothing but my other assumptions as passengers.
A short story by @MalumWakho