I was bruised on my left hip after a short ride in a taxi to the rural side of my life.
Second row of a comfy Quantum, I sat precisely 15centimetres away from the lady on the right because she reeked of undead fish.
I did suspect it was the stink of you know what, but it was a Sunday - and my priority was to keep my thoughts pure.
Nonetheless, I wanted none of that odour on my favourite hoodie. Of course karma was going to punish me for thinking I smell better than the average passenger.
In came a handsome gentleman (at least by the standards of Tshatha and Izingane Zoma) clad in all shades of blue, right to the Brentwood trousers in a serene pastel.
There is a general entitlement to space among men around here.
Since the eradication of the four-four rule in taxis, they take the liberty to sit like kings, legs split at a liberal acute angle.
Then the gentleman sat right on top of me. There's very little flesh of hips on me to begin with, and he threw himself on all of it.
Now, if you are familiar with the Brentwood brigade you will understand that they're generously gifted on the posterior. Probably something to do with that constant squatting when doing the "Zulu dance".
I must have been carrying a heavy load of squat-hard ass on my fragile pelvis. And to his delight, I squeaked "Ahhhwu!"