ZWELIBANZI - THE TAXI DRIVER

CHAPTER 04

ZWELIBANZI

The next morning, the city hums differently. The streets are quieter, but the tension still lingers in the air. I sip my black coffee outside the house, leaning against the taxi, when I see her.

Nomthawelanga Mbulazi. She moves with a calm confidence, her presence somehow cutting through the noise of the city. The sun catches the gold in her hair, and even though I hate to admit it, my chest tightens.

“Sho… Zwelibanzi,” she greets, her voice soft but firm, carrying warmth that I haven’t felt in years.

I nod, awkwardly, unused to speaking to someone who makes my cold eyes feel exposed. “Morning, Nomtha.”

She smiles, tilting her head. “You look tired. Busy on the road again?”

“Ja… city never sleeps,” I mutter in Tsotsi taal, shrugging. “You know how it is, hey.”

She laughs softly, and something inside me loosens, just a fraction. “Even the toughest drivers need a break, you know.”

For a moment, we just stand there, coffee in hand, watching the city wake up. I feel a strange pull, the world doesn’t seem so small, so heavy, with her there. Her eyes hold a light that doesn’t judge me, that seems to see the man beneath the steel and coldness.

“Maybe one day,” she says, almost teasing, “you can show me the streets you survive every day. I want to see your world.”

I chuckle, low and rough, but it feels different this time ,less guarded. “Ja, ek se… maybe you will, Nomtha , Maybe you will.”

And just like that, the city noise doesn’t feel so loud. The tension in my chest eases, if only a little. Because for the first time in a long time, I realize… someone might see me for who I really am, and not just the man the streets made me.

“Hop in,” I say, opening the passenger door. She smiles and slides in, settling beside me. Her presence is warm, and for some reason, it makes the city outside seem sharper, louder, but somehow more alive.

“Where to?” I ask, my voice low, careful.

“Anywhere… I just want to ride with you,” she says, tilting her head, her eyes bright and curious.

I hesitate for a second, then mutter in Tsotsi taal, “Ja man… this city’s mad, but ek se, we’ll survive, hey.” I start the engine, and the taxi hums to life.

The streets are chaotic, just like always. Taxis weave dangerously, horns blare, and a motorbike cuts in front of us. I swerve sharply, muttering under my breath in Tsotsi taal:

“Sho, fok this joker, hey. Ek se, he’ll learn today.”

She laughs ,a soft, breathy sound ,and it’s the first time I’ve felt it as something more than noise. It’s… light, playful, and for a moment, it eases the tension in my chest.

“Wow… you handle this chaos every day?”

she asks, eyes wide.

“Ja… streets don’t care about feelings,”

I reply, glancing at her in the mirror.

“But ek se… I handle it.”

She reaches over, lightly brushing her hand against mine.

“I like that about you,”

she says. Her touch is simple, but it sends a strange warmth up my arm. I tighten my grip on the wheel, trying not to betray how much it affects me.

We ride through the city, the chaos all around us ,reckless taxis, blaring horns, shouting drivers ,but inside the taxi, something else grows: a quiet connection, a flicker of trust, a feeling I thought I’d buried under years of loss and survival.

By the time we reach her stop, I feel… lighter, if only a little. The streets are still mad, the city still unforgiving, but with her, I realize maybe the cold in my heart isn’t permanent. Maybe someone could warm it.

“Thanks for the ride,”

she says, stepping out. She turns, giving me a smile that lingers longer than I expect.

I nod, muttering quietly in Tsotsi taal,

“Ja… maybe today’s a good day, hey.”

And as I drive away, the city roars around me, but for the first time in a long while, it feels like I might survive it ,and maybe, just maybe, I could let someone survive me too

The morning air is crisp as I pick up the usual group of kids. Their chatter fills the taxi, small voices overlapping, excitement for the day ahead. I smile faintly ,well, as much as I ever do ,and drive them toward school, weaving through the familiar chaos of the city.

Then I see it. A man standing on the street corner, hand raised, striking a small boy across the back. The child crumples, sobbing quietly, and the man’s face twists in anger. Something snaps inside me.

“Sho! Ek se, fok this!” I mutter in Tsotsi taal, slamming the brakes and stepping out. My hands ball into fists, chest tight with fury.

I approach him, towering over the man. “Unjani wena, ja?” I hiss, voice low and dangerous.

He sneers. “Mind your own business, driver!”

I don’t wait. My fist swings toward his face, the anger in me boiling over but he ducks, and I stop short. My jaw tightens.

We circle each other, the tension sharp enough to cut with a scissor

“Ndod "

I say looking at him

"Ufunani lomageza Lana

" He says looking at me with anger and I just keep calm and put my hands deep in my pockets…

"Am definitely not your mate ,Grootman "

I say sternly ,still looking at him

"You think my mates are like you ? My mates are driving cars ,they are living their best lives Mfethu ,with their families ,instead of driving people day and night and forget that they even matter to their own lives "

,I felt like a sharp knife was being held inside my chest ,but I remained calm

"If you were a real man ,by now you would have acknowledged that you are not what your close ones are ,Just because your mates have that , it's doesn't automatically trickle down to you, You must have your own name like a man ,Busy showing those tiny fist here on this boy ?"

I say pointing at his kid who was now crying at the corner ,

"You trying to suit your bravery on a kid simply because the fear of the outside world is real ,Using your own weak power on some advantage won't do you any justice , He's a kid , A kid who needs a father you bloody moroon ,He must'nt come back from school after a long day of trying to build his future and making his so called father and return to what used to be home and now feel like a battle field ,Stand up be a man ,take it like a man and stop acting like a woman with no direction "

He finally backs off, muttering curses under his breath. I shake my head, chest still pounding, and return to the taxi. The kids stare silently, wide-eyed, unsure if I’m a hero or a monster.

“Drive,”

I mutter, getting back behind the wheel. The taxi hums to life, and I drop the kids at school, their laughter and chatter returning as if nothing happened.

Once the last child hops out, I head back to my usual spot, where other taxi drivers gather. The smell of fried chips and stale petrol fills the air. I park, lean back, and light a cigarette. Around me, the men shout, laugh, and argue, swapping stories of their own battles with the city.

I sit quietly, letting the chaos wash over me. The streets are unforgiving, but today, at least, I stood up for someone who couldn’t defend themselves. And for a fleeting moment, the weight in my chest feels a little lighter.

I park at our usual spot, the smell of petrol and fried chips hanging heavy. The usual crew is already here ,S’bu, Thulani, and a few others. They wave me over.

“Sho, Zwelabantu! How’s the road treating you, bru?”

S’bu asks, leaning on his Kombi, eyes scanning the street for action.

“Ja man… city’s mad as always, hey,”

I mutter in Tsotsi taal, pulling a smoke from my pocket.

Thulani laughs, slapping his knees.

“ekse Zweli mfethu uzwile ngalempahla yayzola ,emara zya happen' hhissso ( here )”

I raise an eyebrow, exhaling smoke.

“Sho ,cava abantu bakhishwa amakhanda njalo ,die man Ramaphosa waspita ( he's crazy ).

S’bu leans closer, voice low,

" Bona wena Thulas ,Zweh mfethu ,lezinto izinto zabantwana ,Udankerrr kanjan ( how do you think ) ,sphushe egamin .”

“Otla nyela Mabura ( You'll' die )” I chuckle

"Singaxabani ke ndoda ,if Uzoke uzame lombhedo wakho eduze kwetekisi lami ngzok'khiph amasende Mabura.”

Thulani smirks, tapping his Kombi’s roof.

“Zweli ,you still cold like ice, ja? That’s why you survive. Me? Ek se… ek se… I’m careful, but sometimes… things get spicy, hey.”

S’bu laughs, flicking his cigarette.

“Ja man… we move, we hustle. But you, Zwelibanzi… you still driving straight. Lekker, hey? Even with all this… madness.”

I shrug, muttering

“The city never sleeps majita ,ayikho impi engeke ngsaynqoba mina ”

The other drivers nod, the conversation winding down, each lost in his own thoughts of streets, deals, and survival. We sip spitori, smoke curling around us, and for a moment, the chaos outside feels distant.

Then S’bu pipes up again, voice mischievous:

“Sho, driver… maybe today’s a quiet one… maybe.”

I chuckle, shaking my head.

“Ja… maybe, bru. But city never sleeps, hey.”

After about an hour of chilling with the other taxi drivers, smoking spitori and watching the city hum, I start the engine again. Time to get back to work. The streets are busier now, midday traffic pushing and honking, reckless drivers everywhere.

I pull up at the first stop, and a group of men climb in ,loud, rough, the kind that smell like trouble before they even speak.

“Sho, driver, move it!”

one of them shouts in Tsotsi taal, shoving the seat beside him.

I keep my face cold, voice low and sharp.

“Ja man… chill, bru. We drive safe, hey.”

They laugh, slapping each other’s backs, but I feel the tension coil in my chest. These aren’t the usual passengers. Something about the way they move, the knives tucked into their jackets, the spitori smell heavy on their breath… warns me.

As I pull away, one of them leans forward aggressively.

“Sho, ek se… you looking at me, driver?”

he hisses.

I glare in the rearview mirror. You don't question a King's rule in his own Kingdom ”

Another laughs, loud and mocking.

“You think you’re tough? This road’s ours too, bru. Lekker test, hey?”

I grip the wheel tighter,

"If you knew how you will die you wouldn't be messing around like that "

I say to them

Suddenly, the one sitting by the door tries to grab my arm. I jerk the wheel sharply, making him stumble, and slam my voice down ,

"Take it easy mfana , keep your hands to yourself ,Uzozlimaza !”

i continue driving like nothing happened , I've seen worse things before

They shout, chaos erupting in the backseat. Fists bang against seats, cursing in spitori and Zulu. The city outside roars ,horns blaring, taxis weaving recklessly ,but inside, it’s pure tension.

“Driver, watch out!”

one of the kids I picked up earlier shouts, peeking from the side seat.

I don’t answer. I focus. My eyes flick between mirrors, scanning the street, calculating every move.

“Oh jakalase , you wanna play? We play, hey,”

I mutter in , the cold steel in my chest rising.

The men argue among themselves, shoving each other, but I keep control of the taxi, pressing my foot down on the accelerator, weaving smoothly but sharply through traffic.

Finally, I reach a safe corner, far from the chaos. I slam the brakes, and the men tumble out, cursing, spitting, and shaking their fists. I sit back, heart still racing, muttering quietly" the city’s mad, hey.”

The rest of my passengers, shaken but unharmed, stare at me in silence. I start the engine again, the hum of the taxi grounding me ,I then see the ambulance rushing in with these boys ,if only they valued their lives like I had told them. Today, the streets reminded me why I stay cold. The chaos is relentless, but so am I .