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Freddy Nyezi

The Final Countdown

Written by: Freddy Nyezi

 

It’s New Year’s Eve. I should be getting recklessly drunk with my family and friends and celebrating an ending. Instead, I am here in a taxi, on the way to work to look after recklessly drunk people. Mxm, these people are so noisy that I can barely hear my own thoughts. Everyone in this taxi, including the driver, is drunk - except for me. I wish I could be as carefree as they are but I’ve got a wife and an unborn child to provide for. Hmm mnkr, something smells like it’s bhening. Phof ke, something always smells like it’s bhening in these skorokoro taxis. I can smell petrol so, maybe it’s the engine or the exhaust pipes? Andazi. I don’t really know much about cars. Oh, there they go again - singing. “Yey, man, niyangxola!”. Haibo! Umqundu kabani? And what do they mean that I don’t know how to have fun? O-o-of course I can, tshin. “Hayi, ndi-right, Bawo wam. Andizukwaz’ usela. Ndisendleleni eya emsebenzini”. I wonder what it is with black people and singing church hymns when they are drunk. Eyy, this man is tieping on my sholda. I don’t know what’s stronger, the shebeen smell in this man’s open mouth or the smell of petrol. “Suka kum, man! Uzondinukisa utywala


I khant see the stars tonight. It’s only these bright lights in the sky. I don’t know why these people are shooting crickets when it’s not even midnight yet. The closer I get to the hahbah, where I need to get off, the stronger the smell of petrol gets. The smell is now so strong that I am sure it has burnt off the hairs in my nose. “Niyaliva elivumba?” It’s useless to ask because I am sure the Black Labels have shut down they’re ability to do anything besides to make noise and to tiep. I’ve worked in this area for some time now and I know that many cars drive past here and many ships have come and gone but never before has the smell of petrol swallowed the smell of salt and the sea but tonight, it is the only thing that I can smell. The air is thick with it. This reminds me of those times when the taxi drivers were striking and fighting amongst themselves. They would always end up shooting each other and bhombishing places with they’re petrol bombs. There’s a light in the far-off distance that shines brighter than the rest. It looks like- oh no, that is not a cricket. Something that looks like a boat has exploded. That must be where the petrol smell is coming from! From the little that I know about petrol fires, they spread fast. The other boats are now also catching fire ingathi it’s those shack fires back in our skwathacamp. How am I the only one seeing this? “Misa driver! We need to get off now!” I understand that we’re on the freeway but we need to get off now otherwise we are going to die. Why won’t he listen to me? Why won’t they listen to me? We are getting closer to the hahbah and the fire is getting bigger. I am trying to warn them. I am trying to protect them. I am trying to do my job.


The crickets are getting louder. Normally they would not bother me but tonight they are banshees. They’re screams and wails are announcing our soon-to-happen deaths. Tsweeeeoooooo. We are stuck in this taxi like pilchards in a Lucky Star tin. There’s only one way out and I know it. This is an ending. 3! 2! - I hope my child grows up knowing I tried doing a good job. May White Jesus save me for him. 1!

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