Listen
Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Minibus Taxi, Aisle of Miracles”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Rank at dawn: vetkoek steam, horns negotiating. “Shot left! CBD! Make a plan, my bru!” Vinyl sighs; we fold like origami with opinions. At the robot, time idles in neutral. Teeth click—counting older than spreadsheets. Twenty rand becomes change, becomes weather. I open a bar like a secret spare seat. We tithe in squares: Gogo’s bags, a kid’s loose takkies, the driver who knows every pothole by nickname. Eish—lighter by a mouth each stop. A woman laughs; the whole taxi nods. Joburg uncrumples. By the off‑ramp even the skyline looks like it’s practising kindness. “Shot, boss,” palm up. I pass a square for existing— ubuntu you can taste. We carry more daylight than we paid for.
Alternative version
Rank at dawn: vetkoek steam, horns negotiating, a chorus of “Shot left! CBD! Make a plan, my bru!” We fold into seats like origami with opinions. At the robot, time idles in neutral. The conductor clicks his teeth—counts in a rhythm older than spreadsheets. Twenty rand becomes change, change becomes small talk, small talk becomes weather. I open a bar like a secret spare seat. We tithe in squares: one for Gogo with market bags, one for the schoolkid with takkies untied, one for the driver who knows every pothole by nickname. Eish—each stop lightens the taxi by a mouth. A woman laughs; the whole taxi nods. Johannesburg uncrumples. Taxis splice the city into yes. By the off-ramp, even the skyline looks like it’s practicing kindness. “Shot, boss,” the driver says, palm up at the last stop. I pass a square like a tip for existing— ubuntu, but edible. We disembark carrying more daylight than we paid for.
No published comments yet.