From Outsider to Taxi Rank Legend
An excerpt from my upcoming memoir.

Eden College was on Claim Street in Joubert Park, which meant my daily commute took me straight to the infamous Noord Street taxi rank, not the friendliest place for a 16-year-old white boy. To survive, I had to toughen up fast. And fight.

Sometimes literally. I eventually became a bit of a legend because of the way I had stood up for myself. But once I had fought my way in, I was warmly accepted.

Luckily, my Sesotho wasn’t bad. In fact, it got me out of trouble more than once, and occasionally, it got me into a bit of fun too.

Sometimes when I sat in the middle seat in the taxi, it would allow me to start a bit of mischief. For the uninitiated (Mostly White People): when someone at the back wants to pay, they tap the person in front, who then passes the money forward until it gets to the driver. Simple. Efficient. Communal.

Unless I was sitting there…

I’d feel a tap on my shoulder… and freeze.

Still as a statue, staring ahead.

More taps.

Nothing.

Expression blank as a corpse.

Tap tap tap.

Still nothing.

Eventually, they’d tap the person next to me, who would take the money and pass it on. Then came the whispers in Sesotho:

“Ha a utloe?” (Can’t he hear?)

“Mohlomong o a hlanya..” (Maybe he’s mad.)

“Ke hobane ke lekgowa ” (Because he’s white.)

The entire taxi was convinced I was either arrogant, deaf, or deranged. But just before my stop I’d casually turn and start a conversation in Sesotho with someone.

Once they caught on that I had understood everything, there was a moment of silence then came the laughter, and some would just shake there heads and smile and then those awesome endearing insults.

“Mara voetsek, mfethu!”

I was in... Lekgowa la rona.