The sun was blazing over the bustling streets of Harare, the kind of heat that makes the tarmac shimmer. It was 5 PM, and the transport blues were in full swing. The kombi rank was a war zone, and the queue for ZUPCO buses stretched all the way to next week.
That’s when it appeared. A silver Honda Fit. The "Mshikashika." The unshakeable beast of the Zimbabwean road.
The driver, a man known only as "Pilot," drifted the little car to the curb. It was already defying the laws of physics. There were three people in the front seat and four squeezed in the back like sardines. But Pilot wasn’t done. He looked at the stranded crowd with the confidence of a man flying a Boeing 747.
"Mbudzi! Mbudzi! One person! One person!" he shouted.
The problem was, there were two desperate commuters left: a weary lady just trying to get home with her groceries, and a tall guy who looked like he was late for a very important date. Neither was willing to wait for the next car.
"I was here first!" the lady argued, clutching her bag.
"But I have cash, exact change!" the guy countered, waving a dollar note.
Pilot, ever the businessman, didn't see a problem. He saw an opportunity. "Ah, don't fight," he said, popping the trunk. "There is space. This is a Honda Fit, my
friend. It fits everything."
He gestured to the open boot. It was small. It was shallow. It was definitely not a seat.
The lady sighed, defeated by the heat, and climbed in first, tucking her legs in. "Just get me home," she grumbled. But before Pilot could close the door, the tall guy looked at the driver, then at the trunk, then at his watch.
"Mdara, I can't stay," the guy said.
