During my last few weeks with Victor, I was not recording
the mileage in my work sheet. This was because her odometer was not working. I
had driven her until the speedometer cable broke and I was not even driving
that fast. The problem was with Victor’s speedometer needle. It did not move
proportionally to the speed of the car. It used to add about 40km/h to whatever
speed I would be driving at. If I was driving at 120km/h (which for Victor was
easy), the Speedo would indicate 160km/h. On the day that the cable broke, I
was driving at 140km/h – and her top speed was 180km/h!
My colleagues were really envious of me driving a car with no odometer. For them it would have meant making a lot of unaccounted for money because everything was based on the Kilometers covered. For me it made no difference owing to my honesty and inexperience, because getting work was still a problem. What I didn’t know then, was that the time of bidding my beloved Victor goodbye had drawn near. I had driven Victor for only three months but it felt like a lifetime. It was probably the most eventful three months of my life – at least that’s how it seemed then.
In the taxi business drivers come and go. Attrition is extremely high and it is rare to find a cab driver in Nairobi staying in one company for long. Not all the reasons for leaving are bad though. A big chunk of the drivers leave for greener pastures – mostly NGOs and foreign embassies. Every taxi driver constantly dreams of the day he will get employed by an International NGO and be assigned a big off-road SUV with a winch and high-lift jack clamped to its mean looking bull bars. To many of the drivers it remained (and to a few still remains) a dream. For some it came to pass sooner and for others, much later (like was to happen in my case years later). That particular time, it happened to a guy known as Cyrus. He got a driver’s job with the UN. We were all green with envy but we were happy for him – me in particular because I stood to benefit the most from his leaving.
During those days in that company, there were three classes of vehicles – and by extension three classes of drivers. Victor and I were, of course, in the third class of vehicle and driver respectively. Cyrus, the guy who was leaving was in the first class with his vehicle known as “Yankee”, or as we fondly used to refer it, ”Ile Nyeusi”, which is Swahili for “The Black One”. Now don’t get me wrong. There was no way I was going to inherit the Black One. No one ever jumped classes. We had to move progressively from one level to the immediate next one. There was a second class guy by the name of Alex who was going to be the heir of the Black One. He used to drive a station wagon (the only station wagon) christened “Romeo One” (Drivers used to call it “Karori”, which is Kikuyu for small lorry owing to the huge payload it could carry). It was this Karori (Romeo One) that was going to be the ticket to get me away from Victor.
I expected a lot of competition for Romeo One but I was surprised to realize that I was the only one who was interested. There were several other class three drivers but they seemed content with whatever they driving. I didn’t have to play any politics or do any lobbying. Romeo One was given to me on a silver platter, quite literally. When she was handed over to me officially, I instantly fell in love.
It made a lot of sense then that her name was Romeo One. She was everything that Victor was not, and more. Her headlights were like X-rays, they could illuminate the road for miles ahead. Her wipers worked – at three different speeds. Her windows could be smoothly rolled all the way to the top. Her seats could be tilted until they were like beds, and her heater worked. I could not believe my luck. I was going to learn later that she had her own issues which were quite different from those of Victor. I would understand the reason why nobody wanted her, and why everybody had literally encouraged me to have her so that they are not forced to take her. That however, is a story for another day.
My colleagues were really envious of me driving a car with no odometer. For them it would have meant making a lot of unaccounted for money because everything was based on the Kilometers covered. For me it made no difference owing to my honesty and inexperience, because getting work was still a problem. What I didn’t know then, was that the time of bidding my beloved Victor goodbye had drawn near. I had driven Victor for only three months but it felt like a lifetime. It was probably the most eventful three months of my life – at least that’s how it seemed then.
In the taxi business drivers come and go. Attrition is extremely high and it is rare to find a cab driver in Nairobi staying in one company for long. Not all the reasons for leaving are bad though. A big chunk of the drivers leave for greener pastures – mostly NGOs and foreign embassies. Every taxi driver constantly dreams of the day he will get employed by an International NGO and be assigned a big off-road SUV with a winch and high-lift jack clamped to its mean looking bull bars. To many of the drivers it remained (and to a few still remains) a dream. For some it came to pass sooner and for others, much later (like was to happen in my case years later). That particular time, it happened to a guy known as Cyrus. He got a driver’s job with the UN. We were all green with envy but we were happy for him – me in particular because I stood to benefit the most from his leaving.
During those days in that company, there were three classes of vehicles – and by extension three classes of drivers. Victor and I were, of course, in the third class of vehicle and driver respectively. Cyrus, the guy who was leaving was in the first class with his vehicle known as “Yankee”, or as we fondly used to refer it, ”Ile Nyeusi”, which is Swahili for “The Black One”. Now don’t get me wrong. There was no way I was going to inherit the Black One. No one ever jumped classes. We had to move progressively from one level to the immediate next one. There was a second class guy by the name of Alex who was going to be the heir of the Black One. He used to drive a station wagon (the only station wagon) christened “Romeo One” (Drivers used to call it “Karori”, which is Kikuyu for small lorry owing to the huge payload it could carry). It was this Karori (Romeo One) that was going to be the ticket to get me away from Victor.
I expected a lot of competition for Romeo One but I was surprised to realize that I was the only one who was interested. There were several other class three drivers but they seemed content with whatever they driving. I didn’t have to play any politics or do any lobbying. Romeo One was given to me on a silver platter, quite literally. When she was handed over to me officially, I instantly fell in love.
It made a lot of sense then that her name was Romeo One. She was everything that Victor was not, and more. Her headlights were like X-rays, they could illuminate the road for miles ahead. Her wipers worked – at three different speeds. Her windows could be smoothly rolled all the way to the top. Her seats could be tilted until they were like beds, and her heater worked. I could not believe my luck. I was going to learn later that she had her own issues which were quite different from those of Victor. I would understand the reason why nobody wanted her, and why everybody had literally encouraged me to have her so that they are not forced to take her. That however, is a story for another day.
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