An Uncle Rwamiti forecourt memory about manuals, automatics, hybrids—and the quiet patterns we keep repeating

I was seated at the petrol station forecourt with Paul when the conversation turned, as it often does these days, to hybrid cars.

“They are trouble,” Paul said, confidently.
“Too complicated. Too many computers. Mechanics don’t like them.”

He said it the way people say things they have heard often enough to stop questioning.

I smiled, not at him, but at the memory his words stirred.

I told him about the 1980s.

Back then, when automatic transmission cars first began appearing in noticeable numbers, the same tone filled garages and roadside conversations. Manuals were praised like moral virtues. Automatics were dismissed as lazy, weak, expensive mistakes.

“Those cars will finish your money,” some mechanics warned.
“They cannot climb hills,” others added.
“Buy a manual if you want control,” said those who had never driven one properly.

What was rarely said out loud was simpler: many mechanics did not know how to repair them.

Some learned quietly.
Others learned loudly—by discouraging customers.
A few, less honest, learned by experimenting on other people’s cars until regret became part of the ownership experience.

Paul laughed when I said this. History is funny when it is safely behind us.

While I was talking, gesturing more than the story required, something else happened. My pen—a good pen, smooth, heavy, a gift from my niece Cynthia—slipped from my fingers.

It fell.
Rolled.
Paused, as if considering its options.

Before either of us reacted, a car passed through the forecourt and crushed it neatly into pieces, without apology.

Paul burst out laughing.

I stared at the remains, momentarily annoyed, then amused.

“New technology,” I said, looking at the pen, “often dies not because it is bad, but because it falls into the wrong traffic.”

Paul shook his head, still smiling.

We sat quietly for a moment. Around us, engines cooled. A fuel attendant wiped his hands. Someone argued with a phone that insisted it knew the fastest route.

Hybrid cars, I said lightly, remind me of those automatic transmissions. Praised by those who understand them. Feared by those who do not. Damaged, occasionally, by those who resent being left behind.

The cars themselves are rarely dramatic. They start. They stop. They whisper. They repeat their complaints patiently. The drama comes from around them—from opinions, warnings, and hurried hands.

Paul looked at his hybrid parked nearby, as if seeing it for the first time as a historical character rather than a personal burden.

I picked up what was left of Cynthia’s pen and slipped it into my pocket. Even broken things deserve dignity.

Watching Paul drive off later, confident that someone, somewhere, would finally “fix” the car properly, I found myself wondering—

when history keeps repeating the same pattern every time something new arrives, is the real problem the technology… or our refusal to admit when we are still learning?

⸻

— Uncle Rwamiti

Dr Petero Wamala
Writing from the petrol station forecourt, translating modern technologies into human understanding, patience, and wiser mobility decisions.