Sometimes just let the law take its course

Sometimes just let the law take its course

YOU see, most of the time I like to think of myself as a very peaceful fellow, but as I always tell you, it seems as if trouble is always behind me.

Being married to a warlike woman from the hilly side of Mbeya, and one who can ter- rorise fully grown men does not help one bit, because if you ask me, it makes matters worse.

On the other hand, producing a son like the domestic thug who is supposed to be my own biological boy is something that I never like to discuss, because just the thought of it is enough to make my sensitive blood pressure to skyrocket like a damaged North Korean missile.

You see, some time back I was driving to the office in my collection of metal which is a sorry excuse of a car, and I was trying to be careful because apart from the fact that the vehicle attracts traffic police the way rotten meat attracts flies, my driving licence expired one year ago.

There is a spot in Manzese which I always know has no shortage of traffic police, so I did what any clever driver would do, and stuck behind an old pick up to shield myself from the long arm of the law.

Everything was going as planned, until a few meters from the traffic police when the fool in the pickup indicated and took a sharp left turn, leaving me one on one with the hungry fellows in white uniform.

They watched me approaching the way a cat eyes a careless mouse, and I could swear most of them were smiling as if they had spotted Father Christmas carrying a heavy bag full of gifts.

I knew I was cornered, so I proceeded as I watched a female traffic officer moving in the middle of the road and lifted her right hand, indicating that I should stop.

I had no option but to apply emergency brakes because sometimes the car refuses to stop even if you stand on the brake pedal, but fortunately the collection of metal came to a violent stop at the feet of the worried officer.

Because 80 per cent of things in the car do not operate, the officer found me sweating profusely, because air condition in the car stopped working years ago and the power windows refused to cooperate when I left the house that day.

She watched me with amusement as I tried to open the door, and I could see that she was doing mental calculation of the amount of fines I was supposed to cough up when I manage to get out of the car. In my pocket I had only 4,000/- between me and poverty, so I knew I had to choose my words carefully to avoid ticking off the female officer.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I somehow managed to convince the traffic police officer to let me go without paying a single cent, but no one should ask me how I managed to accomplish that. It took me almost 30 minutes to achieve that, but by the time I was leaving, the blushing officer had my number, and she threatened to lock me up if I did not call her the next day.

I did not call her the next day, and actually I had almost forgotten all about her, until a few days ago when she sent me a text message. She wanted to know why I had not called her, and I told her that I had been busy and was out of town on a business trip.

She called me and demanded to know when I will be able to see her, but I tried to evade making any commit- ments, because at the back of my mind the picture of mama Boyi holding a greasy frying pan refused to leave.

Two days ago I arrived home very early, because I had passed by Zakayo’s Pub but the old man completely refused to irrigate my throat on credit, so I had no option but to surrender myself home.

We were watching TV when there was a loud knocking at the gate, and I told my son the domestic thug to go and check who it was.

Before the boy could come back with the answer, the door was violently pushed and two uniformed police officers walked in, with one holding an evil looking rifle and the other one dangling handcuffs in his left hand.

“Are you baba Boyi?” the one with the handcuffs asked, and when I nodded my head, he slapped the cuffs on my wrists and ordered me to go outside.

I found a Defender with two more police men carrying guns waiting for me outside, and they bundled me at the back before telling my wife that they were taking me to the sta- tion for questioning.

Mama Boyi tried to plead with them to at least tell her what it was all about, but they refused and sped off, and I saw my son shaking his imaginary dreadlocks as he tried to understand what was happening.

As soon as we had left the house, one of the police officers leaned over and removed the handcuffs and apologised for the treatment, telling me that they had to do that so that it could look convincing.

I was still trying to understand what was happening when the vehicle came to a stop and they told me to go and sit on the front seat.

My legs were still wobbly as I opened the front door of the vehicle, and sitting there laughing her head off was the traffic police officer, but this time she was not wearing her uniform.

“Mzee, you thought that I could not find you, but locating you was the easiest thing. Don’t look shocked, I just wanted us to go and have a drink, don’t act as if I want to rape you,” she said.

They say that all people are crazy, but it only depends with the degree of madness.

Anyway, they took me to a bar on the outskirts of Manzese, and I will be a liar if I say that I did not have fun.

They returned me home in the morning, drunk as a skunk, and told my wife that in case they needed me again, they will come for me because the investigation was still going.


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