Let me start by making one thing clear—I am not crazy (and my psychiatrist can confirm this). But living, working, and commuting in Uganda? That will drive anyone to the brink!

Now, here’s the truth.

Last Friday, I received an email I had been waiting for forever.

“Dear Deborah, we are pleased to inform you that…”

In Uganda, this is one of the greatest sentences you can ever read. It signals a new beginning.

For the past four years, I have been relentlessly job-hunting, sending applications left and right. Finally, last week, I secured a job!

I was set to start on Monday morning, so I spent the entire weekend getting ready.

My friend Theo took me shopping in Owino Market, and I proudly walked away with three pairs of office trousers, four corporate tops, and two pairs of shoes.

“This is what you should wear on Monday,” Theo advised, picking out a black pair of trousers, a white blouse, and a black blazer. “First impressions matter—you have to look like you know everything.”

I was thrilled! My first job! I had already mapped out exactly how I was going to spend my first salary.

I ironed my clothes with so much care you’d think I was preparing for a presidential swearing-in ceremony.

Then Monday arrived.

I was up before the early bird—because this time, it was my turn to catch the worm! Nothing was going to stop me. Not even the light morning drizzle.

Since I needed to be at work by 8:00 AM, I decided to get there by 7:40 AM. (Because I am a responsible adult now.)

Luckily, I had borrowed an umbrella from a friend, so I grabbed it and hurried to the taxi stage. By God’s grace, I found a nearly full taxi, meaning I wouldn’t have to wait long.

I should have known that this taxi was the weapon formed against me.

The first red flag? The conductor was physically holding the door in place.

Inside, the torn leather seats jabbed at my back, and thanks to the rain, the taxi was now doubling as a shelter for stranded pedestrians. The result? Passengers squeezed together like chapatis on a hot pan—from sleepy students to overly enthusiastic uncles discussing politics at full volume.

The driver? A daredevil who navigated the road like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Kampala Drift.

The conductor—a hustler in faded designer knock-offs—shouted destinations, collected fare, and occasionally “forgot” to return people’s balance.

“Conductor, ku stage!” a passenger behind me yelled, signaling that they needed to get off.

The driver pulled over. The conductor swung the door open.

And then it happened.

The door—yes, the entire taxi door—detached and crashed into a puddle of filthy rainwater.

Water splashed everywhere.

And guess who was sitting right at the door?

Me.

My perfectly curated first-day outfit—the black blazer, the crisp white blouse, and the black trousers—was now soaked in Kampala’s finest street mud.

You’d think that was the end of my misery. Eh! Naye katandika butandisi!

I had to step out of the taxi to let the other passenger alight. And just as I landed on the ground—splash! I found myself sitting in a puddle of thick, brown, city-branded mud.

So now, not only was my blazer soaked with dirty water, but my entire backside was baptised in Kampala’s finest roadside filth.

Before I could even process my humiliation, the entire taxi erupted in laughter—passengers, conductor, even the driver, who was busy pretending he wasn’t the cause of all this.

In a desperate attempt to salvage my dignity, I took off my blazer and tied it around my waist, hoping it would cover the damage. But deep down, I knew—nothing could undo this level of disgrace.

For a moment, I considered going back home to change. But that meant being late and possibly getting fired on my very first day. Buying new clothes? Out of the question—I was broker than the taxi door that had fallen off a few minutes ago. That left me with only one option: show up as I was and explain to my boss and colleagues.

I got back into the taxi, this time choosing a different seat, hoping for better luck. Big mistake!

This new seat had hidden metal springs poking through the torn leather sits, and as soon as I sat, I felt sharp jabs stabbing my back. I shifted slightly to ease the pain, only to hear a rrrrrip!

My white blouse had just been sacrificed to the gods of misfortune.

At that moment, I died inside.

I didn’t just cry for the morning’s disasters—I cried for all the years I had been jobless, for the countless applications I had sent in vain, and now, for the job I had finally secured, which was slipping through my fingers… all because of a taxi.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, another passenger shouted to be let off.

And just like before—bam!—the taxi door fell off. Again.

The driver and conductor, after attaching the door to the taxi, came to an agreement that they were not opening that door again.

From that moment on, anyone who wanted to get off would have to do so commando-style—by jumping over the small metal bar that separates the driver’s seat from the rest of us.

I sat there in horror because I was next to get off.

When the time came, I took a deep breath, channeled my inner Jackie Chan, and leaped over the bar, landing awkwardly onto the driver’s seat before scrambling out from his side.

It was three minutes to 8:00 AM. I was drenched in filthy water, my once-white blouse now a tragic shade of brown, a wet blazer tied around my waist, and a visibly torn shirt flapping at the back.

From the moment I stepped off that taxi, I felt the stares.

People looked at me like I had sprouted a second head. Some whispered. Others hurriedly crossed the street, as if madness were contagious.

I could see it in their eyes—pity, fear, and sheer confusion. But I didn’t care. I had come too far, fought too hard, and endured too much to let anything—not even a taxi from hell—stand between me and this job.

My fellow passengers would understand. Only they knew the battlefield that is Ugandan public transport. My new colleagues, however, would need some convincing. I was already rehearsing my explanation in my head as I walked through the office doors, ready to clear up any misunderstandings.

Then, just as I took my first step inside, I heard it.

“Call security! There’s a mad woman in our office!”