Have you ever driven a car so terrible and unnerving it made you question the meaning of life and the purpose of existence? Well, that is exactly what happened to me when I got behind the wheel of the Toyota Funcargo. I can bet my entire inheritance that no one exists simply to drive such an uninspiring car. The universe may be cruel but definitely not that cruel. I have never had a car so bad and with so much to criticize in my entire life. Even the Probox now looks like a discovery 4 in comparison. If the Probox was jarring, this is akin to a Doosan excavator which I used to operate from 2016-2018 for a hot-tempered “muhindi” who, come to think of it, could be Nawaz Khan’s younger brother.
It all started when a neighbor of mine who has been shrouded in mystery like the real Nicholas Flamel from the 14th century, offered to give me a lift to work but I offered to drive him instead. He was visibly shocked at my counter-offer but nonetheless he obliged after a bit of convincing about my prowess behind the wheel. He was a short, slender man with muscular arms and a huge scar on his right cheek. He was also hopelessly bald but he hid it behind a plain white bucket hat. The car itself had clearly seen better days. The right tail-light was broken, the boot door was jammed, the paint had peeled off in some areas and there were scratch marks almost everywhere. One would have been forgiven to think that the car was used as a farm tractor. He moved onto the front passenger seat and requested that I be gentle on the car as though I intended to scale Mt.Kenya in it.
While I’ve always considered the exterior to be hideous, I was even more disheartened when I eased myself onto the driver’s seat. I have an unhealthy aversion to grey plastic and this car has plenty of it. In fact, it’s everywhere from the entire dashboard to the door-unlock levers and even the gear stick. While I detest plastic all together, the black plastic on the Probox is much more bearable. The center-mounted instrument cluster is another eyesore and honestly I would love to meet the fellows at Toyota HQ who thought it was a good idea to have the instrument cluster at the center of the dashboard to shed light on the inspiration behind the hideous design. Only the Noah has implemented the center instrument cluster concept properly since it blends in with the subtly curved dashboard design rather than sticking out like a coral reef in the south Atlantic. From outside, you can barely tell that the Noah has a center-mounted instrument cluster since it blends in so well with the dashboard design but in this car, you could literally see the protrusion on the center console from a mile away. I have no idea why the designers thought this was even remotely a good idea.
The interior was very untidy with dust all over the dashboard, red, dried mud on the mats and a faint smell of petrol and tobacco dominating the interior, a very potent and debilitating combination I must add. Anyway, I depressed the brake pedal, eased the gear stick which was awkwardly positioned behind the steering wheel into “D” and the car jerked slightly. I turned to look at the owner but he simply shrugged and in a hoarse voice remarked, “hiyo ni chida ya gearbox” and signaled that I drive on. I disengaged the foot brake and the car began to creep forward. The first thing I noticed was the terrible creaking sound emanating from the rear of the car as I dodged the massive potholes that lined the feeder road from my neighborhood towards the Eastern bypass. I suspected it was the suspension and indeed the owner confirmed my suspicions. He admitted that the rear shock absorbers were in dire need of replacement but he cited the tough economic times as the reason for his delay in servicing them.
As I signaled and pulled into the Eastern bypass, he grabbed a “sportsman” cigarette pack from the glove compartment, lit one with a metallic lighter and inhaled deeply. He then opened the window, placed his left elbow on the window frame, exhaled the smoke against the wind for what seemed like an eternity and said, “na ujue gari iko na brakes za mbele pekee, za nyuma hazifanyi.” I was so dumbfounded that i almost let go of the steering wheel to place my hands in the universally accepted position of distress above the head. I depressed the brakes and true to his word, the feedback was weak and there was absolutely no braking power in the back wheels. “Bora tu usikaribie gari yenye iko mbele saana,” he said as he took yet another puff of his cigarette. He then proceeded to brag that the brakes had failed on his way from a family function in Nakuru and he had made it the entire way back with just the front brakes the previous night. Dumb retard, I thought to myself as I decelerated the car to a manageable 40 KM/h with the compromised brakes. This of course attracted the anger of the ever impatient Kenyan drivers who hooted angrily, flashed their full lights and a loaded tipper even tailgated me for a few meters but i simply shut the windows and advised the owner to look into the brake issue. After a lot of back and forth and a word or two about the danger he posed to himself and to other road users if he left it unfixed, he reluctantly accepted to have the brakes checked and i drove slowly until we got to a garage near the bypass stage where I inhaled deeply and heaved a sigh of relief when I brought the car slowly to a halt. I wasn’t particularly keen on meeting my creator just yet.
A mechanic in greasy overalls approached the car from the driver’s side, knocked on the window and I opened it. He leaned over the window frame, wiped the sweat on his forehead with his greasy overall thus leaving a trail of dark oil on his face and asked, “semeni wakubwa, iko shida gani?” He was a young, muscular lad who seemed to be in his late 20s or early 30s in spite of the premature balding on his head. I turned to face the “Mzee” who was now discarding the cigarette’s filter outside the window. He reached for the cigarette pack which he had placed back in the glove compartment, pulled out another cigarette stick and lit it. He inhaled the pale smoke patiently and exhaled outside the window then turned to face the mechanic who was leaning over on my side and said, “Hii gari iko na chida ya breki, ya nyuma haichiki,” he said. The mechanic nodded in approval, wiped more sweat that had built up on his face and requested that we disembark and give him 20 mins. “Hiyo ni kukaza tu,” he said as he hastily ran for his toolbox which was just next to an x-trail he had been working on.
I opened the door and stepped out into the garage. The sun was scorching hot at that time of the morning which was unusual but it explained the excessive perspiration on the mechanic. I walked over to a shade on the far edge of the garage while jumping over oil-soaked soil and discarded oil filters that were strewn carelessly on the ground. I found a seat, ran my index finger over it to check for dust, found none and decided to sit and wait patiently. The owner opted to keep a close eye on what the mechanic was doing so he stuck around the car in spite of the scorching sun. The mechanic jacked up the car, removed both rear wheels and disassembled the drum brakes. At this point, I don’t remember what exactly transpired but from my seated position, I heard something along the line of worn seals and the owner remarking, “funga tu hivo.” As the mechanic reassembled the drum brakes, I stepped out of the garage and purchased a copy of “The Daily Nation” from a roadside stall to catch up on the current political intrigues but I found it difficult to read due to the sun’s reflection so I folded it and placed it under my arm and headed back to the garage just in time to find the mechanic testing out the newly fixed brakes. He sped across the garage in circles repeatedly while applying instant brakes until he was convinced that they were now in order. The brakes seemed much better and stronger now. The owner beckoned to me to take the wheel as he negotiated with the mechanic.
I took the wheel, placed my newspaper on the dashboard and positioned the car towards the exit. I then yanked the lever into “park” as I observed the negotiations on the side mirror. I could see the owner pull out a crisp Ksh.500 new generation bill and hand it to the mechanic who in turn stretched out his greasy hand to bid the “mzee” goodbye. The owner briefly shook the mechanic’s outstretched hand and headed back into the car. He settled down on the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut while simultaneously reaching for his cigarette pack from the glove compartment but he decided not to smoke and returned the pack. I slid the gear stick into “D” and pulled slowly back onto the road. The brakes were much better now but I still didn’t feel confident enough to increase speed and this decision was crucial because we had barely gone a kilometer when the entire brakes gave in. I tried to pump on the pedal repeatedly as I had learned to do in such a situation but the brakes were long gone. There was a sleek 79 series hardtop in front that I almost rammed into were it not for my quick reaction as I swerved onto the left shoulder while simultaneously avoiding a huge ditch which would have certainly collapsed the front suspension and brought the car safely to a halt with just a few jolts as I went over the numerous potholes on the shoulder. My 10 years intermittent experience behind the wheel may have played a crucial role here. At this moment, my heart was threatening to tear apart my rib cage and I was desperately short of breath. I leaned on the steering wheel and took deep calculated breathes. I then turned to face the owner who seemed unperturbed as he decided he now needed a cigarette and pulled out the “sportsman” pack from the glove compartment. “Unajua…Unajua brakes z-zimepotea kabisa,” I said between breathes (I sometimes stammer when I’m stressed or anxious) but he simply lit a cigarette, inhaled the smoke deeply and exhaled as he fumbled with it on his fingers. “Hii gari ni takataka,” he said as he took yet another puff and requested that I drive it back slowly to the garage since it wasn’t far away. It was as though he had a death wish, I reiterated that the brakes were history and thus it would be suicidal to get back onto the busy road. He concurred after a few seconds of soul-searching and decided to call the mechanic who arrived flanked by two aides a few minutes later in a blue Probox.
I stepped out into the open and decided that there was no way in hell that I was getting back in that car. As the mechanic opened the bonnet, he realized that the brake fluid had almost completely leaked out and most of it had soaked into the ground under the car in the few minutes we had stopped there. He jacked up the car and removed the front right wheel only to find that there wasn’t even a brake pad on that disc brake, only the metal that holds the pad in place was present and it was hard to tell since the rims were regular steel rims rather than alloy units. The pad on the left wheel was intact but badly worn. At some point, the right side mirror had also come off and was dangling precariously and It was at this point that i noticed it had been held in place by black tape. I had seen enough. I wasn’t keen on exiting this planet just yet so I grabbed my newspaper, bid my neighbor goodbye and left him with the mechanics as they pondered over what to do next. I contemplated giving him the middle finger as I left but I thought against it given his age and the fact that my mother didn’t raise a delinquent.
So not only is this car irreedemably hideous, I almost died in one. When I picture my death, I see myself in a futuristic space ship as i try to enter Jupiter’s atmosphere before the ship suddenly disintegrates sending me into oblivion never to be found again. I have never imagined myself perishing in a funcargo. I am yet to hear from the “Mzee” and I haven’t seen his car prowling the neighborhood lately but i hope all went well. One thing I’m certain of however is I’d rather have my head severed on a French guillotine and placed on a stake next to the gates of Paris like King Louis XVI during the French revolution than be seen anywhere near that contraption again. I’m not as courageous as John of Bohemia (the blind king) who at the battle of Crecy, in the year of our lord 1346, was asked to retreat from the battlefield since the French he was supporting were losing the battle badly against the English but he boldly declared, “Far be it that the King of Bohemia should run away. Instead, take me to the place where the noise of the battle is the loudest. The lord will be with us, nothing to fear, just take good care of my son.” He was of course butchered in the ensuing melee by the heavily armored English knights and perished. I lack that kind of bravery and I deeply fear death, which is partly why I prefer large SUVs over sports cars, so no I won’t be driving that funcargo again anytime soon. Good riddance!!
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