A few weeks ago, I took an Uber.
I had finished a discussion just before 11 p.m. on a weeknight when he pulled up at Akamwesi Hostel in Nakawa, then stopped and put on his blinkers.
I checked to make sure the license plate number on the app matched the car’s, one of Uber’s safety precautions, and opened one of the car’s doors.
After confirming my name and destination, the driver locked the doors, checked for traffic around him, and put his foot on the gas. I leaned back in the seat, and he pulled up to a red light. He asked if I would rather sit in the backseat.
“Well, we’re already going now,” I said. “It should be fine.”
As we passed Jinja Road, he asked if I had a boyfriend and wondered how long we’d been together. He told me he was married, but the spark was gone. He told me he was a very sexual person, and that he loved giving oral sex.
I squirmed in my seat, feeling queasy. He said that seeing a woman satisfied was the best part for him, but his wife wasn’t into it. He then offered me oral sex, and asked whether I had any sexual fantasies.
I deflected the questions and scooted away from him, but I now realize this is the moment when I should’ve gotten out of the car. When I knew things were wrong. But I was so focused on getting home that I sat still. I froze. The walls of the car seemed to inch closer to me, making the space seem darker and smaller.
“I feel like I met you because something is supposed to happen, and it’s a sign,” I remember him saying.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I told you I have a boyfriend.”
The GPS announced that our destination was on the right. I reached for the door’s handle and pulled, but it didn’t open. He pushed the lock button, and the doors made a clicking sound. I pushed again. Still locked.
When I told him to unlock the doors, he demanded I tell him whether I was sexually attracted to him. I don’t remember my exact words, but it was a no. He said he wanted to kiss me, and, as I pushed up the lock, he turned his body toward me. I pushed the door open and stumbled backward out of the car, struggling to catch my balance.
“Can I just get your number?” he asked. “We can stay in touch. Don’t you want to be friends? You don’t know what’s going to happen.”
I have no way of knowing if I was the first person he has done this to. I have no way of knowing if I will be the last. And I’m concerned that he could do the same thing, or worse, to someone
The night of the incident, I filed a complaint through the app to report what happened. A few hours later, a customer service representative sent an email telling me that Uber took “steps to ensure that future pairings between yourself and this driver are no longer permitted.”
The next day, even as I headed to the police station to file a report, I wasn’t sure that I should do anything. I kept telling myself that nothing happened. He hadn’t touched me. I got away unharmed.
The officer told me they couldn’t do much because the driver didn’t physically assault me, but that they would keep the information on hand in case anyone else filed a complaint about him.
In the weeks since that night, I still don’t know if Uber’s “coaching” has helped the driver learn not to make sexual advances on his passengers. I don’t know whether he still drives for them, or whether he’s received another complaint.
For their part, Uber hasn’t been willing to let me know. And that’s why I’m unwilling to take another Uber ever again.
…as narrated to the writer by an undisclosed Mubs Babe
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