Putting Chicago’s Rude Cabbies on Notice

By Vukoni Lupa-Lasaga, ML Senior Writer

Dec 30, 2007 -- Years ago, a friend on his first trip abroad returned home with a nugget of wisdom which I soon made my own: that all cab drivers are born of the same mother. What drove him to that conclusion was the near-universal recklessness with which these dare-devils took off, braked, wove in and out of traffic, and literally cut corners with scant regard for their own lives and that of other road users, let alone the safety of their terrified human cargo.

Since I adopted that sagely observation, I have taken many a heart-in-the-mouth ride in the sedans of mad taxi operators, but never in my entire life have I had to deal with the rudeness of a certain class of cab drivers who I will quite frankly call SOBs. Sadly, the most uncouth happen to be Africans. And I don’t mean diasporic Africans. I’m talking straight-off-the-boat Africans. In other words, sons of the soil – born and bred in the motherland like myself. Like the proverbial lone frog that muddies the entire well, they give a bad name to African cabbies, most of whom I know to be very decent, good-natured and generous human beings, who have on occasion given me free or deeply discounted rides.

My worst experiences happened in less than two months. The very first one occurred when I was in the company of three women. So, the situation was pregnant with the temptation to prove my manhood and send both me and the wayward brother down the slippery slope of mutually destructive male hormonal discharge. But that’s getting ahead of the story. We flag this fellow down on the Magnificent Mile. As we pile on from the curb-side, he barks out his first words to us: “Hurry! I have no time to waste!” His big ugly mouth spat the command as if he had breakfasted on venom. Thinking that the brother may have woken up from the wrong side of his bed, I decided to cut him some slack and managed to chime a friendly “Good morning!” He scowled back like a bull-dog that was about to bite off the head of a hapless chicken that had wandered dangerously too close to its food tray. I got the message and we endured a sullen ride; which really isn’t my style.

I received a proper East African upbringing that obliges me to recognize a fellow human being’s (even a complete stranger’s) existence with a polite greeting. To me, it makes even more sense that I should extend such a basic civility to someone in whose hands I entrust my life for whatever time it takes to ferry me from point A to point B. And I truly relish the pleasant banter between two perfect strangers. It’s the gold standard of social currency, I think. But the brutish operator brusquely brushed aside this quintessentially African ungwana, iwa pele, or ubuntu that all civilized human beings owe each other -- at least in my part of the forest. Now, listen to this! When I handed him the fare, the rascal extracted his own 20 percent tip before he made change for me. A bold statement that he was entitled to a gratuity, regardless of the quality of service. I staggered out of the cab too stunned to respond coherently. And he was gone before I recovered sufficiently to give him a piece of my mind.

Two weeks later, I needed a ride to lunch. So, I hailed a taxi. Behind the wheel was a fellow brother from the motherland. I extended him my standard East African courtesy. But he was curt. So I quickly gave him my instructions before retreating into the safety of silence. We would pick up my friend on the corner of Lake and Wabash en route to the Grand Lux Café, I told him. If only his efficiency matched his acerbity! But the African brutha stopped half a block south of where I’d requested him to. He wouldn’t back up to where the sistah was waiting. “We’re wasting time,” he complained as my seven-month pregnant friend waddled to where he paid put. I was ticked off and told him that he was being unreasonable. “I am paying you anyway. So why do you sulk as if you were doing me a favor?” I asked.

“I would be making more money if I didn’t have to stop on the way,” he retorted acidly. The sanest thing to have done in the face of such effrontery was to disembark immediately and tell him to go drive his cab in hell. But my patience is notoriously elastic, to the chagrin of many friends. I considered the time it would take to get another taxi and decided it made more sense to stick with the jerk. So, the sistah, breathless from the walk, heaved herself into the taxi, and the savage stepped on the gas. His brooding face had now grown so long and cloudy that its shadows blocked his ears to her sunny greeting.

My third encounter with another obnoxious taxi driver occurred just weeks later. This time I was hurrying to an 8:00 a.m. appointment at the Chicago district offices of the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. As I hopped into the cab on the corner of Michigan and Jackson and uttered my polite preambles before giving directions, I noticed the chill winds blowing from the helm. By now, I was becoming adept at taking these displays of inexplicable hostility from African taxi drivers in stride. But what happened next just flipped my lid. As we approached the federal building, this brother summoned his most imperious voice and ordered me to get my fare ready in hand.

“Who do you think you are to order me around?” I shot back angrily. “Why the unprovoked rudeness? I have a mind to tell the city how you harass your passengers.”

Perhaps sensing trouble, he suddenly turned apologetic. You should have seen his face! I let it slide. But that was the last time I let an insolent cab driver off the hook. My well of magnanimity has dried up – especially after finding out that many other Africans suffer this black-on-black disrespect. No white or Asian I know has admitted to such humiliating treatment. What’s even more surprising, No Asian, Middle Eastern, Latino or European cabbie has ever disrespected me the way our own brothers do. So, there must be something really sick going on here.

Beware rude boys. Whatever frustrations you may be experiencing in the United States, don’t take it on fellow Africans. We’re in this belly of the beast together. Let’s hang in there as comrades and brothers. If you hate cab driving, try something that doesn’t require you to smile a lot, such as grave-digging. Otherwise, the next time you come to me with that chip on your shoulder, I will gladly knock off your entire arm for you.