Meet Me at the

By Muyoka Mwarabu

I bought a car on Craigslist. If there were a book outlining ways to be scammed, I bet on page two (right after Nigerian prince proposals) would be Craigslist car purchases. But I had been to the dealerships. The sales guys were selling cars at full price without even leaving their desks. One sales guy, who—no joke—wore a plaid jacket, laughed when I brought up Kelley Blue Book value. He told me he would sit on my dream car for a year before selling it at my offer. But my dream wasn’t going to die. I had been saving for two years, ever since my divorce. I had gained the freedom to pursue my dreams unapologetically, and my vision board had a picture of a 2017 black exterior, black interior Hyundai Tucson. So, when I stumbled upon my dream car with just 40,000 miles on it, posted on Craigslist, all my father’s warnings to be cautious went out the window of my current 216,000-mile car. I quickly messaged the owner, who lived hours away in Seattle, and put my offer on the table. She told me she already had two people coming to look at it the next evening, and she would get back to me if it didn’t sell. I called my brother to get his perspective. He said it was a great price, and offered to drive to Seattle with me. I didn’t want my dream to get away. I called the lady again, this time offering her $200 more and assuring her I could be there by the afternoon, ready to buy—pending a mechanic inspection. She said, “Meet me at the Grease Monkey.” (Grease Monkey is an oil change franchise that also does pre-car purchase inspections.)

As I hung up, it hit me. Was I really about to drive 200+ miles north with a cashier’s check to purchase a car off Craigslist? I texted the seller my photo ID so she could prepare the paperwork, and she sent me her name and a vehicle history report. And then the texting between us abruptly stopped.

Her name was Yuliya, a name which brought to mind an experience from 20 years earlier, when I had tried to purchase a used car, and it was a Russian seller who did not disclose the car ’s title was reconstructed until I had arrived and found red oil coming out of the dip stick. I knew I was judging unfairly, but if I made the wrong call my gas budget was shot for the month. Yuliya had gone silent on the text message thread after seeing my ID as well. My photo ID clearly showed I was African American. I don’t know what Yuliya’s thoughts were in that moment, but we