He is the traffic policeman, also known locally as ‘yellow fever’, although you have to wonder if the appellation is connotative of his yellow vest or the malady that he is usually perceived to be. His job is to direct and ease the flow of traffic. Ultimately he is there to ensure an adherence to highway codes and conduct. The reality in the Metropolis however is that the log-jam of traffic is attributable to factors beyond his remit; the bad road or pothole jam made manifest by the broken down vehicle phenomena, the flood jam manifested by the torrent caused by blocked drains, the fuel queue turned chaotic traffic jam due to a total disregard for order, the check-point jam orchestrated by his cohorts, the monthly pentecostal camp jam, and the passenger drop off jam.
In all he plies the streets daily knowing that he is ineffective to his purpose and must thus find a calling of a different sort. So he waves and passes car by car ostensibly studying the faces of the drivers. With each reading he responds accordingly from his most respectable call of ‘mornin sir’ to his more aggressive ‘particulars?!’ His visor does much to conceal his hunger wizened pate, but his eye’s give him away, eyes that are prone to change as frequently as traffic lights. Run the red light, and you’ll the red in his. Conciliatory words take them to amber. Pass the greens, and you’re home free, with a cheerful goodbye wave for good measure.
For the discerning motorist, wrong doing is not wrong, it’s merely taxable. If you fail to pay, you’ll be taken to the task, an unpleasant alternative to be sure. Tax or task, the choice is yours.
