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.