I book a taxi to a mosque function this morning. Where I stay is quite an eye-sore, so I feel utterly grateful and lucky when the driver says he is coming from within the area— because otherwise, that might have meant a longer waiting period or the driver declining the trip.
When I join him, it is easy to settle into a conversation, about the terrible road and the government’s unseeingness or lack of sheer humanity. We talk on and on, each of us narrating examples of how we have been key-up-holders of good virtues in our various walks of life. Me, when I choose to take the right road, instead of facing oncoming traffic as most dumbass drivers do; and him, when he chooses to trust passengers time and time after being slit in the guts for trusting too much. We sigh, exchange “it-is-wells”, and “God-surely-isn’t-sleeping’s”.
It is quite a peculiar trip, because the difference in our tribe and faith does not deter us from finding common grounds, it doesn’t drown our sense of sameness in this unending conundrum that is life. And by the time we are nearing the end of the trip, I feel truly grateful to him, you know, for being such great company and not boring me with typical rehearsed questions that drivers usually have handy like: “is the Ac too hot or too cold”, or “is my speed good enough or should I increase it to 50”. Plus, he doesn’t overwhelm me with how his brother‘s cousin’s sister’s uncle’s younger brother’s son’s friend once called him “aunty” because he wore a stud on his left ear. I totally think he is a gentleman. So, again, I say: “thank you very much” and wait for him to end the trip and tell me my fare.
“1200” he says
“Oh okay, that’s fine.” I say and pay him his money.
Just when I am about to set out, he says “so you can call me anytime, you know, when you feel like it.”
And I smile, because politeness is my strongest suit, and I say “okay”
And he says “are you married?”
And I say “yes”, even when I am not, even when it is Sunday, and I am not supposed to tell lies on Sundays.
And he says “you can still call me…”
And I nod him off, my face still holding the smug smile from before, as I walk towards the mosque.
And I am just thinking, maybe, just maybe if I had been a little curt and un-listening and un-willing to make a conversation, maybe he would not have suggested “I can still call him” even when I hinted that I was married.
I think he got the wrong idea because I was too nice. Or not?
Happy Sunday fam. Have a splufik week ahead.❤️
© The Short Black Girl, 2018.