night
Bafana Khumalo
‘Now what is wrong with this guy? Where did he
get his licence? Pep Stores?!!” It’s another
adventure starring yours truly, children.
This time I am sitting in a taxi and the
driver is not a happy man at all. His
unhappiness stems not from the fact that he
has to spend his Saturday night carting
arrogant blacks to and fro, but from his view
of the world as a cesspool populated by
incompetent out-takes from God’s production
line. He belongs to that species of humanity
refered to in scientific journals as an
unhappy white male, not to be confused with
the dead white male species.
He has just told me that “today’s drivers
would not have been on the road if they had
met with the okes who were inspectors in my
day.” He proceeds to describe how a match box
used to be placed just under the rear wheel of
a car stopped on an incline and the aspirant
driver told to drive off. If the car rolled
back and the box crushed, “you would be
disqualified. Finish and klaar!”
I am making the right noises as we go along,
sounds like, “Really … you don’t say …
absolutely.” His comments are amusing if not
macabre; “Now where did you get your driving
lessons? The Sabta-kill-as-many-passengers-as-
you-can driving school?” Sabta is the South
African Black Taxi Association. He feels a
need to attach a disclaimer, “I don’t mean to
be racist but have you seen how these guys
drive?”
I have indeed seen how “these guys drive” and
I could not come to their defence as one
sometimes feels obliged to do when it comes to
matters of race. (By now you have gathered
that I am on another one of my “whites-are-to-
blame-for-everything” trips.)
Peace reigns in the car for a few minutes,
peace being a relative concept. This
tranquility is about to be shattered. No, I
didn’t do anything to shatter the peace but a
message comes through on the two-way radio.
There’s a lucrative fare in the area, can he
take it?
Without missing a beat he picks up the hand
set of the radio and calmly lies that he will
be at the address in about five minutes’ time.
Lies because the fare is about 30 minutes away
from where we are in downtown Johannesburg,
and we were about 20 minutes away from my
destination.
The incompetence of the other drivers is now
magnified a million times as he tries to meet
his impossible deadline. At a red robot he
harangues the driver in front of us wondering
out loud whether the other driver has been
doing something that decent citizens reserve
for their bedrooms.
He concludes his creative soliloquy with the
rejoinder, “I hope his mother gets a cramp
where it hurts most.” I wonder where this
place might be but I choose not to ask my
chauffeur as he is now particularly agitated.
He shows me his Sabta driving school
certificate by cutting corners, overtaking on
blind corners and generally trying to commit
suicide and murder me.
Finally, after a harrowing, life-threatening
and stress-inducing ride, we arrive at my
destination. Shaking, terrified out my wits, I
pay, him stepping out as quickly as I can.
Being the opportunist that I am, I dare not
let this one pass. I am quite sure that he
doesn’t have the time to put this darkie in
his place. I safely step onto the kerb and
ask, “What did you get at the Sabta driving
school …? An A?”
I don’t think he hears, for by the time I
finish my question his chariot of fire is
three traffic lights away.