The Sunday News
Mzana Mthimukulu Lighterside
HOW I wish the cellphone was there when I was growing up. This gadget would have saved me for so many an embarrassing moments. I was terrified of girls.
A few days back I realised that I am not the only coward when it comes to handling these gentle terrorists. With a handful of other passengers, I sat in a kombi at the terminus waiting for the vehicle to fill up.
Next to me was a beautiful lady spotting a natural hairstyle. Let “Natural” be the lady’s name.
To kill time, Natural read a traditional healer’s flyer she had been given by a distributor. About six metres away, a group of touts and drivers huddled together on the pavement like activists preparing for an important congress. A 17-year-old tout peeled off the group and approached us.
He slid the kombi door open, put one foot on the doorstep and took a deep breath and said, “Umkhulu lumsebenzi.” (This is a huge task) he muttered.
“Sister,” he said peering at Natural, “That driver in a black, short-sleeved shirt is asking for your cellphone number.”
Natural frowned but did not reply. The tout repeated the message. She sighed. “Go tell him that my husband will be furious if I go about dishing out my number to strangers. He is violent and will beat up any man who asks for my number.”
The tout reported to his group and in seconds was back. “The driver says he overheard you tell a friend that your man is in the Diaspora.”
“Nxaa!” Natural clicked her tongue and leaned forward in a threatening manner. “Go tell your master to come and speak for himself. My insults will fill up his ears faster than passengers on the busiest route fill up a kombi.”
“What cowards these drivers are,” a passenger remarked, as the tout scurried back to the pavement. They can argue and negotiate with traffic cops but can’t approach a harmless lady.” Several passengers laughed.
The tout had the persistence of a housefly. In seconds, he was back. “Look sister, the kombi is now full. These guys won’t release a driver until you give us your phone number.”
“Come on lady,” a male passenger said wiping sweat off his brow, “It’s an oven in here. Give him your number and we leave.”
“That’s right,” another passenger hooted, “You are not the first lady to be approached.”
Natural shook her head like a helpless mother looking down on her sick baby. She gave out her number and the tout jotted it down on a piece of paper.
The man in the black shirt smiled as he pocketed the paper.
He jumped on to the driver’s seat and reversed out.
“Tell me,” the driver barked into his cell phone, “Which route is safe now?” His ear stuck on the cellphone, he nodded and muttered several times. “Thanks my man, I will show these cops who is king of the road.” He switched off the cellphone and stepped on the accelerator with enthusiasm.
Reader, I thought I knew my home town, like the back of my hand but that kombi zig-zagged into streets and backstreets I never knew existed.
It was as if I was in another town. We were about to reconnect to the main road when suddenly, like a desert viper springing from the sand, a police patrol car appeared in the middle of the road. Blue lights flashed on the car’s roof. The police gestured the driver to pull over.
His entire body trembling, the driver screeched to a halt. “The car that steals money,” he muttered.
He jumped down and darted round to the tout. “How much have we got Jeki?”
“Give them no more than ten dollars,” the tout said.
“I am off route, only 22, no radio licence — they won’t accept anything less than 20 dollars.”
“Just try,” the tout said, surrendering all the crisp dollar notes.
The police car parked behind the kombi.
We turned round to watch the driver rush to them. “Don’t look back,” the tout warned us.
“It will upset them and they will detain us longer. They may even take us to the police station.” We all turned round and faced forward.
A few minutes later we heard the police drive off. With his crest dampened, the driver lumbered back to his seat.
“How much,” the tout quizzed.
“More than two trips worth of money, 20 dollars gone just like that.”
He snapped his fingers and threw the admission of guilt form on to the dashboard. We travelled the rest of the way in silence.
I disembarked from the kombi with Natural. “Poor guys,” I said, as Natural and I walked side by side, “Even a hunting dog gets to chew bones. Besides your cellphone number, what did these guys get, nothing?”
A mischievous smile brightened Natural’s face. “That was not my number. I just read out from the flyer the traditional healer’s number. The young man needs all the help he can get.”
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