Public transport and a desire for my own car
I need to get a car. Be it a jaunty jalopy or sleek fuel-efficient machine; whatever it is, I really don’t mind at this point in time. All I need is a dependable specimen that will save me from the continuous wear and tear that I experience daily from my use of public transport, particularly the dreaded ‘kombi’.
If you have ever hailed one of these rickety vans to stop and give you a ride, you will have noted how eager and enthusiastic the driver and tout always are when they notice you standing at the road side, desperately waving your hand to get their attention. The driver honks his horn profusely while the tout leans half his body out threw a windowless pane, frantically calling out, “Town! Town! Town!”
You feel an instant relief at this because you are running late and town is exactly where you are headed. And though you are well-dressed and beautifully preened, none of the nice men and women in their neat sedans and SUVs are stopping to offer you a lift. Read more
Breaking the kombi rules my teacher taught me
Although I went to a ghetto primary school, my teachers strived so hard to teach us what rich kids were being taught at uptown schools formerly known as Group A schools. Somehow they succeeded- in me at least- because I am so different from other people I learnt with. I am in college, am a freelance writer, just finished on my first book and speak with a ‘civilised’ uptown accent. Since I had turned out to be what every teacher wishes of their students, I actually believed that I had turned out all the ghetto genes in me although I still stay in the ghetto. How wrong I was.
I came to face this cold fact after a six month break from public taxis commonly referred as kombis, when I finally hitch-hiked one for the murderous Bulawayo-Harare distance. My teachers had more than thrice given us the five commandments of travelling in a kombi; Read more
