The taxi is a white submarine on wheels travelling through the suburbs of Cape Town. In our seats, we sway to the silent orchestra of the driver manoeuvering through morning traffic. The sky is dark grey with puffy rumbling clouds falling in a steady rhythm off Table Mountain, threatening us with rain, but never specifying a time. The threat hovers so confidently, we’re all bunched up in our warm puffy coats we bought last year when the weather skipped its usual ease into Autumn and went straight for aggressively cold overnight. Some argue its global warming, some maintain its America polluting our air with their waste. Either way, we’re snuggled into strangers, closer than our family trips of all the small children stuffed in a station wagon on the way to the beach on a scorching hot summers day.
The enclosed cabin reeks of polony as someone in the back eats their sandwich. It was probably meant for lunch, but when you have to be out of the house earlier than the rooster crying for sunrise, you’re hungry before you reach your destination.
The way the sparse trees along the road sway in the wind, ensures all the windows remain closed and fogged up with commuters’ regret of having to leave their warm beds. The sliding door is a gaping mouth letting in the hooters of impatient drivers, the hollering of rival taxis on the same route and the gnashing of the wind. The opening and closing of the door synchronises with me heaving deep breaths as the gaartjie jumps in and out of a slowly moving van to herd more paying customers to join us. His dark blue brand sliders staying on his white socked feet is a pure miracle.
The fake maroon leather creaks as people shift and make space. The men move to the back of the van and the women remain close to the front.
I’m in the long seat behind the driver, on the end closest to the door, grateful for my proximity to fresh air. There are three older woman in identical navy-blue uniforms from a well-known factory in Salt River next to me, a mom and her daughter opposite us and an ensemble of women and men in the back of the taxi as the news bulletin starts.
“Harvey Weinstein has been arrested on charges for rape in New York today. The charge has led to his dismissal from his company and The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. More than 80 women have come forward, accusing him of abuse and rape, dating back as far as 2017.”
The Aunty next to me nudges the one next to her with her elbow. It’s impossible not to feel the movement against my side and even more unlikely to not hear her whisper.
“Did you hear Tiema, they say he took out his thing and showed it to the actors in his room.”
The two uniformed women turn their shoulders into the one in the centre of them. A triad. A giggling gaggle. I’m a voyeur on the outskirts of their conversation.
The one in the middle swats the bad whisperer on her arm. “Hai, Moena, you know it probably doesn’t work properly.”
Laughter bubbles up from Moena as she leans forward, chuckling under her breath.
Dropping my chin, I hide my smile. When you’re in a taxi, there’s a paper thin line between eavesdropping successfully and obviously listening in on a conversation. Distracting myself, I watch the other people’s reactions to the chatter.
The mom opposite me pulls her 3-year-olds hat over her ears as she sleeps in her lap. Lips tight she turns her head to the fogged-up window. The man behind her sighs heavily and looks down at his phone. The two women next to him smirk at the dig to a stranger’s manhood.
The one on the end asks her friends, “Remember Who’s The Boss?”
Tiema snaps her finger repeatedly, trying to unlock the name on the tip of her tongue. “Uh uh, what’s her name now again Candice?”
Moena pipes up, rolling her eyes. “You remember no one’s name Tiema. It’s Alyssa Milano.”
Candice nods. “Yes that one. She said if every woman who’s met a Weinstein must say Me Too on the internet, there’d be too many to count.”
There’s nods of agreement. The other woman’s eyes are trained on the uniformed women. Attentive. Curious. Even the mom opposite us. They’ve moved beyond eavesdropping. There’s a silent invitation being extended and the women in the cabin are accepting.
The man in the seat next to the window shifts uncomfortably in his seat, holding his brown briefcase tight against his chest. The one in the back rolls his eyes and proceeds to put headphones on. The rest of the males in the back seat are as coy about listening as a cat who thinks you can’t see him sneaking closer.
“Jor, If I must say me too for every time, jor. Imagine.” Carmen laughs self depratingly.
Tiema nods, nudging them. “Ja, we’ll be here whole day.” She cackles, wiping at the corners of her mouth. Bet she’s that Aunty who gives wet kisses. I shudder at the thought.
Moena scoffs. “Ja, I’m sure we all had a neighbour who touched our bums when we were still young and at school.”
Her statement rings true and balances in the air, waiting for someone to dispute.
Her friends nod and proclaim loudly. “Me too.”
Eyes assessing, Moena lists another. “The uncle who got drunk at family functions and wanted a kiss.”
More nodding. The other women in the van join in like a chorus. They say, “Me too.”
Moena says, “My friend’s cousin who pushed me against the wall in the bathroom when I was at a sleep over when I was eleven.”
“Me too.” The chorus picks up momentum in the utterance of every woman in this truth telling cabin.
“And let’s not forget about all the times our boyfriends got hold of us if we weren’t in the mood.”
Tiema shakes her head. “Ai, ja ne.”
There’s a loud falsetto from the women in the taxi. “Me too.” A few “Mhmm’s” provide a low bass accompaniment.
The briefcase man’s eyes are wide and there is thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The lights from the road catches it as we careen down the road. The other two men have shifted the gazes to the outside, avoiding all contact. Guilty maybe? The phone continues to hold the man opposite us hostage and the headphone guy appears to have fallen asleep.
I startle when the gaartjie jumps back in with two tall boys who have similar faces. The driver doesn’t give them a chance to find their seats before he pulls away, dicing with another taxi to get the next customer in the gloomy weather.
The motion jerks the school forward and sideways in the taxi. Hands out, they grab what they can to not fall over. One of those things turns out to be my left breast. I gasp at the invasion. I expect him to be decent and pull his hand away as if he has been burnt. Instead he takes the liberty to squeeze my soft unwilling flesh in his intrusive hand. Does he think my brown body is his to touch? Does he think my silence is consent?
Blood rushes into my head, to my face. His uninvited hand is the centre of all my senses.
I blink at him, dazed. My mind is screaming. Loud. Guttural. On repeat.
“Get your hands off me!”
My brain is disconnected though. In shock. I’m a jar of salad dressing. Shaking. Colliding. I don’t want to blend this moment into my existence. I want to separate from it.
I have more than enough incidents to add to my list of violations from strange men, from known ones. Many the same as the ones the women called out earlier. I don’t want to have another incident my brain needs to shut down from. And yet here we are. The choice made for me. Once again. Trapped in a body men think belongs to them. A body that cannot communicate its distress during transgressions.
Does this helplessness ever stop?
His beady eyes are steady on mine. He squeezes again. Bile c rises. I didn’t have breakfast. There wasn’t time. I wish I had enough food to throw up. To leave my mark on him. Maybe then he’d get the message.
Catching up to my flight response, I’m finally able to tell my body to move and get out from under his touch. He translates my repugnancy to being eager for more as I lift my chest, trying to push him off me. His smile and the wiggling of his eyebrows will haunt me. I know this, because when I blink, I still see it.
I shift my eyes to the women next to me, the mother opposite me, the ones I can see past this human filth who’s hand is still on me as the taxi continues to pulse forward. The mother drops her chin, pulling her daughter closer to her chest. The women behind her shake their heads but don’t intervene. Tiema, Moena and Candice avoid eye contact. They cross their arms across their chests. Silence sings in the cabin.
As If I want his hand. Invited it.
I’m too scared to shift my eyes to observe the men’s faces.
From their perspective it may appear like he’s holding onto the seat and not onto my breast. Still.
Time speeds up, the taxi no longer hurls forward and the gaatjie finally ushers them into their seats. Right across form me. The mother shifts to the window, avoiding touching the school boy.
Still feeling the imprint of his hand, I now have the pleasure of seeing his smarmy face as he runs his eyes over my body. I shudder at the invisible contact.
The taxi hasn’t moved that much, maybe 100 metres before it stops again. Chest heaving, face hot, I can’t stop feeling his hand squeezing me. It plays on repeat in my head. Avoiding his leering gaze is as impossible as forgetting what he just did. And how silence met my assualt.
The man with the briefcase clears his throat and moves forward, making his way to stand as he bellows.
“Engen driver.” Impatient, he taps the lady in the aisle seat to move her legs out of his way. “Excuse me, I need to get out please.”
Thankfully, his imminent departure blocks the asshole form my view. It’s short-lived relief. Light skinned, blond haired boys’ eyes are back on me. His ogling incites a deep want to wipe, no claw, at where he touched, at where he continues to look.
The man repeats, “I, I need to get out please.” Urgent. Needy. He fumbles out, discombobulated.
I gulp air. My throat constricts just like the walls of the taxi as the driver looks at his blind spot, signalling that he’s going to join the morning traffic.
Back straight, I jerk like a Jack in the box before the taxi pulls away. Before being trapped inside this enclosed cabin, still carrying the scent of polony and the chorus of the women’s earlier complaints and the fog of concealment on the clear windows and the plea to be let out.
I stumble forward, off the seat, lifting my hand. Holding onto the maroon fake leather I move to stand. The gaatjie finally notices me. Now. Too late?
Eyeing me quizzically, he drops his hand from the sliding door and waits. He’s familiar with school uniform. He knows I’m not supposed to get off here. It’s much further away. Two whole suburbs away. My house though? My house is down the road.
Standing, I point at the door, echoing the man who left before me. I say it out loud so that the gaatjie- everyone-can hear me clearly. “Me too.”