ZWELIBANZI - THE TAXI DRIVER

CHAPTER 02

ZWELIBANZI

The morning begins the same way it always does: the low growl of the engine, the chill of the steering wheel against my hands, and the faint smell of petrol that clings to my clothes like a second skin. Before the sun rises, the city is already awake, restless and hungry. Taxis hoot, engines cough, voices clash in the cold air. This is my world loud, chaotic, and endless.

I sit behind the wheel, silent. My passengers chatter, laugh, argue about money, argue about life. Some carry hope in their eyes, others carry burdens heavier than mine. I keep my eyes on the road. People say I’m a man with no smile, a driver with the coldest heart. They don’t know that a long time ago, smiling stopped being part of me.

Every stoplight is a reminder that I don’t have the luxury of slowing down. My sister still needs me. My aunt still depends on me. I am more than just a taxi driver I am the provider, the shield, the man who cannot afford to be weak. But weakness has a way of creeping in, like a shadow stretching across the seat beside me.

Sometimes, in the brief silence between passengers, I wonder if my parents would recognize me now. Would they see the boy they left behind, or just the hard man I’ve become? The road doesn’t answer, but the city does ,it demands I keep moving, keep driving, keep living.

And so I drive

A woman climbs into the taxi, balancing a plastic bag on her lap. She greets me with a bright, “Morning, driver.”

I nod once, eyes fixed on the mirror. No words. No smile.

She shifts uneasily, then turns her attention to the other passengers. They laugh together, filling the taxi with a warmth that never seems to reach me. I grip the steering wheel tighter, listening but not joining.

At the next stop, a young man jumps in, late for work, breathless.

“Driver, please hurry, I can’t be late again,” he says, half-pleading.

I glance at him through the mirror, my face unreadable.

“The taxi moves when it moves,” I reply, voice flat as stone.

He looks away, embarrassed, as the others chuckle at his expense. To them, it’s just a moment. To me, it’s a reminder: emotions are a luxury, and I traded mine long ago.

Still, every word they speak, every laugh they share, echoes in the space I carry inside me—the space where my own laughter used to live. I wonder if they can feel the coldness in the air, the distance I keep between myself and the world.

But I don’t explain. I don’t soften.

I drive. Always, I drive.

*He then decides to call his little sister *

ZWELIBANZI

I-taxi idlidliza phezu kwephothole, ngaleso sikhathi ifoni yami iyakhala ephaketheni. Angifanele ngiphendule ngisashayela, kodwa ngiyazi ukuthi ngubani. Kukho umuntu oyedwa ongishayela ekuseni kanjena.

Ngicindezela inkinobho ye-hands-free.

“Ngiyaphila, Zinhle?” ngiyabuza. Izwi lami lithamba ngendlela engingeke ngiyenze kwabanye abantu.

Izwi lakhe elincane, elikhathazekile ligcwalisa i-taxi.

“Ngiyaphila, bhuti. Kodwa… izicathulo zesikole, sezidabukile. Uthisha uthe kumele ngithole ezintsha.”

Ngidonsa umoya kancane, ngibheka endleleni. Imali futhi. Njalo imali. Udadewethu usengumntwana, kodwa isisindo sobubha sesigugulile nempilo yakhe njengoba kwenza eyami. Ngazifungela ukuthi ngizophatha konke lokho ngaye, noma ngabe kungangigqilaza.

“Ungakhathazeki,” ngithi ngiqinile. “Ngizokulungisela.”

Kuthule isikhashana, kwase kuba nezwi elihlelekile, elijabulayo.

“Ngiyabonga, bhuti. Uwena ongcono kunabo bonke.”

Ucingo luvala, futhi njengokukhanya okushona, ubumnene buyanyamalala. Ukuhleka kwabanye abagibeli kungibuyisela emhlabeni, indlela iyelula phambi kwami, futhi ubuso bami buyaphola.

Kubo, nginguZwelibanzi umshayeli wetekisi ,indoda enhliziyo ebandayo.

Kodwa kuZinhle, nginguye kuphela umndeni osasele. Futhi ngenxa yakhe, ngizoshayela ngidlule emlilweni.

(The taxi rattles over a pothole, and just then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I shouldn’t answer while driving, but I know who it is. There’s only one person who calls me this early.

I tap the hands-free button.

“Ngiyaphila, Zinhle?” I ask. My voice softens in a way it never does with strangers.

Her small, tired voice fills the taxi. “I’m fine, bhuti. But… the school shoes, they’re torn. The teacher said I must get new ones.”

I breathe in slowly, keeping my eyes on the road. Money again. Always money. My sister is still a child, but the weight of poverty creeps into her life the same way it did mine. I promised myself I would carry it for both of us, even if it crushed me.

“Don’t worry,” I say firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”

There’s silence, then a smile in her voice. “Thank you, bhuti. You’re the best.”

The line clicks dead, and just like that, the softness fades. The laughter of passengers pulls me back, the road stretches out before me, and the mask returns.

To them, I am Zwelibanzi the taxi driver, the man with the cold heart.

But to Zinhle, I am the only family she has left. And for her, I would drive through fire. )

The taxi is full now. The air is thick with the smell of chicken dust, cheap body spray, and sweat. Seats creak as I push the clutch and edge into the traffic.

“Sho, driver,” a skinny kid in a New York cap leans forward, his voice sharp with Tsotsi taal. “Push it, broer, I don’t wanna be late again, jy verstaan?”

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror but say nothing. My face stays cold, unreadable.

“Yoh, this oke,” laughs Thulani, a big man with broad shoulders. He speaks in isiZulu, shaking his head. “Driver looks like he’s fighting demons, nje.”

The others chuckle.

“Eish, mfethu,” S’bu pipes up, tugging at his torn jacket. “We’re tryna hit ek’sheni fast-fast, but you’re crawling, broer. What’s the plan, you want us to lose our jobs, or what?”

I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather biting into my palms. Still, I stay silent.

From the back seat, Nomvula, the loud woman who always has something to say, cuts in.

“Y’all must chill, man. This driver, he’s not your problem. What if you walked in his shoes? You think he chose this cold face? Hhayi, he lost his parents. That’s why he is like this.”

The word parents stings like a blade. I keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight, refusing to let it show.

But the teasing doesn’t stop.

“Yaz’ Nomvula, you’ve found yourself a hero,” S’bu jeers, the whole taxi chuckling with him. “Driver, broer, you’re stiff like a coffin lid. No vibe, no smile like we’re riding in a funeral taxi, ekse.”

The laughter rattles against my ears. Something inside me tightens.

“If you don’t like the way I drive,” I say at last, my voice cold as steel, “you can get out.”

The words slice through the noise. Silence falls heavy in the taxi. For a moment, only the growl of the engine fills the air. Eyes dart away from the mirror; even S’bu slouches back, muttering under his breath.

I press harder on the accelerator. The taxi surges forward, cutting through traffic. Passengers go back to whispering, some in Zulu, others in street slang, but none of them dare push me further.

They don’t know my story. They don’t know the fire I’ve carried since I was a boy. If they did, maybe they wouldn’t laugh so easily

The taxi rattles down the street, packed with bodies and noise. Outside, the city is alive with horns, shouting, and tires screeching over potholes. Another taxi cuts in front of me, too close, and my hand tightens on the wheel.

“Sho! Watch your back, driver!” S’bu yells, sliding sideways in his seat. “This oke is mad!”

I mutter under my breath in Tsotsi taal, low enough that only I hear:

“Ja man, these jokers think the road is theirs. Fok, give me some space, hey.”

Thulani laughs nervously, slapping his knees. “He’s talking to them, ekse. Driver has his own code, man!”

From the back seat, Nomvula shakes her head. “Driver, please don’t crash. I don’t want to die today!”

I just nod, eyes flicking to the rearview, scanning the chaos. Another taxi slams its brakes in front of me, the driver leaning out the window and yelling something in Tsotsi taal:

“Move, bru, ek’s gonna run you over, hey!”

“Sho, ek se, fok this joker!” I fire back, voice low and sharp, the tension humming through my chest like electricity. I jerk the wheel left, narrowly missing the other taxi, tires screeching against the asphalt.

Then I see flashing blue and red lights up ahead traffic cops. They’re blocking the intersection, waving frantically. A pulse of panic shoots through the passengers.

“Driver, pull over!” Nomvula screams, clutching the seat.

I hit the brake, the taxi shuddering, and mutter under my breath in Tsotsi taal again:

“Ja, ek se, lekker… now the cops want to play too.”

The young kid in the NY cap groans. “Sho man, we’re screwed. They’re gonna fine us for sure, hey.”

I glance at the officers, then back at the passengers. “Relax, bru,” I say, cool but tense. “Just stay still. I know how to play this game.”

The cops approach. One taps my window, glaring.

“License and papers, driver!”

I roll down the window slowly, a smirk hidden behind my cold mask. “Ja, bru,” I say in Tsotsi taal, keeping it casual. “All sorted, don’t stress.”

The cop narrows his eyes but waves me through, muttering something under his breath in Zulu. The passengers breathe out together, relief flooding the confined space of the taxi.

“Sho, ek’s so done with this city,” S’bu mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.

I just nod, gripping the steering wheel tight, muttering again in Tsotsi taal:

“Ja man… city’s mad, but ek se, we survive, hey.”

A minibus taxi cuts sharply in front of us, tires squealing. The NY cap kid screams, sliding sideways in his seat. “Sho! Driver, we’re gonna die!”

“Ja, ek se, chill!” I bark, swerving left to avoid the collision. My hands grip the wheel tight, knuckles white, but my eyes are calm ,cold and calculating.

From the back, Nomvula lets out a scream as her bag slides off her lap. “Sho, driver! Watch the bag!”

Without thinking, I reach back, yanking it safely onto her lap. “Hhayi, relax,” I mutter in Tsotsi taal, keeping my voice low but firm. “Ek got this, bru. No stress.”

S’bu and Thulani are yelling, cursing at the reckless taxi that cut us off. Horns blast all around. Another taxi zooms past, inches from our bumper. The city feels like it’s trying to crush us.

Then I see a pothole the size of a small pool ahead. If we hit it, someone’s going down. I slam on the brakes and jerk the wheel my heart racing, but face as cold as ever. The taxi tilts, then rights itself. Passengers gasp.

“You saved us, driver!” Nomvula whispers, gripping my hand briefly. Her gratitude slices through the armor I’ve worn for years.

I nod once, saying nothing. The city still rages around us, but for a brief moment, I feel… something. Not warmth exactly, but a flicker. A reminder that, despite my cold heart, I’m not completely numb.

“Sho, ek se, city’s mad,” I mutter in Tsotsi taal, more to myself than anyone else. “But we survive… ek se, we survive, hey.”

The taxi roars back into traffic. Horns blast, tires screech, people shout ,but inside, for a second, the chaos feels manageable. Because I’ve kept them safe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve kept a piece of myself alive, too.