Close Encounters of the Undesired Kind

I meant to update my blog Wednesday but I was held up by the police on my way from one of my branches. By the time I got back into town I was so frustrated I had high blood pressure and if I had tried to type an email my eyeballs would have exploded and damaged my keyboard. I had a highly unproductive but nevertheless lengthy conversation with one of Commissioner-General Chihuri's finest on whether or not I should be incarcerated for driving 20km/h above the speed limit. I don't know why people continue to heap criticism on our police force, they are just as professional as any I have encountered elsewhere in the world. The only difference is language, and if you are not careful you can take offense at things that are not meant to be insulting. Below is an actual transcript of that actual conversation that I had with that young constable. I have taken the liberty of including a direct translation for the benefit of the non-Shona speaking readers.


OFFICER: Eh, ndeipi m'dhara? Paka apa, paka apa. (Good afternoon sir, could you kindly pull over to the side of the road?)

ME: Horaiti. Ndimi munaroka basa, Officer? (Sure. How are you today, Officer?)

OFFICER: Hapana apa m’dhara. Kukwara nezuva nenzara chete. Mu-town hamuchatengeke kana drink zvaro. (May I see your license and registration please?)

ME: Ndiyo yaZimbabwe yacho. Zvakaoma. (Here you go.)

OFFICER: Tisu takaomerwa, kwete imi munofamba murimumvura so-o, he? Inonzi chiiko iyi? Prado? Ha, murikuzviita. Anyway, inzwaka m’dhara. Wanga uchimhanya kaiwe. One-twenty, iyi iri pamushini iyi. Limit i-eighte. (Sir, I stopped you for doing 120km/hr in an 80km/hr zone.)

ME: One-twenty! Handina kumbopfuura hundred shamwari. (Is that right?)

OFFICER: Eh eh, usade kundivhundutsira, nhaika? Pakanyorwa kuti chii apa? Buda mumota m’dhara, buda tinyatsotaurirana ka-air conditioning kari imomo kari kukufurira. (Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car please.)

ME: Ayewa, ndobudire chii? Taura shamwari, ndirikumhanyira kubasa. (Ok.)

OFFICER: Manje m’dhara speed yako iyi haina ticket. Totoenda newe ku-station, tokuvharira, wozoenda kucourt mangwana. Hameno. Toita sei? (Unfortunately I have to write you a ticket.)

ME: Haa, ko ndozvinei? (I’m so sorry Officer. Can’t you just give me a warning this time?)

OFFICER: Saka toita sei manje, because apa tinenge takuto-impounda mota, torova paperwork dzacho dzese, tokuisa mumacells. Asi tokuvharira kuChitungwiza, hatisi vekutown, and then mangwana kana mota dziine fuel, woenda kucourt. Kana dzisina, unozoenda Friday. (I’m sorry sir, there have been too many accidents on this stretch of road lately, we are under strict instructions to not be lenient. Your safety and that of other drivers is our primary concern sir.)

ME: Unopenga! Ndingarire mumacells izvozvo? O, chitora two dollars iyi wozotenga quart shamwari, ndoyandinayo. (I understand.)

OFFICER: Eeee! Maita basa boss. Thenks so much mufunge, mwari akukomborerei zveshuwa. Handei hedu boss. (Here’s your ticket sir. Please slow down and drive safe. Have a good day.)

I know you probably think I’m exaggerating, on account of I exaggerate everything else (except for my intelligence, which is truly out of this world), but this is a real-life exchange that occurred. As an unflinching patriot, I am proud of our police force, which the Herald reliably informs me serves in strife-torn countries in far-flung corners of the world. If our force was so terrible, why would the UN continue to call upon them time and again to serve in Azerbaijan and Kyrgystan?

It is totally against my principles to bribe the police, or anyone, for that matter. However, my principles evaporate like a mist in the morning sun when I am confronted with the prospect of jail. You see, the thing about me is that I’m not a hero. I have been working on this though, and I'm close. I'd say about as close as Michael Jackson is to being white. The thought of some tall, dark and never-handsome resident of Chikurubi called Gidza cuddling with me in the middle of the night is enough to make my little yellow liver shrivel. I think my main problem is that I have a vivid imagination. I can imagine Gidza deciding that over this particular weekend, I would be his significant other. I can imagine him cracking stupid jokes and laughing dementedly, unleashing demons of halitosis into my delicate nostrils. Man, I would keep my bum so tightly squeezed I would produce diamonds from the carbon fibres in my jail suit. Eventually, like after about 10 minutes of being in there, I would decide I would rather die on my ass than live on my knees, and I would commit suicide by holding my breath until my soul departed my body. Then Gidza could have his way with my cold, lifeless corpse, if he can pry open my buns of steel. Is it really worth going through this kind of turmoil for $2? To those of you males whose principles are worth more than your posterior virginity, I say may God look upon you with unending favour, and may you be in heaven 30 minutes before the Devil knows you’re dead.

zakeozim@gmail.com