Mercedes-Benz – the very name conjures images of sleek engineering, German precision, and a certain smug satisfaction when you glide past lesser mortals in traffic. But in 2010, my proud sedan decided to audition for a role in slapstick comedy.
It was a routine service day at Grand Central Motors in Midrand. I handed over my keys, signed the papers, and strutted back to the office, already imagining my car purring like a pampered cat when I picked it up.
Picking up the vehicle, post-service, I returned to the office to finish off the rest of the day’s work, noticing nothing unusual but the safety cocoon of the interiors and the quiet hum of the engine and the air conditioner, and the exterior all polished and ready. As I drove home and was about to hit the evening rush hour on the freeway, just a kilometer from the on-ramp, I noticed something weird about the vehicle.
Then came the sound. A faint, suspicious clack from the rear. Not Beethoven, not jazz – more like a drummer who’d lost his rhythm. My instincts whispered, “Turn back.” And thank heavens I listened.
Barely two kilometers short of the garage, the drama unfolded. Out of nowhere, a wheel – my wheel – decided it had had enough of being chained to a Mercedes. With the enthusiasm of a marathon runner, it overtook me on the left, rolled past pedestrians (who suddenly discovered their sprinting skills), and crashed into the electrified fence of a pharmaceutical lab – a good 100-150 meters away.
Meanwhile, my Mercedes, now a reluctant three-wheeler, screeched to a halt. Passers-by stared, some laughed, others looked as if they’d just witnessed a circus act. A luxury sedan transformed into a roadside tuk–tuk, the kind of scene you’d expect in a Bollywood comedy, not on a Johannesburg street.
I retrieved the runaway wheel, trying to look dignified while my car stood there like a wounded tricycle. My face was red, my voice sharp, and the service centre got the full blast of my fury. They arrived sheepish, refitted the wheel, and towed the car back. Diagnosis: wheel nuts not tightened. Remedy: apologies, repairs, and a few “goodies” to pacify me.
The car was restored, but the nickname stuck. Friends teased me endlessly: “So, how’s your tuk-tuk these days?” I laughed along, though inside I still shuddered at what could have happened on the freeway.
A couple of months later, I sold that car and bought
another Mercedes – from a different dealer, of course. Because once your sedan
has moonlighted as a tuk-tuk, you don’t risk a sequel.
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment