The most heroic I’ve felt in the past year was in an uber pool. I was coming from downtown Manhattan and I felt like I wanted to save on the $2.75 metro card swipe for a train ride to 116th, and instead, blow a whopping $25 on an uber pool. You know, classic 19-year-old me with bad decisions. But anyway, I’ve changed, new age new me right?
So I hop onto the front of this black SUV next to the driver and sit back panting heavily to catch some breath damn it freshman 15 . The driver drives off as soon as I’m seated. I check out the front view mirror and I notice there is a lady on the back seat viciously chewing gum. But I go ahead surveying the city because I didn’t pay to study other passengers and also because I’m not disturbing like that, though I can be. However, 19-year-old me had a big mouth and that simply wasn’t a night for her to remain quite. Not when she was paying ten times amount to get home while enjoying the night ride.
I turn to the uber driver- a man probably in his mid-fifties; with hints of grey hair on the sides, just like my daddy (at least from the last times I saw him). One thing I had missed about uber drivers (especially in the US) was that they were always willing to engage and share the very personal details of their lives. Yes, I had been broke the whole year enough to not take an uber ride and I had forgotten what the experience was like, judge me.
Although there may be some bad taxi experiences, I try to appreciate it when someone gets me to my destination safely.
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Indulge me as I digress for a bit.
The lady who dropped me at Barnard was an uber driver from Colombia. I remember her because she was all the help I had at the time and she was extremely helpful and happy for me. Having been an immigrant herself, she was very excited to talk about her children to whom she sent money back at home for their studies. I was an eager first-year fresh from Kenya clueless of the things I was supposed to do.
This uber driver was also an immigrant.
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“From the greatest country in the world!” He said loudly and with, to quote Chimamanda herself, “a sort of casual arrogance that most Nigerians are bred with.” I smiled having lived through that. I saw it. I loved it.
Anyway, knowing very well he meant Nigeria, I proceeded to say “Kenya?” and sort of opened up a room for everyone in the car to make guesses.
And at the moment I heard: “Africa?”
I was triggered. I didn’t even look at the front view mirror but turned to the lady at the back with the whole smiling thing wiped off my face.
“But Africa is not a country”
I’m not sure whether I interjected or asked her if she knew that Africa is not a country. I had never experienced one of those Africa-is-not-a-country correction moments. 19-year-old me felt proud. Not all superheroes wear capes folks. There was silence, I’d assume to let me enjoy the glory for a second but let’s go with it was because of the minute tension blah blah blah…
So anyway, the uber driver broke the silence by saying he was from Nigeria although he really admired how good Kenyans are at running and we talked on and on about our countries all the way. The lady got off at 42nd st or somewhere thereabout. I’m not certain that was her initial destination but I’m proud she now knew that Africa is not the greatest country in the world and she would be wiser not referring to it as so. The rest of the night was pretty mundane and I won’t bore you with all the details.
Bottom line: Africa is not a country.
PS: In other news, I turned twenty, what happens at twenty?I’m definitely not a teenager any longer but I’m not feeling the adult vibes yet. Huh?!
PPS: I don’t know why, but I’ve been laughing more than usual lately. I’m alarmed and if you know me, you too should be because people near me cannot focus! 20 years of laughter you’d think I would have depleted my reserves or something 
, but welp, I guess I’m just getting started on the joy and positivity.
