By: Laura K.
She’s sober. He’s drunk, and thinks he’s funny.
The guy keeps calling him “BOOB-a-car,” over-pronouncing it, giggling. She’s uncomfortable, but doesn’t call him out. The guy ordered the ride, so a tip’s unlikely.
He left Bamako for this shit?
The other car comes screaming through the red. Boubacar swerves, stomps on the brakes. His right headlight is crunched but everyone is fine.
“Oh shit!” she yells. “Oh my god. Thank you.”
The drunk guy moans, pukes in the backseat.
“Not my business, but you could do better,” Boubacar says quietly to her, digging out his insurance.
She raises an eyebrow.