The Curse

The Curse: Part One

The vehicle you are driving hurtles down the highway. Your hands caress the steering wheel. Only light touches are necessary to follow the contours of the road. Your fingers flex and stretch in between corners, reflecting the thrill you feel each time the van obeys you.

The rush of wind pummels your face. You thrust your chin out and the crushed wind rushes past, defeated. You gulp up distance. You are a conqueror, invading and vanquishing new lands. They first appear on the horizon. They are sentinels who watch as you fly past. They are mute and helpless. They cannot stop you.

One elbow rests on the window-sill. Its fingers maintain a laconic hold on the steering wheel. Your other hand keeps adjusting the driving mirror. You get a kick from calculating how fast everything you pass vanishes behind. You want them to disappear faster.

You also like watching your hostages. This time the matatu* is full. There are fourteen passengers, not thirteen, as usual. Jasper, your latest tout, resigned just before this run. He said he would rather die from starvation than live with the crazy way you drive.

You grin as you remember the way he usually sat, one arm holding on to the back of the seat in front. The other had a death-grip on the door on his left. You always wondered whether that would stop the door from opening if it wanted to. Jasper’s face would be turned to the window, eyes tightly shut.

You sigh with regret. Part of the latest thrill of these drives was seeing how fast you could go before Jasper lost whatever meal he had recently eaten into the paper bag he never forgot to carry. There are several ways to starve, you think, and you pat your fat belly contentedly.

*a public service vehicle found on Kenyan roads. Matatus range in size from 14-seater vans to minibuses. They are notorious for playing loud music and reckless driving.