The Graft

[appeared in the malawi news in april 2013]

Andisen, after collecting the Mercedes Benz at the border, drove it at a reasonable speed. Some Rock numbers, the music he loved, stemmed from the car music system. He knew it would help to keep him awake in his long drive to Chididi.

The sedan belonged to the Chief of Operations for the Anti-Corruption Commission (ACC). He was a very powerful man who sent people running at the snap of his fingers especially for being well connected with the ruling elite of the country. Nonetheless, Andisen did not allow that to make him lose his senses and take the highway ethics for a ride. He did not want people to think he was deliberately breaking regulations because he was ‘untouchable’ that day being at the service of one of the most powerful men in the country. 

Rather that day apart from making sure the car was roadworthy, Andisen went to the extreme of being an excellent driver; he had his driver’s license nearby to avoid the widespread ‘fumblings’ by motorists when the Traffic Police would demand for it. He also, first thing, tightened his seat-belt the moment he entered the vehicle. He even stopped just to answer his mobile if the call required his urgent attention.  

He continued to drive prudently and several kilometers later he stopped unworriedly when two traffic policemen waved him to a stop, knowing he was clean.

 

Andisen did not know though that the two ‘white headed and khaki bodied’ stopping him were marauding souls who had taken the road as their loaded ATM. They were people always set to squeeze blood through flimsy charges from already ‘malnourished’ pockets of motorists, people at the mercy of devaluation repercussions. The two even went to any length in striving to corner even careful motorists, and would even place a small boy nearby for motorists to leave the bribes when they felt they might be exposed if they received the bribe themselves through those suspicious handshakes. The two acted with impunity in the area and rumor had it that those who reported them to their superiors got censured or even threatened. 

 “May I see your driver’s license and the documents for the car, please,” one of the police officers, a black like charcoal fat looking man, demanded in a reverberating voice, approaching Andisen’s door. Andisen handed them within seconds. The policeman walked to the back of the vehicle at a slow pace like he had the whole day.

“Parking lights and horn, please,” the officer shouted from the back. Andisen did the needful.

“Your spare tyre and red triangle, please.” Andisen opened the rear bonnet, climbed down and showed him.

“Sir, everything seems in order except that you’re using unregistered vehicle!”

Andisen was stunned and fought a laborious battle to stop from laughing at the joke or the pathetic ignorance on display before him.

“Please pay 5000 Malawi Kwacha fine,”

“Sir, as you can see from the papers the vehicle is an IT, and it has just been cleared today,” Andisen reasoned with the police office after noting he was dead serious.

“You, don’t ‘sir’ me, and don’t force me to see things I’m not interested in!” the law enforcer shouted, wrinkles raiding his forehead.

Andisen was beginning to lose his composure.

“When you’re ready I’ll be over there.” The officer said, beginning to walk away.

“Officer, what is the meaning of this?” Andisen fumed.

“What’s the problem here?” the other policeman, a thin statured creature who seemed the senior ranked and had been busy with other motorists the other side of the road, joined in.

“Sir...” Andisen started.

“Shut up! I’m not asking you,” Andisen was brutally cut shot.  “Or are you insinuating a noble police officer is the one causing problems?” Andisen kept quiet.

“Sir, this man is using an IT car and is refusing to pay. All he is asking are meanings as if we’re in a philosophy class,” the fat police officer said, coming to rigid attention.

“Sir, I’m not using...”

“I told you to shut up!”

Andisen now was furious in all departments. It was now time to send the two shameless stinky corrupt police officers huffing and sweating like pigs.

“Sir, this is corruption and corruption is a crime,” he exploded, not allowing the two policemen to interrupt him as he went into full swing. “You should know that corruption by police officers like you detracts from the integrity of the police and tarnishes the public image of law enforcement. Moreover, corruption by the police protects criminality. And right now I’m calling the owner, the Chief Operations Officer for the ACC, to inform him about this.” Andisen finished emphatically. 

The two policemen wanted to wave him through after sensing real trouble but Andisen was already in action over his mobile he had deliberately put on hands free, enjoying every moment of the show. And you could actually see the two poor souls shaking like reeds in a raging river.

“Hallo, sir,” Andisen said triumphantly when the other side answered. “I just want to report that I’m being detained here by police officers who are demanding a bribe over…”

“You mean you can’t give the police a small carrot so that my multi-million vehicle can pass smoothly? Don’t be silly.” The call was cut. 

You should have seen the speed at which the optimism evaporated from Andisen’s face.

the government office

[appeared in the malawi news in february 2013]

The fat serious–looking woman behind the desk showed a glimmer of sympathy but was unrelenting.  

“I’m sorry Mr. Asilo, this won’t do. You’ll have to fill out another form,” she curtly said, calling on the next person standing in the long queue with an emphatic ‘next!’

The doctor’s writing, Mauro by name, on the medical examination form had spilled slightly over the line and the District Commissioner’s office would not accept it, the last and most important of four required documents for advertised constable vacancies in the police force.

The refusal meant another crisscrossing of busy roads, encountering pathetic delays in heavy traffic, as Asilo traveled back to all the offices he had earlier visited starting with the local police station to collect a new form at a ‘reasonable fine’ for ‘negligence’, and also parting ways again with close to 15,000 kwacha in transport costs, stamping fees, and other payments.

And the new form would have to be signed again by the doctor and returned to the District Commissioner’s office for checking by the woman, or another officer possibly, and then stamping by the Commissioner of Oaths would follow, if all on the form were considered satisfactory.

And Asilo knew he would have to come back a day or two later to pick up the new form, for he could not collect it and make it to the office on time to have it checked and stamped. He would have no choice but to leave it behind.

But he was running out of time. The dead-line for submission was barely in two days time. He felt annoyance built up inside him. He left the woman’s office making every effort not to show his anger for that would mean a death sentence. His papers would never be checked again.

“This country needs to modernize its systems by leaps to pare down regulations which seem designed to prevent things from getting done. Just look how it’s straining under a mountain of paper, and seemingly selfish arbitrary rules.” Asilo addressed a young lady in a low voice who was another casualty of the ‘arbitrary rules’. She looked indifferent though, but he went on anyway.

“Countless hours, funds and even energy are being lost when numerous people are illogically refused services because of signing one’s name in the ‘wrong’ colour ink, smudges on official documents, spill-over signatures, and such trivia.”

“Red tape in this century is just bad,” Asilo went on irritably, now encouraged by a young man who seemed interested in his talk, who was being sent back to start all over again for mistakenly writing on the ‘Maiden Name’ section on a passport form, an error that could be corrected by just crossing it out.

“This is what you get in the 18^th century, and not in this 21^st century. And it’s a bloody hassle; nobody seems to have the slightest sense of passion on the citizens they claim to serve in these offices,” he grumbled as he slammed his rejected form in his jacket pockets.

“And one begins to understand why there is heavy presence of corruption in these government departments; it’s a way to get things done. But corruption is just bad and I’m sick of all these empty platitudes, processions, and promises of our political leaders. But whatever, I would never hesitate to notify necessary authorities if I come across one…”

He was interrupted by calling from behind. An old man, they later came to know was a messenger at the office, waved them to stop.

“The madam said there might be a way to help you out. If you’re interested you can follow me.”

Only Asilo hesitated as his preaching on corruption just seconds ago haunted him. ‘So the signature spill-over was no big deal after all’. He crossly thought, feeling anger build inside him. He furiously wanted to march on and collect the new form but he hesitated; he had no time at his disposal. ‘Who eats ethics anyway?’ he miserably gave in and desperately followed the messenger.

The messenger took them to an upper room by way of old wooden creaking stairs. As they climbed he made every impression that the officer they were about to meet was so important. Starting with his composure to his movements, he appeared as if he was about to meet the President of the country.

He would stop for moments, just to let the tension build, and would begin again, softer at first, wavering left to right and then left again. He would again stop, pausing as if to get his bearings right, just to taunt them, before going back into motion for a few minutes, setting the pace with a pendent movement, and then another pause. Maybe ten seconds, maybe more, he would start again, taking each step without any aggression messengers are known for, as if he was afraid to disturb whoever was up there. Asilo and his two friends just followed in real silence.

Upon reaching the destined office Asilo was surprised to find a long queue waiting outside. By the time he was coming down he had parted ways with 5,000 thousand kwacha.

********************************

The phone for Lino, the officer in the upper office, called. It was Doctor Mauro.

“So far how much?”

“Around sixty-five thousand,”

“How about the police?”

“Let me ask, mon ami,” Lino said, chuckling.

When Fate Decides...

He sat, his back pressed against one of the rough damp walls of the thick darkness engulfed room.

Suddenly the downward spinal aching began as had been in the past seven days. And again as all the days for the past week he started to sweat profusely, the sweat of anxiety, for he knew they would soon be there; the men dressed scarily in red from head to toe. He tightly closed his eyes this time around trying not to look at them. He found he could not. They opened like they were remote controlled. He was facing them again.

“You’ll die poor.” They again said in unison behind their masks. They were the same words as had been in the past week, their voices smacking total mockery. And suddenly they were gone as they appeared.

Mauro walk up with a start. He had been dreaming again! He cursed loudly, forcing himself into an upright position. His heart thundered, and like in the dream he sweated copiously. He now sat slumped on his tattered creaky bed, the only tangible piece of furniture in the bedroom. He tightly closed his eyes, as he did in his dreams, and opened them wider trying to make things out in the thick blanket of the darkness engulfing his room as in the dream. The effort produced minimal results.  

The dream started a week ago when Mauro decided to visit a witchdoctor. This was after visiting renowned churches and many famed men of God in the land to help him, a hard-working man and a proud holder of a Business Administration, to secure employment or secure some funds to start some small scale business, with nothing happening.

“I’ll never continue like this,” he agonizingly challenged, forcing himself to snub the dispiriting message the men in red had been bringing to him, as the jumbles of thoughts of how the means to have some decent living seemed to have conspired to stumble every time he tried one danced mockingly in his mind. And the words of the hooded men stuck in his mind like supper-glue, and he knew he was doing a bad job of convincing himself that things would change for the better. But Mauro was more than determined to press on.

Two days later, one late evening, Mauro sat fretting in some scaring hut of a witchdoctor in a village many kilometers away from his home. The hut was sultry and semi dark, reeking with odors of different tree roots and leaves. On one corner was an old repulsive owl that hooted now and then gruffly and wryly and looked as if it would pounce on him any time. It was a creature that sent chills of fear screaming down Mauro’s spine. If not that the owner was with him he would have run away.

And talking about the owner himself he was not palatable for Mauro’s eye. He was shabby and emitted a revolting stench, a rancid odor of stale sweat. Mounds of dirt grimed on the creases of his tattered clothes. A dirt necklace seemed to strangulate his thin and elongated neck that appeared to protest the heavy mass of his baldy bulge head that possessed big jug-handle shaped ears. His eyes, enslaved in protruding sockets that were pronounced by black bushy eyebrows hooded like some fierce bird of prey, were elusive, humorless and dull; they emitted a penetrating haunting and hounding gaze.

Suddenly the owl leapt. Mauro froze and recoiled in horror. He started to hate himself for visiting the place as his heart thundered with raw fear. Suddenly the witchdoctor started to pour out instructions, chief of which was the ritual.

“…kill a madman using this knife and collect his blood in this bottle. Bring the blood to me within three days. Then, only then, your poverty will be history,” the witchdoctor said in a void voice that seemed to come from a deep bowl, handing him the items. Minutes later Mauro came out of the bloodcurdling hut and started on foot his long journey back home.

Meanwhile around the same time several kilometers away at the Boma, Asilo, a regular imbiber was making his way into Sangalala bottle-store. By the time he was relenting the time was around 23:30 hours, the very same time Mauro was reaching the Boma.

Asilo staggered out of Sangalala bottle-store and abruptly troubled thoughts of cold-blooded robbers terrorizing places around the Boma area at night vividly hurled his mind. However, a smile hovered on his lips as the plan he had used a number of times to hoodwink would be attackers crossed his mind.  

 

Mauro strolling home tiredly could not believe his luck when he saw the madman, carrying cloths on his head, coming in front of him. He wasted no time but pounced and within minutes he had collected the blood. But before leaving some items that fell from the madman’s cloths caught his attention. He cautiously checked the items using his pocket torch. Mauro’s energy evaporated. The items were a passport, driver’s license, and an identity card that showed the man called Asilo, was a government employee. Mauro needed no more evidence to tell him he had not killed a madman, but someone trying to trick would be assailants. Mauro cried bitterly as the words of those three hooded men hit his mind so hard.

                     

The New Year's Party

 [Malawi News of 26 January, 2013]

The year’s final curtains, marking its end, were slowly falling down but it was doing so with some people in a fix. Chief Asilo was one of hem. The chief tiredly forced his eyes, which burned so hard and felt like they had sand in them, to close for the umpteenth time, but failed. He pathetically meted out a yawn. His eyes instantly were teary and felt sticky and misty. He had now lost count of the number that had happened. But minute in, minute out, from the previous night to his present, the dawn of New Year’s Eve, his status remained the same. How he envied his wife, now sound asleep, who had previously tried to talk him into the much needed sleep.  

His body felt torn apart but not his brain. Thoughts hotly chased each other. They were thoughts of pain as he excruciatingly tried to come to terms with the disappointment that he had finally moved from hero to zero. The disillusionment that toppled him from the zenith of heroism had been there for close to two years, but this day it had hit him hard not necessarily because it had culminated into a mass demonstration, but because the mass action was slated for the same day, New Year’s Eve, the day he had planned to hold a party. Actually it was a cycle at play: people planned to demonstrate being angry that their chief could afford his planned mindless partying not only because there was a general feeling that the suffering was as a result of his leadership incomprehensible arrogance, perplexing greed, stinking corruption, and brazen tribalism and nepotism, but because that he could have the nerve to have festivity when the village was reeling in harsh fuel and drug scarcity, and biting hunger. On his part Asilo wanted the merrymaking, being a deliberate move to counter the accusations; mainly to show all that the said suffering was even not there in the village.

But Asilo’s mind could not live in denial though. He knew it was impossible to fool people in the village that things were fine. And he also knew it was obscene to lavishly throw money about and make a lot of jolly noise when the land was burning.

‘The party must go ahead,’ he arrogantly thought though that early morning. It was a stance he had adamantly told his wife even the just passing night when she had reasoned with him to cancel the party or shift it to another day.

“That would be admittance of failure my dear, the very last thing I need now,” he had almost shouted at her.

The party, starting from ten that morning, was planned to be held in a five star hotel. A lot of Asilo’s henchmen would attend, that much he knew, in a show of solidarity for the sake of their daily bread. They would show flamboyance and indeed a lot of money would be spent on liquor and food. They would drink and enjoy themselves to foolishness; and that was all Asilo wanted so as to drive home the message to the entire world that ‘all was well’ in the village.

But the chief had himself to blame for such a mess. He was the darling to people when he began. With many believing he had a listening heart, cupped with sympathy from the people by the way his predecessor mishandled him, and with the expected reversing of all bad rules and policies people had cried against under his predecessor, Asilo had all praises.

But the chief took the praises as a blank cheque to take the villagers not only for granted but for a ride. And he lost touch with reality in the process. He grew the biggest ego and believed he was the best. No amount of criticism, no matter how constructive, to Asilo entertaining them was a distant thought, even rubbish. And no wonder he lost the lustre, which Asilo arrogantly played down until now he was failing to sleep.   

‘The party should go ahead,’ he thought again, dialing the number of Mauro, his chief guard.

He tiredly left alone for the party his wife and children having refused to attend. He found the venue all set and filled to capacity. He had hardly taken his seat when his phone startled him. It was Ireen, his secretary, calling.

‘This woman,’ Chief Asilo thought. ‘Can’t she understand it’s risky? Can’t she take simple instructions? What if I’d my wife with me?’ he grumbled, thinking that Ireen, he had instructed not to attend the party, was calling to remind him about their planned intimacy outing that night. Asilo said an annoyed ‘hallo’.

“Sir, if you’re at the hall you better move out. Now!”  

“Calm down!” Asilo shouted before controlling his voice. He attracted anxious looks in the hall though. “I’ve sent Mauro with his team to disperse the crowd,” he said in a battered calm voice, looking around with an ‘all-is-well’ glance.

“That won’t be, sir! The mob is rushing towards the hall led by Mauro!”

“What!” But Asilo stopped in his tracks when he heard an angry roar. He frantically moved for the exit, tumbling almost. And suddenly there was all sorts of movement as word spread like bushfire of the coming chaos. People got injured as they fought to get out, even before the demonstrators had descended on them.

The Woman Next Door

~an extract from an up coming short story~

Time ticked towards midnight and outside the July light showers had turned into heavy rainfall and showed no sign of slowing down. The wild drops came down hard against the old rusty roof and faded whitewashed walls of Aisha’s small house. They rhythmically tumbled down, closely following each other, and at times simultaneously, landing heavily like soldiers. They later mingled smoothly but powerfully on the rusty iron sheet corrugates, before doing a parade downwards in as many single files, along the length of the ridges and joined other drops of the rain on the ground below.

The drops had been pouring like that for close to four or so hours. They pelted firmly from all sides of the sky turning the ground into slush and a territory of small muddy rivulets flowing crazily. Top soil was scattered madly in every direction, flushed out by the deep rain drops.

The showery night was biting cold. The iciness droned down, engulfing the neighborhood with chilliness like that of a blanket writhed out of a deep freezer just moments ago.  

Cursing bitterly under her breath, Aisha sat slumped and cross-legged on a tattered creaky Sofa occupying the right side of her small. A paraffin lamp dimly lighted the small sitting room. The single Sofa was the only tangible piece of furniture the whole house. She was only putting a piece of Chitenje, wrapped around her body. Local music from an old, corroded and ready to fall into disuse Nzeru radio hit her ears without necessarily entering her mind; with her mind in fusion with the outside sopping atmosphere. The radio was a rundown panting piece. She had inherited it from her late mother, together with the dilapidated Sofa her fully grown bottom now found solace. She generated, as she sat there, an appearance of a shadow in that poorly lamp lighted room; a lamp showing all signs of running out of paraffin. However, unlike a shadow, Aisha was breathing, thinking and cursing.

Her ears now picked the barking and piercing long cries of dogs in the midst of the cloudburst.

“Witches,” she whispered softly and shivered at the thought. ‘A bad night,’ she thought but quickly dismissed the belief as nonsense.

“It’s the best night,” she encouraged herself. It did not sound convincing though even to her.

She had come from an out of form topless iron shack, people found the audacity to call ‘bathroom’, stationed a stone’s throw away from her house. It was a structure also at the mercy of other nine households within the compound. She was there scrubbing herself ready for the night, the soggy night, the night she was not yet out to do her business, the delay that burned her whole inside. The bathing was tantamount to torture in that wet biting night; especially being done in the roofless falling into disuse iron shed. But she found congratulating herself for doing the activity three hours earlier not minding the ferocious rains; what with the thoughts of witches bombarding her mind and being in an enclosure for minutes alone. She shivered again at the thought before trying with failure to purge it again from her mind.