We thank God.
I wake up early, take my bath, brush my teeth to get ready at 6:40 am. The weather is cool; my hair slightly rises to goosebumps. I think of packing a sweater but lose the thought as Emeka calls me to get going; Ebuka, his brother, left already. With quick movements Emeka dusts off the seats. I open the gate, let Emeka pass and close it behind us. First, we’ll pick up his school children.
Tamale, 2025
We pass other children with backpacks almost bigger than them, paddling on bicycles – their feet barely reaching the pedals – along the gravel road. Others are seated on the back of motorbikes, squeezed tightly between their parents and siblings. Some walk, the older holding the younger one’s small hand.
Not many Yellow-Yellow drivers pick school children. The payment comes only monthly; the schedule is tight. To find someone reliable and trustworthy makes it even more difficult for parents.
Emeka is driving back and forth all morning. Once the school children are at school it’s their parents who need a ride to work. At one point Ebuka overtakes us on the slope to Fuo. In the passing by both exchange a few words and a laugh. My tummy is begging for some attention - there hasn’t been any time for breakfast yet.
Before 10 am we stop near the traffic light before reaching town. A friend of Emeka’s is selling Bofrot. I buy 10 cedis and she puts one extra.
We have a little time before Emeka’s next pickup. “Wednesdays are quiet days”, he says. Not much business. He decides to stop by a friend’s workplace; someone he hasn’t visited in a long time.
As we drive, I remember my first time in a Yellow-Yellow: the heat of the engines, the pulsing streets, the way the traffic seemed to breath. I recall sticking my head out the side to just feel the speed on my face. Another memory comes up about me coming back to Tamale last year. It was 5 am when Emeka picked me from the bus station. I sat quietly in his back. He looked at me through his mirror and said: “You are observing.” Sometimes we talk; other times we just sit in silence with both our thoughts wandering.
After visiting his friend, we head home. My eyes get heavy. Emeka opens the gate, parks the Yellow-Yellow under the shade of the tree. It’s time for short nap for both of us.
Soon, it’s time to pick up the schoolchildren again. “We’ll get my two princesses first,” he says, “then my stubborn boy, before we drop the others at the airport.” Emeka never writes anything down, all is scheduled in his head. He also gives most of them nicknames, usually not even close to their real names, but one’s he’s chosen for them.
After bringing home the school children, he gently reminds one child to grab their water bottle and carries another sleepy one to the door. Then we prepare for the airport trip. The suitcases are stacked behind the seats, one fits in between the two passengers, so I squeeze into the front beside Emeka.
The way to the airport is long. The scenery opens wide as we leave town behind. It’s rainy season, the Fulani herders lead their cattle to graze in the lush fields. Halfway there we hear a soft hiss – pfff. I glance at Emeka. He just looks at me. We stop briefly. He quietly tells me to come to his other side. We both know: one of the tires is about to give.
At the airport gate, Emeka hands five cedis to the security man, who waves us through. The road in front is smooth unlike the bumpy main road back into town. We drop the passengers off and rush back.
Emeka grins and says, “Thank God, it’s the left tire. It’s a no-tube tire. When it spoils it’s okay.”. We stop at the nearest repair shop, fix the tire and continue, back to town to pick up his last passenger before we ourselves go home.
There are so many stories, too many to write down. But some are told when you ride with Emeka yourself.
How much do we know about a driver?
We hop on a bus, an Uber, a taxi, a tuk-tuk, tro tro, or Yellow-Yellow… Every country and city has its own name for these rides, its own preferred ways of getting from place to place. But behind the wheel is always one person, taking us to where we need to go.
Sometimes, we barely exchange a word with them. Other times, we find ourselves opening up - sharing worries, bits of our day, or stories about our lives. Some drivers we’ll never see again. Others, over time, quietly become part of our lifes.
How much do we really know about the people driving us?
Tamale, in northern Ghana is the country’s third-largest city. Here, the most common mode of transport is the Yellow-Yellow: a three-wheeled motor tricycle that, despite its name, comes in a range of colors. Lately, you’ll even spot a few electric ones zipping around town reminding me with their subtle sound of airport shuttles.
A Yellow-Yellow carries up to five adults: two in front, three in the back, with space for bags either behind the seats or strapped to the roof. Each tricycle is distinct, its owner personalizing it inside and out - from the color of the seat cushions to stickers on the rear window, and charms dangling at the dashboard, swaying in the rhythm of the road. The outside decorated with reflective tape or painted with bold, individual designs, making each one recognizable to passengers and fellow drivers alike. It’s common to see drivers exchanging honks, waves, or quick greetings as they pass one another.
Emeka. I’ve known him for the past two and a half years. We are age mates and arrived in Tamale around the same time. He taught himself to drive a Yellow-Yellow by simply sitting beside another driver, watching. We stay at the same house. Every morning shortly after 6:30 am I hear him and his brother cleaning their Yellow-Yellows and leaving one after the other. They both will return late at night. After a long day, we often sit together, I ask about his day and that’s when the stories start.
Some are funny, some are sad and others so absurd that it’s hard to believe they are true. One day, I asked if I could join him for a day on the road.
Glossary
Yellow-Yellow
Small commercial tricycles commonly used for public transport in Tamale.
Bofrot
A round, deep-fried pastry, typically without any filling; popular as a street snack.
Fulani
An ethnic group found across West Africa, including northern Ghana.
Fuo
A neighborhood in Tamale, located in northern Ghana.
