He has all the trappings of a bona fide Duke pimp. He has a car, for one, and there is almost always a scantily-clad blonde warming the backseat. His cell phone contains the numbers of just about every party queen on campus. And like a few of those other widely-worshiped demigods—Redick or Williams, to name a few—he’s known by his surname-turned-moniker.
“They call me Kafi.”
A wide Cheshire-cat smile, a throaty chuckle, a cursory glance into the rearview mirror. “Is it okay if we go pick some people up?” he said Saturday night.
And so his routine goes. An esteemed cab driver, Asan Kafi is something of a grassroots phenomenon. The perks of pimphood aside, Kafi’s easy-going schlepping masks a serious and utter devotion to efficient business.
“I won the lottery,” he said, wheeling his vehicle around the Science Drive traffic circle. “The green-card lottery. I was able to come here from Saudi Arabia; originally I come from the Sudan.” He paused briefly to answer his cell phone, his ring a bouncy rap-funk. “Waaassssup? Hiii Nikki—where you at?!”
If one thing keeps his clients coming back, he’ll say, it is friendliness—greeting them by name is de rigueur. “I have friends, you know. They tell their friends, and it spreads by word-of-mouth. I don’t advertise, really.”
In the process of crafting a 24-karat reputation, Kafi has earned quite a devoted fanbase. Case in point: two girls clambered into the back of the van, gift-laden.
“I made you a card,” said Jenny Key, a junior, handing over a Sharpie-and-paper creation with “i love kafi xoxo” emblazoned across it in bubbly letters. “I’ll bring you chocolate next time,” she said. It was all grins and laughs from the driver’s seat; this type of friendship is not unusual between him and his clients.
“I only call Kafi,” Key said. “We have the nicest conversations, and he always remembers my name. Probably because I’m saved as ‘Jenny’ in his phone,” she said teasingly. Kafi flashed a knowing smile.
It is hardly surprising that a vast majority of his clientele is female. SafeRides are not always dependable, he explained, and described his rates are “the most reasonable in the Triangle area. You can’t beat us.” Still, he is almost never without a bevy of beauties. “The girls, well, they trust me. And I know them by name.”
Pleasantries are certainly plentiful for such an endeared figure. But his success has certainly not come easily; his Sudanese homeland is now in war-ravaged factions. “Nowadays, things are getting a lot better—we have the peace agreement now. Colin Powell was there, you know.” The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” filled the pauses in his testimony. “But I don’t think I will go back. Only to visit.”
And as for the throes of blue-collar America, Kafi has seen his share of the unsavory. Hot and heavy backseat trysts? Yep. The drunken, the disorderly and the violent? Of course. Those ill from over-consumption? “It happens,” he said. “Especially in the fall. What is that party where they drink all day—Piketoberfest? We keep extra bags in the car for that one.”
But it is onward and upward for the married father of three and resident of Durham proper. He owns a small fleet of cabs—some of which are driven by other Sudanese immigrants and friends—but also works in a larger cab network. He will roll down the driver’s side window at a stop, greeting his co-workers in cabbie slanguage. “’Sup, bruh?”
His legendary status on campus seems to have translated into lofty workplace standing. And yet, even without the requisite flurry of advertising, the end of Kafi’s popularity is nowhere in sight. Graduates returning to the area still count on Kafi; upperclassmen and older siblings spread the word to incoming freshmen. Margaret McSpadden, herself a freshman, is already a fawning fan. “Kafi loves Paul Simon. And, he took me to the airport for free once—because he’s a friend.” Once a friend of McSpadden’s lost her cell phone battery, so Kafi lent her his battery until she could replace it. “She used the battery for four days or so. He’s just so sweet,” McSpadden said.
“You remember that story?” Kafi called from the front.
King of the queens and jack of his trade. “What can I say?” he said, head cocked at an angle. “I’m lucky.”
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