KENYA'S COPS.
Today morning, at about 8.00 am, when everyone was on their way to work, I was on my way to scout for a job; another day of tracking through projects online, and writing proposals for the ones I felt I felt I was right for. It happened such that I was brooding about the changes that seem to have taken place in this country in the last three months, when I was stopped by a lady officer, who had somehow noticed that the left corner lamp of my car was missing.
'Hili Gari halina taa. Taa likowapi?' She asked in Swahili. This translates into, 'This car has no light. Where's the light?' When you're stopped by a police officer in any part of Kenya, you should know that you're probably going to end up leaving the scene with a lighter pocket, or wallet, as the case may be.
'Taa imeibiwa, mama. Ilichukuliwa huku posta.' I said. 'The light has been stolen, Mam, it was taken at the post office.' There was some kind of irony in that, I thought. To have been stolen at a post office, and maybe posted somewhere. Or perhaps it was taken by some fellow who had the same model. Since you don't find spare parts for these things in Mombasa. Maybe his was stolen as well. It could be a chain link of robberies. In Kenya, who knew?
'Na licensi ikowapi?' She asked. 'Nimeisahau nyumbani. Pole, tafadhali.' I answered. This made her case a bit stronger, in that now the extortion would begin. She had asked for my license and I effectively told her that I had left it at home. Her next words, therefore, were no surprise to one who has become jaded by the system. 'Sasa tufanye nini?' Which means, Now what are we to do?
Well, I couldn't rightly answer that without putting my foot in my mouth. So I waited for her to make the next comment. Just then, her phone started ringing, and she removed it from her pocket to reply. Well, well, what did we have here? It was one of the latest Nokia models, and not affordable on her salary, I surmised. After finishing the call, she looked and me and asked, 'Niandike?' Which stands for, 'Shall I write?' One should realize that this is a double-edged sword.
If you go ahead and say yes, she'll probably write you a ticket, which takes a journey to the judge's chambers and a moderate fine, with all the hassles along the way. On the other hand, if you say no, chances are she'll ask for some money, as a sort of unspoken understanding. Then comes the discreet fold of the big note, and the casual passing over of it, and then you're free to go.
In this case, I had no money on me, so a ticket was infinitely better. So I told her, 'Sawa. Andika tu, mama.' OK, Mam, Go ahead and write. She licked the tip of her pen, in a threatening gesture, and then said, 'Nenda.' Go. I was lucky that she couldn't be bothered to write out the ticket. Or I'd be in court now.
Which is a long start to an otherwise short day.
'Hili Gari halina taa. Taa likowapi?' She asked in Swahili. This translates into, 'This car has no light. Where's the light?' When you're stopped by a police officer in any part of Kenya, you should know that you're probably going to end up leaving the scene with a lighter pocket, or wallet, as the case may be.
'Taa imeibiwa, mama. Ilichukuliwa huku posta.' I said. 'The light has been stolen, Mam, it was taken at the post office.' There was some kind of irony in that, I thought. To have been stolen at a post office, and maybe posted somewhere. Or perhaps it was taken by some fellow who had the same model. Since you don't find spare parts for these things in Mombasa. Maybe his was stolen as well. It could be a chain link of robberies. In Kenya, who knew?
'Na licensi ikowapi?' She asked. 'Nimeisahau nyumbani. Pole, tafadhali.' I answered. This made her case a bit stronger, in that now the extortion would begin. She had asked for my license and I effectively told her that I had left it at home. Her next words, therefore, were no surprise to one who has become jaded by the system. 'Sasa tufanye nini?' Which means, Now what are we to do?
Well, I couldn't rightly answer that without putting my foot in my mouth. So I waited for her to make the next comment. Just then, her phone started ringing, and she removed it from her pocket to reply. Well, well, what did we have here? It was one of the latest Nokia models, and not affordable on her salary, I surmised. After finishing the call, she looked and me and asked, 'Niandike?' Which stands for, 'Shall I write?' One should realize that this is a double-edged sword.
If you go ahead and say yes, she'll probably write you a ticket, which takes a journey to the judge's chambers and a moderate fine, with all the hassles along the way. On the other hand, if you say no, chances are she'll ask for some money, as a sort of unspoken understanding. Then comes the discreet fold of the big note, and the casual passing over of it, and then you're free to go.
In this case, I had no money on me, so a ticket was infinitely better. So I told her, 'Sawa. Andika tu, mama.' OK, Mam, Go ahead and write. She licked the tip of her pen, in a threatening gesture, and then said, 'Nenda.' Go. I was lucky that she couldn't be bothered to write out the ticket. Or I'd be in court now.
Which is a long start to an otherwise short day.
Comments
And ya u absolutley can drive... ppl crazy :P
great writing sweety, miss you!!
PS: how is it that you're mad AND profound? Killer combo huh? :D
Riii!!! SOrry... My IMs have all gone for sixers.. I understand I was downloading some stuff, and KAsperski decided to take a short Break:( Ab kya Karen??:)