Siya & Fifi's
by Simphiwe Molaba

The taxi rank at dawn is a world of its own.

Engines idling, the smell of diesel and vetkoek, the sharp whistles of the marshals. It's a place of transition, where the city wakes up and the night crawlers head home. For Siya, it was his second home.

He leaned against his white minibus, a gleaming 16-seater he'd named 'The Blue Note' after his favorite jazz club. He was meticulously checking his watch for the third time in ten minutes.

He was late, and he hated being late. The Durban route was competitive, and if you missed your slot, you missed your earnings for the day.

"Hurry up, Siya!" a voice called out, cutting through the morning haze.

He turned and saw Fifi, her bright yellow scarf a beacon in the mist. She was walking toward him with two steaming mugs of coffee and a bag of fat cakes.

"The world doesn't wait for handsome taxi drivers," she teased, handing him a mug. The warmth seeped into his fingers, and for a moment, the stress of the morning melted away.

"Fifi, you're a lifesaver," Siya said, taking a long sip. "But the world might wait if it saw you in that scarf."

Fifi laughed, a sound that Siya thought was better than any jazz record. "Flattery won't fill your seats, Siya. Now get moving. The commuters are starting to look restless."

As Siya climbed into the driver's seat, he watched Fifi walk back to her stall. They'd known each other since they were kids running around these same streets. Now, they were both part of the rhythm of the rank.

He started the engine, the familiar rumble vibrating through his chest. It was going to be a long day, but with Fifi's coffee in his system and the promise of seeing her again at sundown, Siya knew he could handle it.