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...