This short story was completed during the Kommadagga workshop and residency at Paulet House in KwaNojoli in the Eastern Cape. The workshop was presented by the Jakes Gerwel Foundation in cooperation with LitNet and Huisgenoot.
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Born again in an Uber ride
Can this be considered a testimony? What exactly is a testimony? I’m not really one to share my story, and testimonies feel like stories about deep, dark pasts. Picture Usher’s Confessions, but with no smooth falsetto to soothe the truth. Just an awkward silence and a bunch of people who can relate to all the things you’d normally never mention.
The first time I heard a “testimony” was two years ago. I had been invited to a friend’s church for a concert. The idea of a church concert did not sound interesting, but I could picture my mom shaking her head at the idea of me rejecting yet another church event. There was a faint projector in the background displaying the names of the groups and the songs that they’d be performing. One after the other. A few pop songs with altered lyrics that didn’t have profanities. Like KidzBop, but for young adults. I should’ve left the moment Camilla Cabello’s “Havana” had turned into “Hosanna”.
The last person rocked up on stage, and the word “Testimony” was projected onto the background. Cool stage name, I supposed. No backtrack started playing, and the crowd was silent, so I naturally assumed it would be an a cappella performance. Or maybe “Testimony” was a hymn I had never heard of, like most other hymns. However, I don’t think hymns start off with a “When I was 14, I became addicted to pornography”.
Are testimonies a common thing for everyone else? Because my gasp was the only audible sound from the audience. I remember the people around me turning to face me, a hint of annoyance visibly present in their eyes.
From that moment, I wondered what my testimony would be. Would it come to me in the heat of the moment, and would I also have to share it at a concert? Or would something epic happen to me that immediately felt like it would be worth sharing? Or would I have to be a fully fledged church member for the testimony content to start flooding my mind? Either way, I was dead set on having the best testimony anyone has ever heard.
So, basically, testimonies begin with you sharing your past, right? And then you mention the moment that changed you, I think. The heavier the past, the better the testimony, and mine was already off to a weak start.
The day that changed me was a Friday. I was on my way to campus, extremely late for a meeting. My stomach was already doing that anxious twist it does when you know you’ve ruined your chances of making a good impression. When I finally arrived, the meeting was over. Great. I had rushed for nothing but disappointment and sweat stains.
Then I heard someone mention a Bible study happening later during lunch. “Well, since I missed what I came here for, I might as well join that,” I thought. I had never been to one before, but it sounded harmless enough. Just a few songs, some prayers and nodding whenever someone dropped wise words.
Finding the venue, however, turned into a full-blown quest. I walked across campus, from building to building, each corridor looking like the last. Grey walls, identical staircases. Posters for the upcoming student body elections. I aimed on voting for the party with prettier people.
The more I walked, the less familiar everything became. The campus started feeling like one of those dreams where you’re lost in a maze made of classrooms. My phone was dying, my data was on strike and my sense of direction was holding hands with the devil.
After about half an hour, I gave up. I sighed, turned around and started heading back. And that was my turning point. Literally.
Because right as I turned, I almost bumped into this much younger guy, maybe a first-year, clutching a notebook to his chest like it was armour. He looked nervous, like he’d been rehearsing what he wanted to say.
“Um, excuse me, sir,” he started. “Sir” as if I wasn’t also a broke student just pretending to have my life together. “Do you know where the Bible study meeting is?”
And just like that, I froze. It was such a small question, but it felt like a cosmic tap on the shoulder. This moment was not a mere coincidence. It was as if something whispered, “Don’t leave yet.”
So, I stayed. Because now I had a reason to. Or maybe the reason had found me.
Seated on the dewy grass, we learned about changing our hearts. “Heart posture” they called it. The campus youth minister watched me leave, and asked me: “Well, will I be seeing you again?” I nodded with a smile which I hoped was convincing enough.
And I left the place to immediately hop into my Uber ride. The driver was a youthful man with a very hairy back, which I could see through the slight space his shirt left. Thobani was the guy’s name. He was cool. Very hairy, but very cool. I couldn’t stop looking at the hairs peeping out from his washed-out blue shirt.
He joked about me going home early on a nice Friday. I mentioned how I don’t drink and I don’t smoke and I don’t go to jol on the weekends. He mentioned that he doesn’t drink or smoke either. Have you ever wanted to start a friendship with an Uber driver? That was me at that moment.
I listened to him speak about his life and his upbringing, and that’s when religion came into the conversation. I told him how conflicted I was when it came to finding a church. He simply said the right one will find me, then went on about Bible stories. He mentioned Adam and Eve and spoke about Samson. Was he a modern-day Samson? That would explain his hairy back.
At the end of the trip, he asked me to stay behind, and he shoved his hand through the glove compartment. He looked at me and, for the first time, I saw his shiny eyes. He then pulled out a book. A nice Bible with a leather cover that matched the brown leather details of the car. He opened to the exact verse he wanted. He didn’t struggle; he just found the page instinctively. Romans chapter 10 verse 9. That was the verse. I groaned at the amount of Bible study sessions I was having in one day.
“Have you ever been born again?” he asked, his tone making me question what he meant.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“Do you want to be?” he asked again, his voice a little shaky.
I quickly scanned the windows. I could see home on the left. The door was unlocked. I could run.
“Sure, why not?” I said.
So, yeah, that’s my testimony. I was born again in the backseat of a Toyota Corolla, between campus confusion and hairy-back Samson. Turns out salvation really does meet you on the road.
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Great writing and talent led to a great story.