I yelled at a taxi driver yesterday; called him an asshole. As my hands shook with fury while snatching my bags from the cumvee (I have no idea how to spell this word – a van size taxi that is the mode of public transportation) all I could do was call him names and swear to never ride in his taxi again. Someone wise told me that is all you really can do sometimes.
To make this long story short, a lot of promises were broken yesterday and when the taxi driver broke his by not taking me and my multiple heavy bags to my street in my village, that was the last straw. So I was stranded at the tar road waiting for my friend to come and help me and all I could do was cry. But it was a self pity filled cry and that is the worst kind to show in public.
Some days I immerse myself in Sex and the City episodes (thanks to a friend who loaned me the entire season – this may not be the healthiest of options but I’ll get into that another day) or reading my latest book. Yesterday, since I was in town and had my tax return money burning a whole in my pocket, I went shopping. Even if I don’t buy anything, the act of browsing through clothes and trying them on in search of the perfect item that screams who I am is therapeutic. During those moments, I was fine with the set backs of the day, everything was ok because I was living a “normal” life.
Until, that is, I was left stranded by the big bad taxi driver. My 19 year old friend came to my rescue and taught me something during our walk down the dirt road. Someone made a snide remark that I wasn’t meant to understand but I did and in my elementary Sepedi, I tried to give a snide retort. My friend with his broken English told me that I should just let it go, they are only trying to get a rise out of me. I was dumbfounded. All I could do was picture my dad saying the same thing to me. And then the self pity tears started again. But at least it was dark this time and I could hide them.