Karuru purred the engine and screwed a yellow light on the bonnet. Strangely, he couldn’t find customers and jingled the rust-coloured 10 cents. “What bad luck today,” he murmured, wiping the sweat from his armpits. 

Thereafter, he polished the threadbare tyres and dressed the pinching seats with black nylons. Then he rattled the engine and banged his head on the steering wheel. 

First, he spins the tyres and makes a U-turn into Skull Avenue. Suddenly, blue lights flashed, and the wailing siren blocked his ears. The blue cap man fined him N$2000 while knocking on the No U-turn signboard with a pen. “The U-turn signboard is skewed,” Karuru cried, polishing the policeman’s boots and begging him to tear up the ticket. The no-nonsense officer filmed Karuru drizzling the ticket with crocodile tears and posted it on Facebook. “Hustle lawfully,” yelled the policeman, reciting Road Traffic Act, while squeezing a lollipop into Karuru’s hands after hearing his story through the earphones. 

Afterwards, Karuru looked into the rear-view mirror, and a rope-thick vein on his forehead made him rev the car. Soon he screeched the third-hand tyres in front of a stubborn red light. The taxi jerked, and the petrol light blinked before he switched off the engine as the traffic light refused to turn green. Instantly, the passenger’s door clicked, and a shadow crept on the passenger’s seat. In a blink, the light changed to green. “Drop me at Grave Street,” the skeleton man said. “It’s a dead-end street,” said the bone-and-skin man, hugging a sack of money. Soon, black houses began moving backwards, and Karuru swerved to avoid a black cat. 

Later, the radio’s screen displayed a ghost emoji that his ex-girlfriend had sent. “Do you believe in ghosts?” the text read, and Karuru, yearning to hug her, nodded. The stranger squinted at the spine-chilling text and shook his head. 

“Turn into Cemetery Street,” shouted the passenger. Karuru popped his eyes at his hollow cheeks, and his hands began to shake. Unfortunately, the road narrowed, and the spooky grass whipped the tainted windows of the taxi. “When was the last time they buried someone here?” The question flew out of Karuru’s mouth like a pigeon. As the angry grass continued to flog the car, he combed for a toy pistol underneath his seat, while his numbed feet pressed hard on the accelerator pedal. 

“I forgot my ATM pin when I was alive, and only remembered yesterday,” said the man. Karuru slammed the brakes, pulled the handbrake, and the twinning headlights rested on a gravestone. “What’s your name? “Hikoka,” stuttered the voice. Karuru cupped his mouth because that was the name written on the tombstone. By now, the soul had disappeared without whining the door, only the clicking button signalled that he had left. Luckily, the air con shuffled the red and green banknotes inside the yawning bag next to Karuru. Minutes later, Karuru’s taxi ran out of petrol at the police station, and he spooked the officer who had given him a fine to test if the money was fake. A badged detective snooping on their chats snatched the bag and winked that he’ll find out the authenticity of the money at Kolmanskop Mini-Market. Finally, Karuru pushed the cab into Spooky Avenue, but a vrooming mortuary van crashed into his black taxi. -Mungambue@gmail.com