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.