"Taxi!"
Michael stood on the side of the road, desperately calling out to the passing vehicles, each one appearing for a moment and then gone the next.
The torrent of rain poured heavily upon his uncovered head, soaking his coat in the process.
Just great. He sighed, kicking a pebble onto the road. It simply had to rain now of all times? This country really is going to shit.
Maybe he should just up and leave, like his friends had done. If no one in the entirety of Accra would accept his master's degree in medical science, then maybe someone in the US or Canada would.
Yeah, right. Echoed the bitter little voice in his head. As if you would be able to afford a passport, you can't even buy a bag of rice.
But Michael did with such thoughts what he usually did: He let it affect him and ruin his already bad mood.
"BEEP! BEEP!"
Michael looked up in surprise as a Taxi pulled over in front of him, the window rolling down to reveal the puzzled look of the taxi driver.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Do you need a ride?" Questioned the driver.
Michael nodded vigorously.
"Yes please! How much will it be?"
"Depends on where you're going."
"I'm headed to Klagon police station!"
The driver rubbed his chin in thought, eventually providing the young man with a figure.
"12 Cedis." he stated.
"I'll take it!" Michael replied, quickly opening the passenger-side door and plopping down on the soft fabric of the taxi seats.
He removed his coat: A bright red hand-me-down from his elder brother, and set it down on the space beside him before closing the door.
The car started moving, the hum of the engine serving as a melodic lullaby for the weary young man.
His thoughts of sleep, however, were broken by the hoarse voice of the driver.
"Are you coming from a job interview?" He inquired.
His English was surprisingly eloquent compared to most of the other taxi-men Michael had met.
"Yes." He responded.
"They won't hire you if you're dressed like that." He stated, as if it were an empirical fact.
Which it was.
"Well," he retorted. "It's the only good attire I own."
The man let out a sharp, short laugh.
"I guess that makes sense."
The rest of the trip was then filled with silence, which was good for Michael, as it allowed him to focus on sleeping.
It turned out not to be so good in the end, as the only warning Michael got of the incoming crash was an unnatural tingling in his left arm.
And then everything went black.
Blacker than it already was before.