The taxi grind

The word "taxi" varies in meaning given your location on this vast planet of ours. However to a person living in the CBD, Kampala and its surrounding areas, it is simply associated with a fourteen sitter passenger vehicle that enables one move from place to place (of course it does, why else would it be a taxi?). Taxis in Kampala have been associated with chaos, disorderliness, indiscipline, to mention but a few. But why is it this way, I ask myself? Could it be that everyone who drives a taxi gets these traits or do we all have these waiting for an opportune time?.

At 8:00pm on a random evening, I stood in the taxi park with a number of people waiting to get taxis to head home. After a long day's work, the thought of getting home was top of my list, and what I wouldn't do to achieve this. What I wouldn’t do.

My thoughts were cut short by the flash lights of a taxi that had just arrived, and the outcry of the word “Kajjansi” by the taxi tout just made me lighten up. This was however blocked by the horde that rushed past me as I strode majestically towards the taxi.

As the door opened, I stood in awe, I looked on as drama unfolded, what some people call "katemba ataali musasulile" (luganda isn’t my first language and neither is it my second, so I will just leave the spelling to you).

I had been to a boys' school, break time was basically what one could term as “survival for the fittest”. With 3 canteens to serve a population of over slightly 1000 pupils within twenty minutes, you either stood up to the challenge, asked a friend to help you or simply forget about taking a snack from the canteen. The options were limited. Sweater on, money placed in your shirt pocket or any other place where one would easily access it once you made it through the mammoth of students to get to the canteen window; the battle to pave a way was officially on. We called it "nkonde" it was not about the small or the big, the weak or the strong but the strategist. I had witnessed "nkonde" of all sorts (of course I am not mentioning the option I opted for), but what stood before me now in the taxi park was a completely different play field, one I could not relate with. There were people of all walks of life struggling to get into the taxi. The woman with a baby pushing against a student well built at that (he could pass for a bouncer if it wasn’t for the uniform) who with one push would throw her and her baby flying. The nun standing out because of her veil fighting off a rather well suited up gentleman. The drunken guy staggering (probably had one too many) and struggling to find his balance yet being pushed away by everyone and seemingly the easiest target to everyone. It was no longer about who did what or who was who, clearly everyone wanted to go home and the how had already been answered. When everyone was done with the pushing and fighting, there was one seat left, and clearly the Lord had heard my silent plea, no need whatsoever to fight, but rather calmly take my seat and head home.

This was about ten years ago! How time rushes. Now I stood with the same challenge at hand. The dynamics had changed, I had rubbed shoulders with both sides of the coin; single and mixed schools, I was proudly a product of the only hall at Makerere University (silently whispers to self; “Gentility with a purpose”), I had joined Rotaract and the four way test and goals of Rotaract were running through my mind, age was definitely no longer “just a number” too much was at steak and yet I needed to go home. Should I, or should I not? I thought to myself….. As I kept thinking of what to do as of when the taxi showed up, the taxi flashed its lights, it was like a “Deja vu “. Would this play out as it had done so many years ago?

“Chief, will you be going to work today?” shouted my younger brother. I had been dreaming, the taxi lights flashing had been a result of him opening the curtains to the window. The question now lingered in my mind….”what would I do given the situation had actually been realized?” what would you do?