#gearone

As a rule (an unwritten rule) I quietly do my best to avoid driving up hills. I mean those hills that have you engaging Gear Two, and if they get too steep, mu kifuba, then you quickly shift to Gear One. And seeing that Miss UAH has been quite moody of late, we just don’t do slopes, unless its driving downwards of course.

There’s this particularly mean hill- the one from Erisa’s road to Mawanda road, which is number one on my Never-Drive-Up list. The taxi that brought me to town today got stuck going up that road.

The driver, feeling very wise, decided he would overtake and drive the contraption to the top in Gear Three. Midway through, the taxi slowed down and he braked sharply, waking those in slumber. “What’s happening? Kiki?”

Driver released the brake and stepped on accelerator with one foot on the clutch. The car rolled backwards, not much, but a few meters. He braked again. Passengers grabbed at the seats in front of them, their mouths open in fear.  

“Gwe driver, oyagala kututta??!!" one woman screamed. But she spoke too soon, because just then, he made another futile attempt, and this time, we moved back another about five meters. The howls grew more intense, some in bass and tenor. The conductor nearly leaped on to the kameeme, looking around him wildly. “Pilot naawe, kiki ekigaanye mwana? Gaayi otuzalawa!”

“Eh, naawe ndeka!! Emmotoka nze njiganye okutambula?” Have I refused the car to move? Leave me alone oso you!!

Cars behind us were hooting. The din. The bodaboda riders that whizzed past us shouted insults. There were other cars coming down the opposite side, and the stationary taxi caused a mini traffic jam. And there was a huge Gaagaa bus as well!!

(When I’m in a situation of great fear, my mind zones off to a safe place, another world. I started imagining myself at the bottom of the hill, in the bushes next to the bypass, the taxi mangled like waste paper, people lying on top of me, screaming all sorts of things, in every language imaginable, calling on God to help them. I knew my boss would send a camera person and reporter rushing to the scene and my name would be among those mentioned in the lunchtime news. Ha! I nearly laughed.

I was jolted back to reality by the conductor throwing open the door and ordering us out quickly-quickly. People scrambled out. One woman was in tears. Others were hurling insults. The conductor stationed himself at a vantage point to ask whoever alighted for the fare. People yelled at him. “No! You were about to kill us and now you want money! If we had died, would you ask us for money? Kirabe!”

A traffic policeman was already striding down the hill. The driver also jumped out of the vehicle when he saw the Nyange in white. “Stop! Jangu wano. Leeta pamiti!” Give me your permit!

You know how when you jump out of the frying pan into the fire? Luckily, the man had a photocopy of the document. Some people started walking away, tired of the drama and worrying that they would be late for work.

“Omponye leero! Emmotoka ebadde ki?”  What’s wrong with the vehicle.
The driver was looking sheepish. He’d suddenly lost his voice. “Ah, Afande…”
 “Olina emipiira” He circled the taxi menacingly, kicking at each tire, wondering what else he could see wrong. The tires were fine. “Thirdi pate eri wa?” Do you have third-party insurance?

“Afande yiiyo sitiika.” This hangdog look made him look pathetic. A far cry from the swaggerific cowboy who had been telling us to leave him alone a few minutes ago.

Satisfied that he could not issue a ticket, the cop walked back to the driver. “Mpa ebisumuluzo!” Give me the keys!

The driver hadn't pulled them out of the ignition. Nyange got in and slammed the door.
He started the car. And without moving a single centimeter backwards, he drove up the rest of the hill, leaving the driver gaping like a fish out of water.