I have
experienced my first case of racism in Zambia. Quite coincidentally, or should
I say accidentally? There I was, taking hubby to the airport, making sure he
had all the documents and letters necessary to transport our kids across the
border for the upcoming holidays, when I stopped (late) at the police
checkpoint. I admit, I did not stop at the appointed drum...I was heading
towards the man with the reflective jacket (the reason unbeknownst to me). I
stopped and then realised it was not the police officer. The designated
policeman behind me waving his arms about frantically ... I reversed... and was
confronted by a very agitated officer, wanting to impound my vehicle. How dare
I disobey the police instruction? I apologised and tried to explain that I was
stopping for the wrong person. No, nosirree, that was not acceptable, I needed
to go to the police station. I convinced him to let me drop my hubby off first
at the departure gate, seeing as there is only one way out and I needed to come
back the same way.
So, there I
was, pulling off at the checkpoint on my return to be escorted to the police
station. The other officer, a lady, got into the car and explained how to get
to the station at the airport. It was during this conversation that it
happened, outright open racism! She was carrying on about how "you
people" just chase past and do not stop, how there is no respect for the
uniform and so on and so on. I, on the
other hand, just stayed polite and friendly and eventually got to the
station. When we arrived, they were busy
with another gentleman, which apparently are even worse than the whiteys... a
specimen called a Congolese...the heated debate, argument, whatever you want to
call it, went on behind closed doors with the deputy in charge for about an
hour. The whole time I was sitting outside in the passage on a rickety chair,
making small talk with the deputy behind the reception desk... about the lack
of rain and the pesky mosquitoes, awaiting my fate.
My worried hubby
texted me to find out if I was okay and of course joked and asked whether he
should arrange for a food parcel... Of course, that is not really a joke if you
are imprisoned, because you truly need your family and friends to bring you
food, as none is provided. Be that as it may, I was trying not to worry about
that yet, because from the conversation earlier it became clear to me that I
would be made an example of.
Eventually it
was my turn to go into the office and stand in front of the judge-and-jury deputy.
A very stern man sitting in the corner. He indicated a seat, an old typing
chair with torn upholstery and no back, with wheels that looked like they might
collapse at any moment. I tried to
lighten the situation by asking whether it was safe to sit on and smiled to
indicate that I was not making fun of the deplorable state of his office
furniture. He listened to my side of the
story, listened to the lady officer, took down my details and let me go with a
slap on the wrist.
I do not know
whether he was just exhausted after the aforementioned process, or whether it
was my continued calm, patient, friendly demeanour, either way I could go! A
hair raising experience let me tell you. Of course it was not yet the end of my
ordeal, as I needed to give the lady officer a lift back to the
checkpoint. Funny how her attitude
changed on the way back... and of course...then the bribery struck. I needed to buy her a cold drink. I sighed inwardly, smiled, took out my purse
and gave her twenty kwachas (less than forty rand) and told her to buy her male
counterpart at the checkpoint one also.
Damn ... I love Africa... Nowhere else in the world would you experience
something like that.
