The long
queue snakes along the busy main road.
It is full
of all sorts: a woman carrying a baby on
her back, a father in his suit and tie.
They wait
patiently when the tout called Hwindi
orders them to stop pushing.
No one knows
who Hwindi is or who gave him permission to order people around.
Hwindis are
all the same: if you don’t listen to them they throw you out of the queue.
An ET
arrives, spitting out its last passengers from its small, fat belly.
Everyone
knows the ET rules: two passengers in the front with the driver and sixteen or
more at the back;
Children sit
on the lap unless they pay full fare.
Hwindi has
no seat and squeezes himself into the corner by the door.
Heavy goods are
strapped on the roof, secured with strips from tyre tubes which stretch
long and tight.
In seconds,
all seats are full and the ET is on its way, weaving in and out of
traffic at speed.
It is a very
squashed affair inside, with strangers’ hips intimately touching in an
uncultural fashion.
The small seats
barely contain one half of a gifted African woman’s bottom, never mind two.
Feeling hot
and squashed, the baby on the back begins to cry but there is nothing mother
can do.
There is no
room for mother to turn her head, never mind removing the baby from her back.
Batanidzai! Hwindi instructs them to put their money
together.
Row by row
the passengers hand over two dollars each and forward it to the Hwindi in
order.
Mukwasha ndisiyei pamusasa apo. My son-in-law drop me off by the musasa tree,
says the woman with the baby to Hwindi.
Who knows,
maybe Hwindi will marry her daughter one day.
Hwindi instructs
the driver who knows the exact tree at which to stop.
Further
ahead, people line the road flagging down the ET as they desperately try to get
home.
One ari ega!, shouts Hwindi. One man by himself,
says Hwindi, in ET lingo.
If there is
a couple or a family, only one of them can board this ET.
The ET slows
down, door open, with Hwindi propping himself in the door way,
But everyone
is with someone, so the ET doesn’t stop.
It carries
on along the familiar route, door still open and Hwindi hanging out his
head.
It stops down
the road for the lady in a mini skirt and high-heeled shoes, but she looks away.
Voetsek! Piss off! Hwindi shouts at her. Hure
remuHarare! Harare prostitute! Stop
wasting our time!
Hwindi has
an amazing array of colourful language, enough to make a black man blush.
He thrives
on the power he wields in the vehicle and will not be contradicted.
The ET is a
taxi with neither the comforts nor expenses of one.
It stops
exactly where you want, paCorner (at the corner) or pamaRobots (at the traffic
lights).
It has no timetable
and is likely to come in five minutes or ten or forty to pick you up along its
route.
Beware if
you are a lady wearing stockings, you are sure to have a ladder up your leg or
a hole in your dress,
As a result
of all the rough surfaces and improvised metal seats that wobble on the ET.
There are no
seat belts in an ET except at the front,
For it is near
impossible to strap on four or five passengers in a row.
If a road
accident should happen, it is an ‘untimely’ death.
What choice
does a poor commuter have?
Road
accidents happen to the rich in their Mercedes and four-wheel drives too.
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