He drives a gray Toyota Vitz which he leases from the owner at 36000/= a week. He’s 32, maybe 35 years old rocking a slightly grayed goatee, and has worn a Manchester United jersey that seems fairly new. Here goes another avid Man-U fan that can’t hide the fact that Ronaldo is back home. We could talk for ages about football with a completely biased opinion against his idol, proven by the fact that Messi is still the goat, but today isn’t one of those days. Today, his mouth waters with other stories eager to quench my thirsty ears.
He’s just lost his sister which rolls out of his tongue as he’s about to hit a matatu tout. At first, I think it’s a joke — just another Uber driver lamenting about arrogant matatu drivers who think they own the road ignorant of other users who on days like today have received such shocking news. Like a punchline that a poet repeats, he narrates how she’d been missing from Wednesday. Frantic searches led to the identity of her frail body in Kakamega mortuary 3 days later. Prior to my request, he had just gotten a call of her demise.
I’m the first person he’s told. Shit! What do you tell a guy who’s just lost his younger sister? I’m not socially adept to handle such situations. All I can think of is that this guy isn’t in the right frame to drive. Being mystical, I counter-check to assure myself that this Friday doesn’t fall on the 13th. I’m not about to be in the final chapter of the Final Destination franchise movie. Maintaining focus on the issue at hand, I narrow down my senses to help him process the news but every time he hits the gas pedal, my right leg presses imaginary brakes it could break a muscle. This is the kind of story you hear on the news. At the back of your mind, you’ve passively thought about the recent rise in cases of young girls being kidnapped. You’ve seen stories on Instagram or Facebook of people urging their followers to spread the news of their missing loved ones. Hearing it up close and personal rocks you differently!
John, in between calls, calm and collected, seems to be okay. But again my right leg on the pedestrian seat thinks otherwise. On normal days, I always leave a bad review for drivers who pick calls whilst driving. I detest hitting brakes when the sole purpose of taking a cab was to avoid this sort of leg day. As it turns out, he has an inkling for interesting stories and a willing listener. In between one of the numerous phone conversations explaining how his mentally challenged sister, Jane, had been drowned in the river, he says that one of his friends has been arrested for defilement.
With rolled-down windows, you’re deadly sure this is a psycho or at least one with demons in his shadows. These things can’t be that sequential, can they? At this rate, you might just jump out the window and mind your own business, maybe have a mimosa while at it. But you’re built differently with an itch for curiosity to fill your appetite.
We talk about his friend and his love for women. A longing that has brought him to this predicament, 2 months after his wife’s death. Here’s the point: you know John is lying. A white lie that has spun to his honest version of events. John, the storyteller. John the guy whose sister just passed away. John with the friend facing 25 years in prison. John, please drop me home! This isn’t a Nigerian movie. Come on man!
The trip from Woodgrove road in Westlands culminates in South B. It ends with an Insta story of people wishing their dead sister a restful rest and a confused passenger who‘s trying to level his mind of the events of the past 30 minutes.