Ode to the African taxi


Beware fellow traveller for a daring beast this way trundles.
Stark white, a battered mockery of its peers, it splutters closer.
Hung low, legs akimbo it nudges and weaves, impervious and decisive.
As in the presence of any wild thing, stay wary, stay vigilant.


Sclera wide, braying and snarling, limbs gesticulating it stalks
and abruptly mobile commerce prevails were sanity does not.
A wad transferred at speed, the turner of nuts serves and sardine seating roars on
blowing a compressed human scent, a singular aroma without peer, along.

Coat-hanger wire guards multiple fetuses from premature evacuation
when choosing the verge in favour of bull bars and a stony glare.
Looking forward, it crabs, and sans whiskers cat-like squeezing ahead.
Then, it halts. It’s weakness divined. Another sardine, hand peculiar, to feast.

So beware fellow traveller, a species far from extinct roams the tarred tracks
of the African savannas, hills and cities.  An evolutionary necessity prowls the land.
Ready to pounce, ready to take you to your destination, be it heaven, or hell.
It will take you there, alive or dead, maimed or bruised, through traffic or bushes.  Toot toot.

Not so funny subject matter, mixed metaphors, contrary sentence structures and appalling grammar.  Forgive me, I felt like something different with my muesli this morning.  Who cares really?  South African Taxi drivers definitely don’t.


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