Every morning, I get into my car relatively happy. I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I’m woken by the biblical chirp of hungry birds, and WWIII hasn’t broken out yet. Or maybe it has; I generally keep away from the news in the morning. The less I know, the better. I take the same attitude towards my work, my finances, and the number of beers I’ve drunk.
Yes, happy mornings.
I sniff the air outside and confirm that there is no nuclear residue about. I say goodbye to my happy dog and set off on the dirt road. It is bumpy, but it reminds me that I live in Africa. Happy Africa.
I turn off onto the tar road. It is as clear as my head, which is to say not very clear at all. Sweating, smiling, sensual old men on bicycles carry malasha to God knows where. My parents’ night guard is drunk and dancing on the road verge, threatening suicide. I want to tell him that Tuesday is a dull day to die, but instead, I just wave at him and smile as I see him fall into a ditch. A 20-tonne truck comes hurtling towards me in the middle of the road before it manages to swerve into its lane, just at the last moment.
Zambian roads are like one of those street-crossing games that you can play on your phone. I call it Road Survivor Zambia™. Potholes, speed bumps, stormwater drains, bicycles, cops, chickens, drunks, taxis, trucks, Land Cruisers, children, bus conductors—all of them are there to make sure you don’t make it to work or the supermarket in one piece. Not to mention the staple of the Zambian road: the glorious Corolla, held together by rubber bands, spit and faith. There’s very little point in servicing your car when a Corolla carrying ten people and food enough for a village slowly pulls up in front of you, courting death and your new paint job. There’s even less reason to service it when you meet a Lusaka mechanic.
My previous mechanic was known to do cocaine, and sometimes I like to wonder if he did coke in my car, and where: the dashboard, the armrest, the steering wheel? Maybe he took my car for a joyride around town with a couple of hookers and the police on his tail. That would explain why there was never any fuel left when I picked it up, and why it still smells of hookers. To this day, when I sniff the interior of my car, I get high; maybe I’m still hungover from the night before. Heck, maybe I’m the one doing coke in my car.
Not that I need it. Road Survivor Zambia™ keeps you wide awake any day of the week. I would like to believe that it wasn’t always this way, that in the beginning was the road, and the road was blissful and orderly. As if the Garden of Eden had highways, and those highways were found in Zambia. But I know that it was never the case, that we were already stumbling before the Fall. Indeed, there is something of the national character revealed by the way people drive. In those rare moments of clarity following a near-death experience, I have found myself wondering what that national character may be. It still eludes me.
It takes me, give or take, 30 minutes to get to work in the morning, depending, of course, on how many brushes with death I survive—around three on an average day, and sometimes as many as six. I usually end up praying to God and all the prophets and apostles, and even consider wasting money on life insurance. In short, I become a model Zambian citizen. Perhaps the road is Zambia's national initiation rite, its citizenship test. Only the brave pass.
I arrive at work livid, only to immediately leave for some overpriced coffee shop because there’s no power and the generator isn’t working. It’s 9 a.m. and I’m already knackered. Probably already drunk, too.
About Sebastian: Sebastian can be seen driving through town at 150km/h on any given night being chased by the cops.
