Entangled In Sexpreneurship (Episode 1)
On this night I decided to make a little curve in town for some two more hours to top up the day's sales. I had made only 200 Ghana Cedis, and my master expects a minimum of 250 to fill his khaki pocket every single day. He had forgotten of increment in fuel price and the resultant low taxi patronage in town. I also have to at least line my back pocket with some legal tender too, but my favourite 'world bank' had seen an influx of taxi drivers from all corners of Accra. Osu Oxford Street has always been an area where I never blew my horn to catch passengers. But, charley, like our elders always say, when it chokes the white man, he will speak Frafra, and that exactly happened to me like a Kumawood movie title.
Driving a 2012 Corolla S taxi is no mean a job, I always had the luxury of picking and choosing who sit where and how every single hour. The exterior alone sends some amount of fear, if not trepidation to onlooking bystanders. I love my country so I smeared my ride with the red, gold, green colours, with four black tyres clothed with expensive silver coated rims to match. At a glance, no one tells you of the calibre of clients I ride with. Am talking about diplomats, senior citizens, celebs and rest, I'll tell you later.
With my leather seats laced with some indigenous fabric my master brought from Timbuktu, comfort in my baby is an understatement. My clients always claim I brag a lot when I disclose to them my baby runs on 25- horse power. With a fine fresh fitted 6-cylinder engine capacity, speed is no longer compared to cars but bullets from barrel of the Kalashnikov. I always love to engage my passengers in the fully 'nya-nya' aircon and, allow them to soak in azonto vs alkaida selections blurring from my speakers. Quality sound is less of a description, call it a 'last two' studio.
So I made a quick u-turn at the Labadi beach hotel to fetch passengers coming from the late night Friday beach Jam. Employing slow ride, a principle of our trade, it didn't take a second for some skinny ladies minus one to signal me to stop. I slowly packed a little away from them to negotiate. From the the left outer mirror, I could see the real Bantu woman from them approaching. She leaned from the front gate with a big smile, I guess she wanted know how much I take. 'Could you be kind enough to take four black queens to Lebanon?' she asked. I shouted from my stomach “LEBANON”, we are in Ghana, hello?
'I mean, Lebanon in Ashaiman' she added. With shyness scribbled in my face, I scratched my head and billed her 50gh. She nodded in the affirmative without any bargain, whistled to the colleagues, and here they came. My brain didn't leave me for the next 5 minutes, blaming me myself for not hitting her guinea fowl head with a 100gh? Realizing that I failed to pull the 'Ponzi Scheme' on the damsels, i was more than willing to make my eyes do the rest of the trans-actions.
Dressings be what? The lady with bantu features had it all. From the kinky dreadlocks sitting on her head down to torso of a asesewa skirt would pass her for Miss Africa before the audition. She wore a loosely woven Rastafari vest, leaving her dark pearly skin to my eyes only. As if by design, she trapped Jesus' cross in her pair of front navigators, but she could not look innocent.
I pushed the gear straight to second and sped off. I intermittently stole a glance at her frontal features. I swore and refused not to be confused by her charming looks as she spread her accoutrements in the front seat. Thinking they were fast asleep, i fixed my two eyeballs scanning all the available flesh I could pounce on till i was caught red-handed like Gyeeda.
She opened her sensimilia-colonized mouth and asked 'evryting irie?' that sent the rest of her friends awake with a barrage of questions. What's the matter Mama Zimbi? Wat dey happen? 'everyting cool an krisp, ah mi control the cruise, the cruise neva control I and I' she told them to my surprise. The back benchers hit their heads on the Timbuktu clothed sofa, they had gone back to sleep.
From the inside driver's mirror, I could see virtually every expressions exhibited by their bodies, it was just a push of the mirror, and all I wanted would be shown me. The skinny lady in the middle trapped her frontiers in an under-sized pink bra leaving her flesh struggling to see the world. She exacerbated their struggle by smearing lotion on them as if she was going to sell them.
One needed no dermatologist or Opambour to tell how tired the pair were, they had gone through the hands of not more than four Rasta men at the night beach, I believe. The other two friends by her side were somehow fleshy, but not my taste. Ladies like Mama Zimbi hardly pass under my legs, in fact, she was my taste.
The road from Nungua to Ashaiman was smooth and traffic-free. There was no need for Rick Ross Oko Vanderpuije to shout for another operation tag name.
Time on my dashboard read 9: 45 pm, I've never been this late before. My wife was all over, I felt her presence through my phone. Though I had a wife to think of, thoughts of my master kept eating my brain. Master K was was the type who speaks like Kuffour but takes action like Jerry Boom.
................TO BE CONTINUED.......................
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