The Guy in the Mini

A campfire story told by the Rinkhals

Now let me be honest — this one needs a bit of context.

It had been a long week. I was running low on patience, sleep, and my special blend of coffee: two fingers of Old Brown, a spoon of Ricoffy, and a healthy splash of condensed milk, topped with warm water and questionable decisions.

Anyway…

I was driving from Pretoria to Bloemfontein … a road I know better than the back of my own weathered hand. Quiet stretch, dry bushveld rolling past, an ibis-ed sky above me, and my thoughts trailing somewhere behind around Kroonstad.

And then he came.

A Mini…

Yes, the small car. Red. Low-slung. Whining like a cat under a full moon.

He passed me doing at least 130 km/h, tyres humming like they were begging for mercy, windows rattling from the sheer trauma of the wind.

Looked like someone doing a wind-tunnel test in a beer can.

Now, I don’t often flash my lights at people, unless their towbar’s dragging sparks or they’re driving like a dropped pie. But this guy… I gave him a warning. A polite flick of the high beams.

He braked immediately.

Slowed down to 60 km/h.

I thought, okay, sorry buddy. No need to get emotional.

But he kept at it. Every time I tried to pass, he’d speed up.

Every. Single. Time.

Eventually, I caught him on an uphill… fifth gear, revs singing like a choir on caffeine — and I passed him.

Peace at last.

But not for long.

I saw him again in my rearview mirror, grinning like he’d swallowed a lightning bolt. He was back. Sitting right on my tail. Nose so close I could feel his breath on my bumper.

I slowed down.

He slowed down.

I slowed more.

He matched it.

Eventually, he passed me at walking speed… I didn’t fight it.

He flew ahead and vanished around the bend. I breathed again.

Only to find him parked a few kilometres later on the side of the road, just sitting in his Mini.

I passed.

He followed.

And this time, he didn’t just tail me — he started a whole convoy, trapping every other car behind me.

Swerving. Blocking.

Anyone who tried to overtake got a taste of his madness.

After 30 minutes, I’d had enough.

I passed him.
Got in front.
And brake-checked him just enough to send him into a controlled panic.

He spun out in a magnificent cloud of dust … like a biblical plague reversing into the Karoo.

I stopped about 300 metres ahead.

Got out.

Started walking toward him with my trusted walking stick — the one I normally use to knock sense into beasts of the veld.

This was it. I was ready.

Now keep in mind, I’ve been shot at. I’ve faced hyenas and badgers on heat.
But nothing … I repeat nothing … prepared me for what I was about to see.

As I got closer, I noticed the cars that had stopped behind him all began to slowly pull away.

They passed me silently, making the kind of eye contact that says: “Don’t do it, boet.”

At first, I thought he had a weapon.

A gun. A baseball bat. Maybe pepper spray shaped like his ego.

But no.

As I got closer… I saw it.

He wasn’t holding a weapon.

As he stepped out of the Mini, he forgot to release the seatbelt — and was now carrying the Mini on his back like a hiker with a five-day backpack, seatbelt still wrapped across his torso like some sort of tragic superhero cape.

And then he started walking…

Toward me.

One deliberate step at a time.

Dust rising around his boots.

Face like a fridge that never smiled.

Now, I’m not ashamed to say this: I backed off.

Slowly. Respectfully. Like someone leaving church before the altar call.

Got back in my car.

Whispered an apology to the universe.

And drove at exactly 97 km/h the rest of the way to Bloemfontein…

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Johan Niemand’s Takeaway:
• Don’t flash your lights unless you’re ready to meet someone who lifts cars recreationally.
• Not all bullies are wrong — some just come with seatbelts and protein shakes.
• And remember: on the road of life, don’t believe everything you see, read, or hear…

Have a great weekend…