On Ugandan men of the boda boda profession.

I will preface this by saying bodas are my favourite means of transportation. (they have a rags-to-riches movie feel to them)

I used to think having cars was such a chore— turns out the heavy responsibility of minding one is a small(small??) price to pay for one’s sanity.

My first week of internship, my nervous system went into shock from the madness. This Boda man (who I must add I got from the stage— my mum swears those are safer) tried to pull some x-games jazz while we were already riding uphill, and I slipped (cause I don’t fall) off the back of the boda. At which point this man put his machine back on the road and shouts for me to hurry and get back on. (Excuse me?)

Another time, I was on this boda that was so old, I could feel each piece of the engine vibrate separately. My suspicions of the boda man not being sober didn’t help my anxieties. Every time we hit a bump on the road, or made a turn, the jaj would black for a second or two— mid turn. One moment the boda man is randomly smacking the jaj to restart it, the next we’re rushing towards traffic that’s rushing towards us, and I’m frantically whispering to the universe that I’ve learnt my lesson (which is my life is worth more than 4k), while mentally pencilling painkillers into my  budget.

My least favourite ones; In the event that you’re cat-called, and they attempt to aide the cat-callers!! Some Sentamu on the road says to stop cause he’s trying to chat to you, and the man proceeds to stop?!?!

Or the; ‘How come we’re not reaching? We’re still continuing?’ Like boss, are you paying yourself?

At this point I’m praying for a car mostly cause  I wouldn’t survive jail.