Oh these nasty city taxis!
May 16, 2004
Every single day that goes by, I wish I had my own car –– not that I need it as a status symbol or to impress anyone, but it is just that everyday when I brave the public transport circuit, valuable hours are cut out of my young life.
By Angela Kintu
Every single day that goes by, I wish I had my own car –– not that I need it as a status symbol or to impress anyone, but it is just that everyday when I brave the public transport circuit, valuable hours are cut out of my young life.
In times of crises and if the weather is bad, you can expect to stand by the roadside for ages before you find a taxi with space to squeeze you in.
Even then, the conductor will rudely announce as you get in that if you do not have twice the usual fare, you should get out and not waste his time. At this point, you are halfway in, with your behind sticking out.
Then you spot a nice-looking guy in the seat right next to the one you would be occupying.
You do a quick mental calculation and decide you would rather go without lunch than admit to all and sundry that you cannot afford to cough up the extra money for the hiked fare.
So you calmly take your seat (beside guy X, whom you belatedly realise does not look so good) and try to exude a financial confidence you are far from feeling.
A few metres down the road, the taxi conductor decides he can squeeze in at least two more people and you are the one to share your seat. When I was trimmer, it used to be “Small, wefuunze mu awo,†literally meaning “small, make yourself smallerâ€.
Now that I have gained more weight, it is a ruder “Mama wesike mu,†(‘mother, pull yourself in.â€) Knowing that you will have to wait another hour for the next taxi, you resignedly ‘pull yourself in’ and make room for two more people.
And after you have reluctantly paid the inflated fare, you tell the driver that you are getting out at Fido Dido and he retorts that he is not using that route because of traffic.
You hurl insults at him in every language you can think of, owing to the thought of being crammed into the vehicle.
You nurse your impotent rage as you walk through the drizzle to another taxi stage.
This time you find the taxi empty, but the engine is running and the conductor assures you that they are leaving any second “nowâ€. ‘Now’ stretches to 20 or even 30 minutes.
And just when the taxi has finally filled, three of the passengers hop out, leaving you almost back at square one –– another 20 or 30 minutes of waiting.
Apparently, for anything from sh100 to sh500, idlers sit in the taxi to give the time-barred passengers the sense that the taxi is actually filling and is leaving ‘now’.
Eventually after many threats and more curses from the passengers, you get on your way.
The guy sitting next to you (who is nothing to write home about) decides to casually throw his arm around the back of your seat, effectively enveloping you in his deodourant, or lack of it.
It gets worse when you are sitting next to someone who behaves as if he is in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine. Such characters spread themselves into your space, legs spread wide as if they are nursing some kind of STD.
This they may add to idly scratching their privates, fidgeting with the window or having loud phone calls. God forbid that they try to engage you in unwanted conversation!
Just when you think that at least the fare is the usual, you pay and the conductor gives you your change sh100 short. Now I do not mind being conned of sh500, but something about sh100 makes me want to fight to death. I can’t explain it.
And finally, I am home, after several loud notices to the driver to stop go unheeded till fellow passengers bang on the body of the vehicle to get his attention. I am finally ‘coughed’ out of the vehicle, slightly damp, irritable, poorer and traumatised after watching an adult pay attention to their privates in public (pun intended). But at least I have my kikuumi.
Every single day that goes by, I wish I had my own car –– not that I need it as a status symbol or to impress anyone, but it is just that everyday when I brave the public transport circuit, valuable hours are cut out of my young life.
In times of crises and if the weather is bad, you can expect to stand by the roadside for ages before you find a taxi with space to squeeze you in.
Even then, the conductor will rudely announce as you get in that if you do not have twice the usual fare, you should get out and not waste his time. At this point, you are halfway in, with your behind sticking out.
Then you spot a nice-looking guy in the seat right next to the one you would be occupying.
You do a quick mental calculation and decide you would rather go without lunch than admit to all and sundry that you cannot afford to cough up the extra money for the hiked fare.
So you calmly take your seat (beside guy X, whom you belatedly realise does not look so good) and try to exude a financial confidence you are far from feeling.
A few metres down the road, the taxi conductor decides he can squeeze in at least two more people and you are the one to share your seat. When I was trimmer, it used to be “Small, wefuunze mu awo,†literally meaning “small, make yourself smallerâ€.
Now that I have gained more weight, it is a ruder “Mama wesike mu,†(‘mother, pull yourself in.â€) Knowing that you will have to wait another hour for the next taxi, you resignedly ‘pull yourself in’ and make room for two more people.
And after you have reluctantly paid the inflated fare, you tell the driver that you are getting out at Fido Dido and he retorts that he is not using that route because of traffic.
You hurl insults at him in every language you can think of, owing to the thought of being crammed into the vehicle.
You nurse your impotent rage as you walk through the drizzle to another taxi stage.
This time you find the taxi empty, but the engine is running and the conductor assures you that they are leaving any second “nowâ€. ‘Now’ stretches to 20 or even 30 minutes.
And just when the taxi has finally filled, three of the passengers hop out, leaving you almost back at square one –– another 20 or 30 minutes of waiting.
Apparently, for anything from sh100 to sh500, idlers sit in the taxi to give the time-barred passengers the sense that the taxi is actually filling and is leaving ‘now’.
Eventually after many threats and more curses from the passengers, you get on your way.
The guy sitting next to you (who is nothing to write home about) decides to casually throw his arm around the back of your seat, effectively enveloping you in his deodourant, or lack of it.
It gets worse when you are sitting next to someone who behaves as if he is in the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine. Such characters spread themselves into your space, legs spread wide as if they are nursing some kind of STD.
This they may add to idly scratching their privates, fidgeting with the window or having loud phone calls. God forbid that they try to engage you in unwanted conversation!
Just when you think that at least the fare is the usual, you pay and the conductor gives you your change sh100 short. Now I do not mind being conned of sh500, but something about sh100 makes me want to fight to death. I can’t explain it.
And finally, I am home, after several loud notices to the driver to stop go unheeded till fellow passengers bang on the body of the vehicle to get his attention. I am finally ‘coughed’ out of the vehicle, slightly damp, irritable, poorer and traumatised after watching an adult pay attention to their privates in public (pun intended). But at least I have my kikuumi.