The Driver’s Dilemma

At least thrice a week when I’m not marinating in work-from-home bliss, I leave my home (often against my will) in a car. Most of the routes to my destinations involve Wampewo Avenue and hence—the traffic lights at the Wampewo Avenue/Upper Kololo Terrace junction.

This is not a story about road rage. Even though it could be. Easily.

This is not a story about the insanity of the boda-boda riders who buzz about like bees at cross purposes. Those ones, I pray for them.

This is not even a story about potholes, but perhaps it should be?

Not today.

Running late, I completed my morning tasks with great haste which left me clammy despite the cold shower I took. Why a cold shower, you ask? I read a blog and I’m trying it out. New year, new me? Or maybe it’s the soaring utility bills? Mind your business. It was the kind of haste kids in boarding schools who are late for morning assembly are intimately familiar with.

I long-jumped down the stairs—three steps at a time—and tugged at my car’s door handle like an entitled idiot. I sank my right hand into my right trouser pocket—nothing. I dropped my bag and patted myself down like airport security—nothing. The haste had claimed my freshness and my car keys. I long-jumped in reverse, and forward again, and returned to the car door, keys in hand this time. I sped out the gate and pleaded with potholes, boda-boda riders, and drivers who only exist to drive me crazy. My meeting was in 30 minutes and I was making good time. My clamminess—abated by the car’s air conditioning because this year we use air conditioning. I’ll work harder. Fuel prices will also go down (I pray).

Near the foot of Wampewo Avenue, I joined a chain of cars—humming but stationary. If the drivers weren’t so disconnected in purpose, I’d liken the chain to a file of ants tottering to a sugar crystal on the dinner table. We (the drivers) are all hostages, paralyzed and forced to worship a singular twitchy traffic light in the distance that grows more arrogant as time passes. Some drivers wait while staring at the traffic light like they want to fight it. Some drivers (like myself) are further back, so they squint to see the glint from the traffic lights that pierces through the foliage. Some are too far to see the lights and simply watch the bum of the car ahead to know when it’s “go time”. Some scroll through their phones and rely on the impatience of the car behind them to hoot them into action at “go time”.

The only things the drivers have in common: glowing brake lights, festering impatience, car engines humming in anticipation, and the accosting—by mostly toddlers—they must endure when they ascend to the 20-meter patch of road that separates them from the intersection and freedom. I call it the silver patch of road.

“Uncle! Support me!”

“Uncle! Give me some water”

“Auntie, you look good!”

Driver 1

…rolls up all their car windows as soon as they approach the patch of road. They know this song well. They know the bridge, chorus, and crescendo. They inch forward enamored with deadpan acting skills. They’ll not let eye contact betray their humanity and break their resolve.

“Don’t look.” Whatever you do, don’t look!” driver 1 says internally, as the child who is all but snogging the driver-side window draws attention to their tiny bouncing open palm, begging for alms.

Driver 2

…always flush with cash, they quickly fidget in the glove box and the container near the gearbox for spare change as they approach the silver patch of road.

I don’t know how one can have a clown’s pocketful of spare change in this economy. I guess one must reside on the windward side of the regime to find out.

I digress.

Driver 2’s busy hands feel around while their eyes watch the road on and off. Occasionally, their eyes meet their hands to offer help. A few crumpled notes and coins are located near the gearbox, and the eyes of the child on the other side of the driver-side window light up like Christmas in June. Driver 2 rolls down their window quickly because the twitchy traffic light is now decidedly yellow. The window grazes the child’s lower lip, bruising it slightly, but that’s the least of the child’s concerns. Driver 2 exchanges the spare change for a low-toned “thank you” and a curtsey from the child. The brake lights of the car ahead go off. The car chain moves. Driver 2 speeds off to steal money from taxpayers, er, make an honest living. This is a judgment-free silver patch of road.

Driver 3

…rolls up the windows faster than a white lady clutches her purse when a black man enters the elevator. Driver 3’s window roll-up urgency is giving driver 1, but with a twist. Despising driver 1’s tactics as inhumane, driver 3 has no intention of doling out alms either but chooses to engage the children on the other side of the window using negative universal sign language.

“Engaging is a step up from ignoring the children,” driver 3 believes self-righteously. Engaging makes driver 3 feel like a good person and that’s okay.

Driver 3 responds to the children’s open-palm gestures with a double-shoulder shrug, empty hands exposed and a slow shake of the head to indicate their lack of funds. To offer a more convincing performance, driver 3 pretends to search for loose change they know doesn’t exist. Their eyes dart back to the traffic light. Nothing. The light’s still red. The back and forth with the children with the car window as a moderator persists until the sound of the revving of the car engine ahead offers salvation. Driver 3 speeds off with their life savings intact.

Which driver are you?

Have a good week