Boda boda

Warning to my mother: do not read this.

In the first 15 minutes I saw Africa in daylight, I feared for my life. I went to work with my roommate on a boda boda, a motorcycle taxi, the most common mode of transport in Kampala. I hopped on the back and before I could even figure out how to stay on the narrow seat, we were roaring off. The driver winded through rush hour traffic at high speed, sometimes right down the dividing lane as cars zipped past on both sides. I arrived with dust in my eyes and adrenaline pumping, and a little excited, as if having taken a rickety rollercoaster that only cost $1.

“Road safety” is an unknown phrase in Uganda. There are maybe two traffic lights in the entire city, but they are never on. I like to imagine they were the result of some colonial imposition, long since abandoned as impeding the natural chaos of urban Africa. Traffic accidents are said to kill more people on the continent than any disease or war.

I have started taking the bus to work.