Weiners in wheels

A stale sweat, dirt encrusted shoes, a hint of sulfur based stink… It's like a sensory overload of the most unappealing kind. Some of you are nervously searching your room, profusely sweating, fearing this might be about YOU. 'Take the cameras out, shawty,' you whisper into the abyss, only to be met with an echoing 'baby boy, wake up, you have no shawty.'

The less fortunate souls are calling their moms or searching for Daddy Jordan, desperately trying to understand this torment called cleanliness. The blessed few, the ladies, the common decency bargains, know exactly what I'm talking about. Not their exes (for now), but rather the sheer terror and unpleasant experiences of public transportation! Aside or sometimes with the delays, the smells, the awkward encounters… let me present the different species of men you will meet in public or any transits. Lock in.

The Shawn Paul reincarnation... 'Shewangzaw,' as the locals call it, is the classic bus menace. When the bus is packed, so are his balls. He'll find any means to cram himself next to any nearby unsuspecting woman, ready to rub up on ‘dat ting’ with all his might. Rather than basking in the crushing disappointment of his game deficient self, and dealing with his unsatisfactory coitus with his baby mama, his testicular constipation now becomes the problem of every woman on the bus.

We women don’t know what Shewangzaw really looks like. He just appears from the void, sticking to your back like a bad rash, as you try not to sweat the small stuff (pun intended) and try to wiggle free from his thrust embrace. He gropes you back to reality, the reality where Santa might not be real, but this guy just came. You keep wondering if the ten bucks you saved on not taking the taxi was worth it, but Shewangzaw is gone as soon as his mission is complete, leaving you to your hour long loop of David Goggins’ motivational playlist. You just wanted to carry the boats, not be grinded upon and carry loads.

The how to handle this manual - ladies speak up, men, conquer your bluesies by your damn self and stay irie.

The 'Nice Guy,' the one who actually asks for your number... need I say more? Oh, I will, I will say more because this breed is special. They'll demand a conversation, or your digits, simply because they, gasp, were slightly nice to you. He didn't call you a 'bitch' from the get go, so what more could you possibly want, lassie? These sly foxes will try to sweeten the deal first, a decent gesture, maybe moving from their seat for you, but the pervert and mommy issues will soon surface. They'll sense your discomfort and then proceed to showcase their 'niceness' by offering to help you move your heavy hooters. You, with confusion, show a clear 'I'm not interested' grumpy face, and try to set the bar high with your C-cup, but his hands will be serving the 'cupping' regardless darling.

Manual 2 - Ladies, try not to be ተማሪ or ሰራተኛ, and upgrade to a D cup..maybe? Men, talk to your mommy please!

The 'I am wearing a ring as a symbol, not as a commitment'...These kinds possess the combined characters of what I mentioned above, but the only difference is that an unfortunate soul has chosen this as a life partner. They're a bizarre phenomenon that can only be described as a thing and not a living, conscious being. These men, in a packed taxi, will carry their child on one thigh leaving the other one for you or so they claim, and will have the audacity to flirtatiously whisper to you. Ah, the sweet sound of a horrible marriage. Put me in a coach... not!

Manual 3 - Ladies, no notes. To the party that is concerned, stop!.... I think I've enforced some changes with that. Also, as a better alternative, call your parents! No irie for you man.

The 'a conversation is supposed to go both ways? Get out of here!' Ones....These chatterboxes are seemingly harmless, unless they incorporate the aforementioned traits, which sadly is the case most of the time. But let's give them grace and assume talking is the only thing they're getting off to. These are the folks who will learn Morse code for fun, crafting a full reply to your polite 'mm-hmm'.  You will encounter them in any mode of transportation, public or private, turning a simple ride into a draining experience. Instead of saving money, you are paying for their endless chatter about politics, their family drama, their latest fungal infection, and everything in between. As they drop you off, you will see the smirk on their face combined with the 'I have trauma dumped on you enough, buddy, go be somebody now' glistening-ly written on his face.

Manual to all - Smile and nod!

The classic 'Where are you taking me, bud?'... In a city like addis, different scenarios can often lead to unexpected detours. Drivers mysteriously choosing deserted streets to the point where you'll eventually find yourself nervously questioning them in your fear stricken, shaky voice. Asking him which road he is taking as this weird route is not known by you, google map or anybody on the face of this earth only to be met with his nonchalant assurance, 'I know it, don't worry.' 'I know you know it, sugar bun. The issue is, I don't,' you reply, quitely and to no avail.

Manual to those who are not part of the problem - Screenshot your location and send it to a friend, try to stay on call with someone the whole ride, rinse and do not repeat!

Although I've maintained a lighthearted approach up until now these types of men, or even worse, have transformed a routine journey into a fear ridden commute. A seemingly simple task like transportation has evolved into a significant burden for women. We as a society need to be better, because this is nothing short of a shit show, isn't it?