Mr Survivor: Why I bought my VW Beetle for Happy Valley taxi business
Concorde is not a product of aesthetic genius. In fact, in matters appearance, I take refuge in our people’s adage that ‘beauty is not eaten’. But that is just about it as far as its demerits go.
I did not buy my car with intentions of it being a luxurious commodity. Luxury is a foreign vocabulary in my life, though I have a dream that one day I shall live it. And anyone with an eye for elegance will tell you that my Volkswagen Beetle, now christened Concorde, is not a product of aesthetic genius. In matters appearance I take refuge in our people’s adage that ‘beauty is not eaten’. But that is just about it all as far as its demerits go.
I bought the Beast with an entrepreneurial inspiration. It is my side hustle. My regular and regrettable job as a store keeper had consigned me into a perpetual state of financial barrenness. This job is the very reason my Queen questions my being the king of the Palace. What I am saying in brief is that the Beetle was meant to prove to my Queen that her marriage to me is neither a gambling expedition nor a loss but a godsend opportunity. With the Beetle, I am determined to ensure Queen can hold her head high among the other wives of the who-is-who in Happy Valley countryside.
As concerns its selling points, the Beetle is a masterpiece, going by the standards of the countryside pathways that pass for roads. First, to say that the contraption is fuel friendly is being mean with the truth. The oldie just ‘sniffs’ petrol instead of ‘drinking’ it. The profit margin therefore allows me to put aside enough cash for my Queen’s Mango juice allocation – the miracle drink that thaws her doubts about me – and I am still left with something small to treat myself at Happy Valley Grills. If mango juice is not a luxury drink in Happy Valley, then I stand to be educated properly about the meaning of the word.
Secondly, as opposed to the reconditioned, Japanese plastic cars, the Beetle is an original, German metallic masterstroke, customised for our rough part of the universe. This is a security feature that the plastic cars cannot even pretend to meet. In that case, I can comfortably trust the equally rough Omosh, my mechanic-cum-driver, to drive it and deliver my clients to their destinations in one piece and still leave it intact.
Further, as its moniker Concorde suggests it is a beast of burdens. It accommodates six passengers, the driver excluded, though it was designed to carry a total of five, with their luggage safely tucked on the roof rack. Luckily enough, the ‘Michuki rules’ are alien concepts in Happy Valley. This makes it a favourite of the countryside women especially on market days, and the general mwananchi who shops for goods to last them a lifetime. Granted, a trip to the county headquarters is not a regular habit.
Lastly, for lack of space, the Concorde is thief proof. No one in their proper frame of mind will think of stealing it, a popular pastime game by some ruffians this side of the country. I do not think many people have my degree of inspiration and foresight to have any purpose for the car. Having lost two sleek Japanese imports, I should know better. Several years down the road, the files containing the two criminal cases are still with the DPP, awaiting the green light to start prosecutions. I, however, do not require a professor to know that the cases are as good as dead, but I digress.
Going back to the start of this story, I should not forget to mention that in spite of whatever doubts my enemies have about my mental status, I am privileged to be counted among the few owners of cars in Happy Valley. Despite being the noisiest, smoky and hence comical automobile around, the Concorde is still the most popular means of comfortable transport in Happy Valley.
My forefathers said that the eyes of frogs do not prevent the cattle from drinking. The small matter of aesthetics correctness dispensed with, the prospects of finally emerging from the perennial financial incapacitation are very high. My side hustle as a countryside ‘Uber’ was a dream come true. The business is actually making nonsense of the years I have wasted in formal employment.
If I knew in good time what I know now, I would have been more financially accomplished. But it’s better late than never. Now that I know what I know, there is no turning back. Opportunity comes once in a lifetime, so they say. Moving forward, the countryside ‘Uber’ is the place to be.
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