Trotro Palaver

It was a typical Monday morning in Accra, which meant hot sun, heavy traffic, and higher blood pressure.

Kwabena, freshly dressed in his ironed shirt and fake leather shoes from Kantamanto, stood at the 37 Station, eyes scanning the horizon like a soldier at war. He had an important interview in Osu at 9 a.m. sharp, and like every sensible man on a tight budget, he refused to take a taxi.

“Trotro is the way of the wise,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his tie with pride.

A rusty Nissan trotro screeched to a stop in front of him, puffing smoke like it had just finished fighting a demon in Kasoa. The mate leaned out, half his body defying gravity.

“OSU OSU LABADI OSU! Aka baako, Aka baako!”

Kwabena hopped in and squeezed himself between a woman carrying a suspiciously loud basket and a man whose armpits smelt like they’d been barbecued since last Friday.

The mate, Yaw Tactics, was a walking loudspeaker in a fake Adidas shirt and a mouth faster than the trotro itself.

“Madam, your fare! Bossu, small-small shift!

Kwabena handed him a crisp ₵10 note.

“Mate, I’m getting down at Osu. Please, my change is ₵5.”

Yaw Tactics nodded. “I hear you, boss. Relax, I go sort you.”

Forty-five minutes later, the drama began.

The woman beside Kwabena had argued with the mate for calling her “sister” when she preferred “madam.”

At every stop, Yaw Tactics collected money with the speed of a light except Kwabena’s change never came.

Finally, Osu.

Kwabena stood up and cleared his throat.

“Mate, my change?”

Yaw blinked like he had just been accused of murder.

“Oh boss! You no get down for Ridge?”

“Me? Ridge? I said Osu!”

“Ah, then I give the change to the wrong Ridge guy. Wey he chop it already!”

Kwabena refused to budge.

The trotro was now at a full stop in the middle of the road. Horns started blaring. A frustrated taxi driver yelled, "Move!”

Yaw Tactics sighed and reached into the depths of his pocket, pulling out coins that looked like they’d been to war.

“Take ₵3 now, I go send the rest on WhatsApp.”

“You mean Mobile Money?” Kwabena asked.

“No, WhatsApp voice note. I go say ‘thank you’, that be your change.”

Kwabena got down, ₵2 poorer but richer in street wisdom.

He was late for the interview, but when they asked why, he simply said:

“Trotro palaver.”

The panel all nodded in solemn understanding. One even whispered, “Ah, you too?”

Share your trotro stories in the comment section below. Happy weekend folks!