Memoirs of a cabbie
Number 10, Watford street
Four of them stopped my taxi
Two minutes into the journey
Four had become two through the rear view mirror
Day 1. The epileptic engine spluttered to life.
Day 2. Crazy traffic knotted like a stingy woman’s wrapper.
Day 3. LATSMA the dreaded demon holds down. Day wasted.
Day 4. Back home empty with holes in the pocket.
White 1974 Renault, panting and gasping on a flat road
Puffing smoke like a chain smoker on a cold harmattan evening
Teeth gritted, anger suppressed she asked, “oga my change”
Nonchalantly, he replied “no change, dollar don increase”
Unlike other days on this Boulevard of broad curves,
I stopped the wheels hoping,
That her voice would welcome me at the door,
But this day, I heard no laughter but the silent breath of my last air.
There were retarding clouds and accelerating rains,
Secrets that unfolded the pregnant spoons
I didn’t meddle in its hoaxers.
a sad lonely drunk titled in his memoir.
Monday, a horrid day, I could tell, yet for no reason and with just cause not to he chose to be so kind. 5 stars
Later on, she’s lousy, sassy and loud, words are wasps, tongue’s a rack, but I’ll be nice then rate her 2 stars.
A tired mom at 2 pm, four kids in tow, patience like God, sweet faced as an angel, I’m looking for the sixth star.
The money is good, mirrors are many, and plenty a chance to fix me.
She heaved a sigh and mustered strength as her left arm snapped open
“Out” I may have heard her say as she flung me far unto safety
I felt her eyes lock with mine in the blinding flood as she thawed into the deep into the night
My Mazda 626 my 6-10 companion she loved me so