“Oil service now!” was what appeared on the display of my car. Dial, I don’t even know if that’s the correct name. Like every time a Tarzan phrase appears on the car, or any light (except the red ones), I let it go for a few days until I started to hear my mechanic’s voice “Most of the time, when we have to spend a lot of money on a car, it’s not because of the initial problem, but because it took us too long to solve it and that triggered other problems”.

After dropping my children off at school, I decided that I couldn’t go beyond today. I entered a workshop and there was a lady at the counter. I confess that I was relieved. I feel very judged by the men in workshops, but I know that, most of the time, the problem is not them, it is me. I’m ashamed of not knowing anything about cars and contributing to the stereotype. Sometimes I imagine myself opening the bonnet in front of them and saying phrases like “this can only be the head joint”, but the truth is that I don’t even know what the head joint is or where it is (in the first draft of this text I had written “head of the joint”, only on a second reading did it sound bad to me and I went to google it). Today, to measure the oil level, you asked me to do just that, to open the bonnet. As serious as this may seem, I didn’t know where the thing was that is pulled to make it open. I dove into the car thinking to myself “You have to find him, he can’t be that hidden. You can’t tell the lady that you don’t know how to open the bonnet of your own car. She would be ashamed for all of us.” I found it. I left, as if the extra time I spent inside had been to pick up my children’s garbage or look for change on the floor. A gentleman comes to me to check the oil level and, as they don’t have time to fill it themselves, he proceeds to explain to me where to buy it and how to know how to fill the tank. The part of where to buy was easy, I looked on google maps and it was done, the other was more difficult. The point is that everything that has to do with cars doesn’t arouse the slightest interest in me,
so my brain shuts down. I could only hear “uuooouuuuuuuoooo” while I nodded.

I left the workshop and went to buy the oil. I got to the counter and you ask, “What kind of oil do you want?” How so? Fula? I don’t know, is it normal to know the types of oil? “Give me your license plate”, asks the gentleman as if thinking “Okay, it’s a woman”, and I, once again, contributing to the stereotype. When I thought everything was already said, he looks at me again, “Do you have a preference for any brand?”, I must have looked like those Japanese dolls with a drop hovering next to their face. Can I order the generic? “Whatever”.

I come from two car-loving families. My maternal grandfather was a car driver and died after an accident in a race in Angola. My father’s brother was also a pilot for a few years. There are those who have books about Van Gogh on the coffee table, my mother’s family has books with cars on the cover, I don’t know what specifically because I never opened them. My cousins all learned to drive before they rode a tricycle. I failed my driving test twice at the age of 23, once for running a red light, once for entering an oncoming street. Two examiners who quarreled with me.

I returned home with the oil container and I apologize to my gender colleagues for what I did, I’m not proud, but no matter how hard you try you are stronger than me. Sorry if I’m contributing to the fact that people continue to think that women don’t know anything about cars, but this woman doesn’t know anything about cars.

I went home, put the container on the entrance table and left a message for my husband “When you get home put this oil in my car sff”.