It has been an intense, emotionally charged week. The weekends’ happenings topping up the adrenaline rush that runs through my veins.
After having managed to gain repossession of the sports wear sent to me from Malta, I had the first close encounter with what could have been a very uncomfortable, albeit, interesting way to spend the night in Lusaka.
On Thursday evening, walking home from Hayato’s (Japanese friend of ours) house, Isabelle – my tandem partner for the project – and myself were accosted by a white car and four individuals at the corner of the street were we lived.
No more than 2 minutes away from our home, brandishing three feet long batons and a machine gun, we were greeted by shouts of “Policey” by these night time individuals.
Distrustful and cautious at the same time, I moved Isabelle to get behind me whilst trying to see who it actually was that was addressing us.
They branded themselves as officers of the Zambian Police Force even though only one produced a very worn out and “unofficial” identity card, the authority of their brandished weapons was more than I could resist to.
We were being charged of “loitering”! On asking to repeat the charges, the main man in charge asked me whether I knew what loitering was, I retorted by asking him the same question back. Loitering according to Zambian “law” – it is yet to be determined whether this is in fact a national law – is actually a curfew period that starts at 22 hours and ends at 05 hours, preventing any individual of walking in the streets, and charging them of the solicitation of illegal activities, improper conduct, or even worse, assault, theft, trafficking.
Amused at first, I couldn’t resist a little chuckle, that was however washed off my face by the irritated shower of spittle as the lead officer continued to scream orders to me I couldn’t actually comprehend due to the seeming absurdity of it all: “To serve and protect”, “killed”, “in the car”, “dangerous”, “jail”, “fine”, “in the car”, “cell”, “colour”, “in the car”, “loitering”, “in the car”.
Both Isabelle and myself were dumbfounded by all this and, if there was any doubt as to whether we were going to get off lightly out of this dramatic comedy, when they starting pulling at my shirt and arms to force me into the car, like the saliva in my mouth, there was none left now!
Pulling Isabelle behind me, I resisted a couple of times the jerking and ensuing squabbles indicating the door to our house and Isabelle’s evident worry and flailing knees.
After some convincing, the officers agreed to accompany us home in light of the possible problem of an emotional crisis Isabelle was (seemingly) facing. They marched behind us chattering along the way, snickering behind us at my name which they pronouncewith the car in tow. At the gates to our house we banged the compound awake and the sleeping souls in it.
As with everything else, a chat amongst compatriots, admittance by our host that information on the imposed curfew had not been given to us and a little “petrol money” quickly brought the episode to an abrupt end which also included an exchange of handshakes and invitations to join the force and warnings from the tall uniformed man that no one is above the law!
The next day, as Isabelle headed off to Livingstone for a weekend amidst the raging waters of Victoria Falls, I stayed behind in Lusaka as the Under 17 and Amateur Teams under my “supervision” had weekend games.
Both ended relatively well, a walkover and a draw, but the same cannot be said for our host who was involved in a car accident. A ht and run that pushed the vehicle she was travelling in over the security guard rail to the left of the street, over a metre wide gutter and into a tree by the lay-by.
The action was witnessed by a drunken heading towards his next watering spot. His version of the event was all the more accentuated by his slurry tone and hand movements (his whole body was actually swaying as he “stood”) and he even asked for drinking money as a reward for his citizenship duties performed.
With the police the onlookers dwindled and to our surprise rather than setting out to look for the culprit fined the driver of the vehicle that stood with all four tyres busted and bent, for dangerous driving, no tax registration stamp or drivers license on the scene!
No offer to accompany the two injured and shocked to a clinic or as much as a we’ll look into it.
So after another hour or so waiting in the plain reception area of the Mum’s clinic along Great East Road, we finally made it home at 01:30 in the morning, with a couple of diclofenac tablets, bruised arms and butt’s and an action packed weekend to mull over.
