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At least, they haven’t asked to see my feet. The garage is my Queendom, Every time some one finds me at the garage, they ask if am an Engeneer, when I say yes,there is a tiny pause, a blink, sometimes a laugh that escapes before permission is granted and then the performance begins. FIRST COMES THE HAND INSPECTION. They grab my palm like theyre about to read my future, turning it over, rubbing their thumb against my skin as if hardness is official certificate of competence and their faces twist in confusion “But your hands are soft………” they tell me. Yes , soft, not forged in fire, not shaped like spanners, maybe engines only respond to calloused palms and suffering. I get scanned from head to toe, searching for oil stains like proof of citizenship, they don’t find enough grease to satisfy their expectations, they sigh. EH……BUT YOUR OVARALLS ARE SO CLEAN. Clean as if dirt is a job requirement, as if skill leaks out the moment soup touches fabric, as if a woman must first destroy herself to be believed. What they don’t see is that these claen ovarolls have been around stubbon screaming wires, they don’t see grease that was wiped away after work was done, they don’t hear conversations I have with machines, the listening the patience, the doing and undoing and the quiet confidence. While doing the inspections and judging my laundry habbits, im busy doing the work, tightening, adjusting and solving because in the end, the cars start and that’s the only approval I need and I end with the statement” next time your machine acts up,don’t wait for it to scream,bring it early and maybe with a rolex nyanyambisi for me.