Fatso sounded agitated on the phone. The network was poor and at first I could not hear what he was saying. It was only when he called for the third time in rapid succession that I finally fathomed his message.
He was in some kind of trouble with a client.
“Are you at the car wash?” I asked.
He had dropped the phone, but I could still hear background noise—someone shouting angrily at the top of his voice. I switched off the phone.
At the time Fatso phoned me, I was watering my small vegetable garden behind the house.
I used a twenty-litre container, moving back and forth between the garden and the tap. I planned to buy a hosepipe in the near future, but my budget wanted none of that.
I had gone for years without one. It was hard work hauling water, up and down and I could only water the covo on weekends when there was municipal supply.
Sometimes, when the garden was generous, Mai VaMaidei harvested some to sell at the bustling market.
Alarmed by the agitation in Fatso’s voice, I decided to go at once and see what it was all about. I would come back later and finish the watering.
Fatso’s car wash was just behind Zororo Bar. It took me five minutes to get there; under normal circumstances, I would have taken ten.
A small crowd had gathered.
Fatso stood next to a Honda Vezel. The car’s front end was wrecked: the bumper cover torn loose, the grille shattered, the left fender crushed inward. One headlight dangled by its wiring, the lens cracked, giving the vehicle a limp, unfinished look.
I whistled softly.
“What happened?” I asked.
Fatso could not answer. He stood frozen, overwhelmed. Then my eyes rested on Rasta, whom I had not seen at first—he was kneeling behind the car. Rasta emerged from the rear, shaking his head from side to side.
“This is a client’s car,” Rasta said. “Mr Choto brought it in for a wash. He said he would collect it later.”
That was common. Many of Fatso’s clients left their cars with him and crossed over to Zororo Bar, a stone’s throw away, to enjoy themselves.
When Fatso had called me, I had not imagined the magnitude of the problem.
“Then what happened?” I asked, already fearing the worst.
“After washing the car, Fatso decided to pay a quick visit to Theresa—his girlfriend—driving the car,” Rasta said.
I groaned. I had warned Fatso before about taking clients’ cars for joyrides. He never resisted the temptation to show off. He had many flaws, but this was his greatest. The year had just begun, and this was a tragic way to start it.
“People who witnessed the accident say he lost control at the intersection of Shumba Street and Nzou Road,” Rasta continued.
“A kombi appeared from nowhere. To avoid it, he rammed into a tree.”
From the damage, it was clear the car could not have been driven back to the car wash.
“How did it get here like this?” I asked.
“Luckily, Fatso wasn’t injured—just shaken. He had it towed quickly. He thought he could repair it before the owner returned,” Rasta said.
That was madness. The car looked like a total wreck. Fatso was in serious trouble.
“Where’s the owner?” I asked.
“Mr Choto went to fetch the police,” Rasta said. “He’s screaming murder.”
“I wish I had died in the accident.”
I turned. Fatso stood behind me, moaning, his head buried in his hands.
In our culture, there is a saying: it is one’s choice to have body tattoos. Fatso had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. There was no way the car could be easily repaired.
Somewhere down the road, a siren wailed—and this time, it was not passing by.
- Onie Ndoro
- X@Onie90396982/email: oniendoroh@gmail.com