THE TAXI DRIVER (II)

... While he was speaking, the car began to slow down. In the next few seconds, we had pulled-over at the Station. The Newcastle Central Station. It hit me! I realised that the chance to win him over was lost. It's funny right? Funny that time flies too quickly when you most need it to crawl. Funny how devastated you feel when an opportunity such as this; one that you constantly anticipate may have slid right through your fingers. I also find it funny that it takes less than a second to realise that you have either won at something. Or lost. It is at times like these, that one realises how important seconds are. Now, I wonder that if I had spent little or no time at the start of the ride bothering about luggage I had not forgotten, then maybe this event would have ended differently. Sigh. We will never know. Will we?

So I read the meter and handed him the appropriate fair-charge. I arrived at the Station in good time. As always.

Thank God for luggage trolleys. My new friend helped lift the suitcases on and I made my way into the Station. Just me - pretty girl in her short green dress. My ticket was verified, the short single swing doors opened and I proceeded to the platform. I spotted a seat beside a young looking couple. We exchanged pleasantries. Before long I was feasting my eyes on all the incredibly varied individuals who were passing through the Station right then. They are arriving and I am departing, I thought to myself. Newcastle is probably home; either that or it represents a myriad of other things for these folks - shopping centre, night-club zone, study environment, a link to somewhere else - the list is endless actually. For me, it is not one but a combination of these.

My thoughts did not dwell on that. It swiftly drifted back to the taxi driver. Imagine! I had already forgotten his name. Or did i even ask? I may have forgotten that but the words he spoke at the tail end of the ride are etched in my memory. 

As he shook his head in denial, he had a look on his face that almost joined his brows together in a unibrow. "Surely, there can't be a God!" He says. He said this in that tone that leaves one unsure as to whether a statement had been made or a question had been asked. I settled on the former and so I said nothing... not wanting to derail his train of thought. He continues. "Okay. Explain to me this - why would a man that is ill who has prayed yet seen no change, go to the Clinic or the GP, get a prescription, buy medication, take it and afterwards feel better say that God has healed him?" He doesn't stop. "Why would a man... one that was involved in an automobile accident; who was tightly strapped in his car seat with a functioning airbag, who had his car tumble one or two times yet survive, say that God preserved him?" He doesn't use the word 'preserve'. It was another from everyday vocabulary - kept? Rescued? I can't put a finger on it.

"Why does one who; in one or two clinics, was informed he has cancer go to another physician who declares him cancer-free, call the change in results a miracle?" “Hmmmn?" Pause. "Can it not be that the third Doctor/Clinic was more thorough or smarter or better at the job than the others?" "Why are folks quick to call everything God's Handiwork" "How are these miracles? Or products of a relationship with God?" 

Suddenly he stops and glares at me, as if knowing he may have overdone it or maybe put the cart before the horse. He asks "Can you even tell me why you believe that there is a God?"

The questions rolled off his tongue. It seemed to me that as much I enjoyed such discussions, he had hoped to meet someone like me for too long. Now, It seems a tad obvious that those were thoughts that had blossomed in his mind and that that ride had provided the perfect opportunity to vocalize them.

All the time, he was going on and on, I was juggling answers in my mind. I have been in this position before but I can promise that they were not even slightly this intense. I swear to you that if there ever was a hot-seat, I had discovered it... as I was sitting right in it. 

THE TAXI DRIVER (I)

It’s an early Sunday morning; the 16^th of September. I’m riding the eastcoast to London’s Kings Cross Station from Newcastle. Sadly, i have had to miss Church service today in order to proceed with my journey. I assume that someone reading this would ask “why wasn’t a later ticket booked?” and if this question is not rhetoric, it is due to the singular reason that I detest late travel. Travelling early gives me the feeling – however surreal – that if a person arrived at their destination by noon or a bit later, they still had the ‘whole’ day to carry out a number of activities before the sun put on its dark-coloured pyjamas.

Anyway, today, the taxi i booked for 9:45am to take me to the station arrived two minutes earlier than the said time. This was not even slightly inconveniencing because i pride myself in always being at the latest, 15mins early for every appointment. I exited the house to await the arrival of the taxi just as it was pulling up and i raised the forefinger of my left – signalling to the driver, that i would be set to leave and back outside in one second. Of course, it took many seconds longer. Three times, i lugged tightly-packed, zip-bursting 32” suitcases to the sidewalk; from which he hulled them into the trunk. In the next 2 minutes, I was seated in the passenger seat.

On the countless other times I had ridden in taxis, i have found myself engaged in interesting conversations with the drivers; some eager to know my nationality and eventually what Nigeria is like, some sceptical that ‘non-overseas’ trained Africans speak English fluently and with a clear accent, some unusually willing to share holiday experiences, some just downright flirty and others more inquisitive than they appear – like the driver today.

The first few minutes of the ride got me thinking and re-thinking to be certain that i had left nothing behind. Honestly, I was especially concerned that every yard farther away from home was making it more expensive and therefore more difficult to return if indeed, I had forgotten anything. Less than two minutes later, I was certain that every possession i needed was stowed into one of my suitcases. Before i could ask some tacky question, he saved the day. He asked where i was headed, how long for and all the regular questions that trailed behind those first two. I indulged him; getting him to ease up and drawing him out before i would strike.

After a few laughs, I had found a way. I asked him how much he enjoyed work and if it demanded him to be at it on Sunday mornings. Apparently, on the Sunday mornings he didn’t work, he went drinking at a bar with friends – i saw his face light up with his last statement as if silently wishing that today was one of such days. Now, at this point, the next question is one i had prior to this occasion, constantly tried to rephrase. I eventually considered my quest successful the day i settled on “Do you believe in anything?”. I must add that of all the people i have ventured into the ensuing exchange with, i found him to be the most attentive and forthcoming – I would bet my last copper coin, that if i was headed to a farther destination, we would have skipped into Church the following Sunday! Yes, I’m that thoroughly convinced. And so i went on to ask him the question to which he answered no. He expatiated further saying that he is originally catholic but he stopped believing; how and when he stopped, he couldn’t quite say but on the days he had tried to figure out why, he realised that there was little difference in his life from the days he associated himself with Christianity and the days he considered himself a pagan. I liked how carefully he chose his words; never actually claiming to have chosen Christianity and never implying devotion. There was no stopping him; he went on and on - eventually concluding with the ‘Big Bang Theory’ and how surely, I believed it too. It was in these words that I heard true belief...