The night had started like any other shift for Daniel, a Yango driver who had grown used to the routine of late-night calls. He knew the patterns by heart—office workers heading home after overtime, couples leaving restaurants, and the occasional bar pickup. But when he pulled up outside a dimly lit tavern in Lusaka’s center, he sensed this ride would be different.
She stumbled into the back seat, perfume tangled with the sharp scent of alcohol. Her words were slurred, tumbling over one another as she tried to give directions. Daniel kept his eyes on the road, offering polite small talk, though her laughter came a little too loud, her silences a little too heavy. Something in her tone suggested more than just drunkenness—an unspoken weight pressed beneath the surface.
Minutes stretched into a fragile quiet until she leaned forward, her breath warm against his shoulder. “Do you ever get tired of being… just the driver?” she asked, her voice cracking between boldness and despair.
Daniel’s hands tightened on the wheel. He was used to awkward encounters, but this felt different—like a storm he hadn’t seen on the radar. What began as a simple ride shifted into a blur of impulsive gestures, fragmented confessions, and choices neither of them fully understood.
By the time he dropped her off, the night no longer felt routine. It lingered with the weight of temptation, loneliness, and the quiet realization that some detours leave marks long after the engine is off.
