Men are Like Cars

MEN ARE LIKE CARS

I’ve been meaning to tell you some things since we came to that point where you thought you could make believe, my lonely heart that she was stuck with no choice, only your kind.

And I remember your words, at first disturbing but now only a whisper fading in the sound of laughter “all men are the same” you said. “None is going to be only yours. There is no man that’s going to be completely honest with his woman. Trust me, I know so.”

I have looked for ways and failed to let you know that men, no matter how male, are different.  Forgive my supposed sexism, but men are like cars. Again I beg to disappoint you by not going into makes but into usage on the street.

For some, they are like taxis. You need one in the old taxi park but when you reach town you can’t differentiate between the old and new parks because they’re all a jumbled piece of a mess.

And when you finally get the taxi you hope will take you home, compromising your comfort cause it’s the only one being filled. You are made to sit next to a woman who’s paid for one seat but she’s got four kids standing next to you, their eyes begging to be carried, or huddled next to each other, next to you, watching your phone like a TV show.

And there’s that luggage between your feet whose owner you don’t know, and the contents could be anything, you have no idea.

There are chickens and the smell of fish and fene and you can’t say a word! That’s how it’s supposed to be. Everyone is ok with it and you’re trying to pretend it’s ok with you too. Until a passenger passes his hand above your head to rest it on the back of your chair, across your shoulder, like you’re his long lost comrade from the bush. His armpits aren’t just smelly, they’re intoxicating.  They’ve never been visited by somebody called deodorant!

And you end up being taken to a different place cause they’re avoiding traffic via a short cut that’s not really short and you can’t get out cause there’s no parking space. But he can stop to load one more passenger, making it an excess number of people who are too unhappy to say a thing.

And when you get to your destination you are covered with maize flour, which you didn’t know was at the back and enjoyed making its way to you every time you hit a pot hole. And the conductor doesn’t remember you gave him a 50k note cause the passenger next to you said “mas’awo ne balansi wange mungalo” just before you. And then you realise the transport fare has been increased by 500 shillings per person when the price of fuel has been increased by 10 shillings per litre.

There are men like that, and you get addicted to their mess and sadness until somebody taps your shoulder. Trust me, I know so.

I also know of men like the short lived pioneer buses. The first time you see them, they are so refreshing that even people with cars at home park them so they could try out the new buses in town. They have a standard fare, so you like that you don’t have to bargain, cause whether you’re going to Gabba or to Kamwokya, it’s 800 shillings worth of coins. Perhaps the seats are not as comfortable and sometimes you will stand. But you don’t care about comfort; you care about adventure- journeying through the city, that’s what you tell yourself. You pray for just one chance to find it on the bus stop and get your long awaited ride. But then they don’t live for long, perhaps they live beyond their means, perhaps they operate on a system that’s not sustainable, perhaps they don’t see ahead, all that matters is now. There are men like that. Trust me, I know so.

I also know of men that are like boda bodas. I can hear you saying bodas aren’t cars. In this case they are. They let you negotiate and you agree on the fee. They take you to the exact place you’re going to, they don’t need a stage. You are the boss, you control their speed. You can as well stop somewhere and do some shopping at no extra fee. You can choose to be the only passenger without distractions and unnecessary odour.

You can even forgive the boda rider when he increases speed which ends up taking him to Mulago where they have a special unit, hanging their legs as though for competition. Perhaps you can also forgive him for the jacket he hasn’t washed in months because he really has a busy schedule.

There are those men you choose to forgive for their endless flaws cause they make you happy in many other ways. Trust me, I know so.

Yet, I know of men like the special hire cab.  You sit in the back and keep a simple profile, and have your space. No stress. You leave everything to the chauffer. You listen to your favorite radio and catch up with the world while you wait in the traffic. You turn the volume down and take your call, seal your business deals without intrusion. Without worrying that some guy might snatch your phone. Ultimate privacy.

Still, they will take you wherever you want to go. They’ll wait for you if you need them to and they’ll safely deliver you home. To your door step. I have seen men like that. Trust me, I know some.

So don’t keep telling me lies, trying to make me comfortable with your kind, consoling yourself that everybody is like you. And don’t make me feel like I’m stuck in a box where you’re my only choice, and the best, you say. Clearly you’ve never tried the choices on Kampala streets, and I have. And if you have, you will know that though they look the same, though they use the same roads, these machines are different, in the way they are used. That’s how I know, that you can find quiet, in a place full of thunder. And that’s why I’m not choosing you. There are more out there, if you look properly. Trust me, I know so.