Taxi Queen of Bree Street Rank

Chapter 1: R500 to Move

The BMW was too clean for Bree Street.

It shined like a new R2 coin between my taxis. Mine were all dented, all shouting “Joburg” with their crooked number plates and bumper stickers that said “God’s Time Is The Best”. The man inside was hooting like his hooter paid rent here.

Hoot. Hooooot.

The sound cut through my head. It was 8am and Joburg was already sweating. Diesel, frying oil, and sweat mixed in the air. My back was stuck to my seat from the heat.

My queue marshal Tiny knocked on my window. Two taps. Quick. Nervous. “Queenie, that one says he’ll call Metro if we don’t move.”

I didn’t look up yet. I was counting Thursday’s cash on my lap. R8,400. Three taxis, half a tank of petrol, and twelve hours of “Bree! Bree! Parktown!” shouted until my throat felt like sandpaper.

It was good money. It had to be. Gogo’s rent was due Monday.

I licked my thumb, separated the R200s from the R100s. My nails were gold today. Fresh from Small Street salon, R120 I couldn’t afford but got anyway. Long enough to scratch a man, short enough to change a tyre. Dad always said, “Zinhle, a taxi queen’s hands must work and warn.” He’s been gone four years. The salon was his idea, not mine.

“Which one?” I asked Tiny. My voice was flat. I was tired already.

“The BMW. Sandton plates.” Tiny pointed with his chin, not his finger. You don’t point fingers at Sandton. They point back with lawyers.

Now I looked.

The car was black, tinted, and angry. The kind that never stops for robots because robots stop for it. The kind that makes my chest go tight, because men in those cars own buildings, and men who own buildings can erase people like me with one phone call.

The driver’s door flew open like he was in a movie.

He stepped out.

And I hated him immediately. Not...