A few months ago, we replaced our elderly, troublesome Toyota Land Cruiser with a slightly less geriatric, supposedly less misery-provoking Toyota Corolla station wagon.

All I can say now is: I would rather eat a caterpillar sandwich with broken glass garnish than buy another Toyota anything.
Even if Toyota engineers suddenly designed comfortable, flattering pants that instantly made the wearer look 20 lbs thinner, I would shun them, knowing that they would malfunction in some horrible way. They’d probably fall off me in shreds the minute I went out into public and I’d be so traumatised I’d have to undergo very long, very costly therapy sessions for years afterwards, completely impoverishing my family.

That’s what the Toyota name has come to mean to me: total humiliation and a money haemorrhage to follow.

Yes, as a matter of fact, my car DID break down again.

How ever did you guess?

It was very exciting. It got stuck in third gear during Friday afternoon rush hour traffic in the middle of downtown Ouagadougou.

It was so exciting that I cannot describe how exciting it was. The part where we didn’t die was my favourite bit, of course.

I contemplated not getting it repaired – maybe just pouring gasoline over the whole thing and throwing a match on top of it? But I guess that’s pretty dangerous and a poor example for the children. Not to mention that it’s bad for the air quality.

The best solution is probably to just keep the car in the driveway as a very expensive Burkinabe-style status symbol (“Look! We own a car! ). Then I’ll buy a nice little donkey and cart.

But with my luck, I’d no doubt end up buying an unreliable used donkey. One suffering from severe ear mites and terminal cancer.