“We sure know who did it. It was the invisible hands.”
Thus spoke the rider of my late night microbus, throwing his head forward over a swine neck. I was sitting at the very end of the vehicle, over the back wheels Cairenes usually try to avoid, the maverick drivers usually taking wild bursts with their imaginary Lamborghini, either out of action-movie enthusiasm or due to the effect of pain-killers, swinging the vehicle and jolting the asses of the poor passengers who had the ill fate to sit there. But I just loathe the idea of collecting and delivering the fare every now and then – the sacred duty of any passenger who rides anywhere but the very back seat.