Keymaker

I was heading home in a cab after an exhaustingly long day. It was well past midnight, the kind of hour when the roads are empty and conversations feel heavier than they should.

The driver struck up a chat. He mentioned he was from the village near where I live — a small detail that made the ride feel a little more personal. He spoke about how his village had changed over the years, ever since the new villa communities started sprouting up around it. There was a sharpness in his voice, a quiet resentment. He clearly didn’t welcome the change.

What began as an observation soon turned into a full-blown grievance. The skyrocketing real estate prices, he said, had poisoned the warmth his village was once known for. Neighbours who once shared meals now haggled over land. And the villa communities — those gated enclaves of urban money — were at the root of it all, at least in his eyes.

Then he asked me where I lived.

I hesitated. I mumbled something vague about staying near the crossroad by the village. I didn’t want to tell him I lived in one of those very villa communities he was railing against. But then came the follow-up question I had been dreading — “Do you live in one of the villa communities? Which one?” There was no dodging it. I answered.

What followed were a few minutes of thick, uncomfortable silence.

As we drove through a particularly secluded stretch of road, he pulled the car over. He turned toward me and said he needed to stop for a minute. He didn’t wait for my response — he was already stepping out.

He walked to the back of the car, pulled out his phone, and called someone. As it turned out, he had simply stopped to answer nature’s call — casually multitasking with a phone conversation while he was at it. But in the moment, standing in that dark, deserted stretch, all I saw was a silhouette pacing in the shadows, his voice too low for me to make out the words. When he returned, the friendliness from earlier was gone from his face. He turned the key. The engine sputtered and died. He tried again. Nothing.

My mind raced. Was this real, or was he stalling? Had he called someone? Were they on their way? My hands were trembling, but I mustered some courage and offered to walk the rest of the way home.

He burst out laughing.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I mean no harm.” He could tell what I had been thinking. He admitted openly that he resented the villa communities and blamed their residents for what had happened to his village. “But that’s just how life is,” he added with a resigned shrug. He assured me he would get me home safely.

After a few minutes of tinkering under the hood, the engine coughed back to life, and we were on our way again.

When we finally reached my gate, he handed me his phone number and said I could call him anytime I needed a cab. And then, just before driving off, he said something that has stayed with me since.

“These villa communities — yes, they changed my village. But they also brought work. I earn better now. I can provide for my family.” He paused. “I hope my son lives in one of these villas someday.”

Back seat of a cab gave me a fast-track lesson in perspective — on resentment and acceptance, on how the same change can be both a wound and a blessing, depending on which way you choose to look at it.