Red Taxi

By Towela Munthali

Mafumu walked, no, he strutted towards the Red Taxi. Right now, true to his name, he felt like a king. Behind the toilets from where he had just emerged, they had sealed the deal. Nkhata had been driving his combi-minibus conductor-less for the last few days and he, Mafumu, being the observant type, had made a mental note of this, filing it under ‘things of great importance’ right at the front of his brain.

He had had enough of cleaning Mr Moloi’s combis. The truth was, the more he scrubbed the more it felt like he was rubbing away a bit of himself. Sometimes the drivers took off while he was in the middle of wiping their windscreens. Nobody respected him.

When he started this job he expected that some day he would be riding round town. He should have known better. ‘Efficiency’ and ‘customer satisfaction’ these were the kind of words that flew out of Moloi’s mouth. So he was stuck at the depot with a bucket and soap. No one gained respect cleaning combis and organising queues. Queues? Who had time for queues? It was one among many of Moloi’s odd ways, the strangest being his choice of drivers.

Women, and more specifically Tamanda, had no business driving combis. She with her hair cornrowed backwards. Even men were doing their hair like that these days. Not that he approved of it, but under those circumstances, if he were female, he would do everything to avoid that particular hairstyle.

“You have a mean and stingy mouth,” he told her once, after she refused to thank him for substituting for her conductor.

Yes, he had great sympathy for whoever was married to her, if she was married at all, the amount of time she spent driving around town like a mad man, woman! Needless to say, career advancement would be impossible if she had anything to say about it. This is what had forced him to select ‘conductor vacancy’ from his mental filing cabinet.

The decision made, he had followed Red Taxi driver, Nkhata, behind the toilets where he had gone to relieve himself while dragging on a cigarette. Before Nkhata was zipped up, Mafumu was halfway through his job application. It was difficult conducting a business meeting in this manner, with the foul smell wafting out of the public toilets, but his perseverance reaped results. Nkhata sucked hard one last time, flicked his hand then stepped expertly on the cigarette butt. He gestured for Mafumu to follow him to the red combi.

Tamanda’s rude mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ as she watched him drive away from the depot. The sight of that alone made his decision worthwhile. Two seconds later she would no doubt be on her old Nokia, to Moloi. He in his turn would efficiently fill the vacancy with some poor man only too willing to sit at the rank while the women rode the combis.

Working as a conductor was fulfilling work. It was the conductor not the driver who was king of the combi, bringing order to the chaos that normally was passengers. Who took the money and made sure you received the correct change? Who ensured it was not so full that you were squashed against the windowpane? Without Mafumu, Red Taxi would not run efficiently and customers would not be satisfied. Mafumu sensed that his importance was understood. Nkhata would have fired him if this was not so.

Nkhata chewed bubble gum and listened to kwaito music, saying very little all day, which suited Mafumu and his preference for working without interference. This is what it meant to work with men. Respect. If during stops the kwaito was playing a little too loud Mafumu had only to look at his colleague and the volume was lowered. When they drove however, the music blared. Mafumu respected this and said nothing then. Driving was Nkhata’s territory. The passengers seemed to like their arrangement, bobbing their heads to familiar tunes and talking over the music when they tired of it. During these times, Mafumu counted the money.

On day four, Mafumu noticed that the woman taking up the front seats had not paid. She had not paid yesterday either, yet here she was again imposing her large figure on two seats. She got out once only to return with what looked like groceries. This was not a personal vehicle. It was a business.

Nkhata too was acting strange. He certainly had plenty of conversation, at least for her. And why did he wait for her to make her errand? Mafumu looked at Nkhata, letting his eyes do the talking as he reasoned silently with the driver. Discretion was necessary to avoid embarrassing either of them. She might be his sister, or worse, his wife. Yet two routes and two seats were a considerable loss. Four stranded passengers were missing a ride in the Red Taxi. This was not efficient, and someone, somewhere was definitely not satisfied.

When they reached a stop and he stepped out to give way to those disembarking.

“Mama, where are you going?” he asked finally. “What is your destination?” he added, when she did not respond.

The woman was giving him a look. The same one she had given him when he refused to take the boy with the snot and the dirty shirt. The one he had also received for telling off the passenger eating the boiled egg here in the combi. Boiled egg in this heat smells like farts.

In this combi, he was conductor and king. He told her so. ‘She could not question his authority. Not here. At home maybe, she could give that look to her husband. But not to him, not on his route, not on his combi.’

“My combi,” the woman said, shutting the door in his face.

They left him stranded by the roadside. His only hope was that Tamanda’s Nokia had given her trouble, that she had not been able to reach Moloi.