Ish! This gonna be a long ride. I confirmed this fate as the white taxi with a yellow midriff stripe separating sealed windows-- which somehow eased my situational claustrophobia-- from tires that raced the Amapiano blasting inside, sped into Joburg traffic forcing its jammed door to slam after take-off. South African taxis are cultural hubs, I cautiously realized. Those moments being jolted through gears by round belly Babes while your rough--though rehearsed-- SiSwati goes unacknowledged, gives a face to the rainbow nation. “Ujani Sesi?” I blurted out the side of my mouth with formality at the stashing light skinned sista next to me. “Ngiyaphila bhut” she managed between Coke sips, and I watched her but mainly the wrappers she’d soon stuff out a window letting them tumble along the N4. Her thirst quenching slurps forced my full peering at her. I’ve seen her! John Cena’s Chip House! The Taxi Rank! There we performed the same polite ritual before I caved into splurging R20 on those spicy delights. Now. While the taxi is mid tailspin and recovering from a misplaced gearshift, I fumble with the greasy brown paper bag that preserves my chile showered treats and others sit restfully. Cena’s Special with the extra sauces and my readied archive of Black texts in the tarnished backsack overcame the segregator maneuvers I unsuccessfully imposed. They sagged and soaked and smelled spicy while sacked so snuggly. Between my feet, the illegitimacy mingled and all I wondered about was those books I should’ve been read. I figured a self-imposed writing retreat would remedy my gonnas. Such balm was as certain as Taxis yielding to red. And the taxi sped through a traffic robot. We’re fine, I forcefully assured myself. ------------------ Since my South African Journey began, I learned to detect watchful eyes without looking. Taxis were my first practicums. Immediately as I look up from my knapsack rummage, a babyface of curiosity waits for my eyes. I smiled. Custom. She didn’t. But I knew she wanted language from me. A part of her demands the linguistic latching onto men that bare my face. Black. Present. I’d seen this stare heavy with requests in the eyes of rock-throwing boys that reminded me of home. That one time, I got Fat Cakes, and upon my entrance, the baby boy scooted from his mother’s lap and shouted: “Mulume! Mulume!” after me. At first I stiffened. My arm hairs then stimulated my heart muscles once I remembered the greeting: Uncle! Uncle! He demanded. I became glad. Then muted it slightly. Children here toss their noncommunicable need for affection on passerbyers. Tire rolling and barefoot-racin-on-burnin-sand babies halt in observation--or anticipation--of my greeting. Some wait. Opportunist seize their moment loudly: “Sanbonani!” I lift my eyes from the road and meet their gluey eyes forming the road. Stuck ta me! Their eyes mined the gestures of my body for familiarity. Some familiarity frames my figure and confirms my kinship to sum baby stares. Others remain watchful. They’ve heard my pace and don’t know my footsteps. So these gluey babies monitored. When language becomes the only amnesty between eyes too long locked, I’ve learned to offer “Yebo! Ujani?” The toodler’s taxi stare was no different. At that moment, I was afraid Make might hear and care then wonder: why that Black skin ain’t speak Black words correctly? A pair of eyes from the tattering leather seats in the rear might question if my South African Baptism at the Supermarket Tavern where locals twist their fingers and cursed 45 was a success. After hearing my deep--or “destroyed” English--they’d know me only as Nigerian, maybe Ghanaian on a cloudy day. They will never fully accept American. The child shot “Pe!” my way, and in calm quickness returned to front seat play as if she’d fulfilled a purpose. --------------- Accidentally, I leaned back into what could’ve been a flirtatious exchange between my seat mates. While something in their bodies looking like clumsy dominance and polite dissemblance told me wooing was happening, something more in Sesi’s delivery assured me someone didn’t want it to happen. Much like it’s Taxis, the Rainbow Nation has calming windows and trash shoots. Before entering I recommend a sorting of any loose parts.