Hell hath no fury

One of the joys of running a fleet is dealing with the drivers – and sometimes their wives. JIM WARD recalls an unforgettable experience with the latter…

There was a time when company hostels were commonplace. It meant that drivers could be collected from one address, and you could always find them in emergencies. The hostel we rented was like a huge rabbit warren: an old-fashioned, spacious, double storey residence, divided up internally by dry walls to create multiple bedrooms with several bathrooms. Room size went according to seniority.

Employees stayed in the company hostels rent-free and were transported there when they finished late or had early shifts. In return, anyone on call over a weekend or public holiday had to be available. There were some negatives but, for the most part, the benefit of knowing where to find sober drivers and workshop staff without the van being hijacked outweighed any occasional problems.

In those days, we employed someone I’ll call Humphrey. He was all you could wish for in a driver: dependable, well-spoken, pleasant, and able to drive any combination with consummate skill. His truck was always spotless and he reported defects promptly. You could rely on him to handle angry clients, distant deliveries, or difficult sites, knowing he would get in and out of loading zones in any weather. 

A tall, slender man, Humphrey always dressed smartly. If you met him off-duty, he would often be sporting a well-cut lightweight grey suit or a white and gold tracksuit, which, with his gold spectacles, wristwatch, and expensive shoes set him apart. He was a popular employee, but rumours occasionally reached the office that he was besotted with a young companion who had moved in with him, worming her way into his heart and wallet while he lived away from his wife in the Transkei. Such rumours tend to travel.

One morning, there was tremendous excitement outside: rapid talking, frantic phone calls, and urgent discussion. Something big was brewing! A senior driver suddenly drove out of the yard at speed. The cleaner knocked on the door and entered nervously, announcing: “Humphrey’s wife is here, and she demands to see you.”

There was no escape: she sailed past reception, and seconds later this Xhosa Queen entered my office flanked by two burly henchmen – silent men of considerable size. The lady looked as though she had just stepped off a catwalk in Milan. She wore a stunning African gown topped with colourful Xhosa headgear and expensive sunglasses pushed up – all dangling earrings, strong perfume, and blazing dark eyes. She was polite, but clearly enraged beneath her calm façade. After exchanging brief pleasantries, she demanded to know where Humphrey was staying, very urgently. We tried stalling her, offering her refreshments, but she would have none of it: they intended to leave immediately. She was an unstoppable force and, after a short tense discussion about directions, the vengeful party roared off towards the hostel. 

Our despatch office promptly erupted in frantic radio and cellphone calls. “Qaphela Humphrey! Qaphela Mfowethu! Umkhako uyeza!” the despatchers shouted to anyone there to warn him. He had to get out immediately! His wife was coming!

It emerged later that it was a close-run thing. Humphrey and his young paramour raced down the stairs and shot off in his car, leaving little behind. The furious wife and her henchmen had become lost, but arrived moments later and ran up a different flight of stairs, weapons drawn. 

The men kicked open the flimsy door to find the small room empty – but for a pair of sandals… Humphrey had vanished. 

We never saw him again. He didn’t collect his last payslip or belongings, and we never heard where he’d gone. My guess is that he’s driving in another province somewhere, where they know him by a different name. His formidable wife and her large associates never returned.