The relief I felt at the vehicle stopping after an hour of fruitless flagging down was almost swept away by the sight of the woman behind the driving wheel. I hesitated for a moment, but Baba Petros and Baba Denford were already entering the vehicle. Baba Denford, the oldest of our party, had taken the front passenger seat. I got in beside Baba Petros.
As the car pulled out, I found myself nervous again. What was a woman doing, not only driving, but also picking paying passengers.
She stopped for another pick up a few metres down the road. I wondered if she was doing it just to spite me. His face was familiar, though I couldn’t place him. Baba Petros greeted him as Baba Wilfred. There were several moments of silence, during which I was shocked to discover that our driver was quite proficient. She may have hair that was obviously artificial, and her radio was blazing the kind of noise that I constantly scolded my son about. But the ride was smooth, and within minutes I was leaning back in my seat.
It was as we passed the third or fourth bus stop that Baba Denford exclaimed: “Transport is difficult today. All these people. We got lucky.” The others made affirmative sounds. I feigned absentmindedness. How lucky we were would depend on how safely we arrived. It was looking like we would arrive well, but I didn’t want to bet on it. We may anger the ancestors. Baba Denford was addressing the driver now: “You are very right to have mastered driving. I have been trying to convince my wife also, but hey, she’s failing.” “How come?” she responded. “Ah, you know how you women are,” Baba Denford answered, laughing loudly.
I was seated right between them, so I could see him lean towards the windscreen as he laughed, while she flinched imperceptibly. I hazarded a glance in her direction, inwardly gloating at this hard truth at her expense. Surprisingly, she was beginning to smile: “Am I a bad driver?”
Baba Petros, unwilling to be left out to the discussion, quickly responded, “Haa not at all. You are holding it very well.” I turned a stern look at Baba Petros, who smiled at me mischievously. He considered himself a ladies man, and would not be wasting any opportunities.
“But you know,” the lady began, “it’s not really any woman’s fault. The problem is in the parenting.”
“Meaning what?” Baba Wilfred asked. I leaned in further back into my seat as Baba Wilfred wiggled forward. The small car could barely contain 3 well-built men in the back seat.
“Well, at the legal age for driving, if a girl is still in her father’s house, she should learn to drive,” came the quiet answer.
“You think so?” Baba Denford responded. Baba Petros quickly added, “You are very right, because women should be taught well at home. Even cooking and cleaning. To work well, she needs to be taught at home.” Baba Denford agreed with him. He lunged into a winding narration of how he was raising his children to be as hard working and responsible as he was. I had heard this story before, and couldn’t wait for it to be over.
I missed the conclusion of the tale, sensing rather than hearing a shift in the conversation. Baba Denford was protesting something, and Baba Petros and Baba Wilfred were leaning forward, trying to get a word in. “Just because a woman is taught to cook,” the lady driver was saying, “doesn’t mean she will be a good cook. It’s not surprising for you to be a better cook than your wife.” There was derisive laughter. Baba Petros was quick to interject, “Yes, but if it’s too much that’s when you find I don’t head home immediately. I will pass by the house of a friend and let her cook me a good meal then come home full.” There were some mutters of agreement. The lady at the wheel appeared unfazed. Thinking he had found a way to turn the conversation in his favour, Baba Petros
continued: “A mistress is just such a relief for a man. And I reward mine generously. I can do everything for her, you know what I mean?”
“Obviously,” she replied quickly. “Being a mistress is so much easier that being a wife. You meet by appointment, you give to each other only what you are able to give.” As she spoke I could see the hope and excitement grow on Baba Petros’ face. I glared at him sternly.
She added: “That’s why even your wife can be another man’s mistress. A mistress is so good because you treat her so good, going out of your way to please her. If you treated your wife that well, she’d be your mistress instead of someone else’s.” This time she got only nervous laughter. Baba Petros’ face fell, and Baba Denford swiftly changed the conversation back to his children.
Once again I drowned out the conversation, lost in thought. When we disembarked I made sure to thank our driver profusely. If anyone was surprised, they didn’t say a word. We had made good time after all. I decided to begin with a stop at the textile shop. It was all I could think of. I would buy some material, make sure to head home early and present it to my wife. I shook my head in wonder a bit, surprised that a stray comment from a stranger could be so inspiring. I would be the last to admit it, but there could be something in her statement about treating our wives well. What did I have to lose?