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| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
Bwana Customs
The sun had finally risen, scattering the cold haze and bringing with
it an air of irrational optimism, an unreasonable expectation.
‘You know,’ the giant said, pointing at the barrier with his silver-
tipped baton, ‘In the old days this place was full of strange
incidents.’
He had stepped out of his office at nine o’clock sharp as
promised, dressed incongruously in white shorts and shirt, and his
dreadlocks tucked under an official cap with a shiny badge that
identified him as an officer of the customs and exercise department
of the Government of Tanzania. He had proceeded to raise a
tattered flag on a mast in front of his office hut, saluted smartly and,
only then, turned and approached the travellers’ vehicle.
‘Welcome to Mara,’ he had said with unnecessary geniality.
He wore huge Government boots, well polished and shiny, and olive
green puttees with an array of ballpoint pens tucked in the band of
the right one.
His name was Bwana Fadhili, he had told them, but they were
free to call him Mister Customs or Bwana Forodha in Kiswahili as
other travellers had before they were all lured away by the new
crossing at Namanga.
‘Many travellers came here in the old days,’ he informed them.
‘Some going north, some going south, and some going nowhere;
just helping stuff across my border.’
But no one came this way anymore, he revealed, no one except
hardcore smugglers. Even those were having second thoughts
after he caught two of them sneaking past his post with gemstones
stolen from the diamond mines at Mwadui.
‘They are buried over there,’ he said, pointing to a gnarled tree
about two hundred yards away, ‘where they fell trying to dodge my
bullets.’
Two piles of rocks marked the smugglers’ final resting place.
He let Ruben contemplate the sight and consider whether it was
worthwhile trying to outwit him. Then he cleared his throat loudly
and said, officiously, ‘Your passports, please.’
The interlude was over.
Ruben handed him their passports. He scrutinised them
carefully, making sure all the pages were intact and their
photographs had not been tampered with.
‘No visas,’ he observed, inspecting the passports. ‘No visas, no
stamps, nothing.’
‘Don’t need any,’ Ruben informed him.
He smiled slightly, looking from her passport photograph to
Kimberly and back.
‘You are very thin now,’ he said to her.
She ignored him. She stood with her back against the vehicle, her
bundle in her arms, and let Ruben deal with it as he had offered to
do.
‘Bwana Ruben,’ Bwana Forodha said, turning to Ruben. ‘This
does not look like you at all, Bwana Ruben.’
‘I’m thinner too,’ said Ruben.
‘You also have a bad beard,’ he observed. ‘Is it, perhaps, a
disguise?’
Ruben left him to decide for himself.
‘I like your hat,’ he said, slipping the passports in his breast
pocket.
‘Thanks,’ said Ruben.
‘Director,’ he read the logo on Ruben’s cap. ‘Are you a big boss
then?’
‘No,’ said Ruben.
‘You are not a director?’
‘I am a director.’
‘Then you are a big boss,’ said Bwana Forodha. ‘In Tanzania, a
director is a big man.’
Ruben decided to let him believe what he may. He looked them
both up and down, nodding to himself all the time, weighing them
and wondering. Finally, he whipped the stick from under his arm
and tapped it on the clipboard in his other hand.
‘And now,’ he said, turning to their luggage. ‘We shall proceed
to pay Government duty.’
READ ON ...
The sun had finally risen, scattering the cold haze and bringing with
it an air of irrational optimism, an unreasonable expectation.
‘You know,’ the giant said, pointing at the barrier with his silver-
tipped baton, ‘In the old days this place was full of strange
incidents.’
He had stepped out of his office at nine o’clock sharp as
promised, dressed incongruously in white shorts and shirt, and his
dreadlocks tucked under an official cap with a shiny badge that
identified him as an officer of the customs and exercise department
of the Government of Tanzania. He had proceeded to raise a
tattered flag on a mast in front of his office hut, saluted smartly and,
only then, turned and approached the travellers’ vehicle.
‘Welcome to Mara,’ he had said with unnecessary geniality.
He wore huge Government boots, well polished and shiny, and olive
green puttees with an array of ballpoint pens tucked in the band of
the right one.
His name was Bwana Fadhili, he had told them, but they were
free to call him Mister Customs or Bwana Forodha in Kiswahili as
other travellers had before they were all lured away by the new
crossing at Namanga.
‘Many travellers came here in the old days,’ he informed them.
‘Some going north, some going south, and some going nowhere;
just helping stuff across my border.’
But no one came this way anymore, he revealed, no one except
hardcore smugglers. Even those were having second thoughts
after he caught two of them sneaking past his post with gemstones
stolen from the diamond mines at Mwadui.
‘They are buried over there,’ he said, pointing to a gnarled tree
about two hundred yards away, ‘where they fell trying to dodge my
bullets.’
Two piles of rocks marked the smugglers’ final resting place.
He let Ruben contemplate the sight and consider whether it was
worthwhile trying to outwit him. Then he cleared his throat loudly
and said, officiously, ‘Your passports, please.’
The interlude was over.
Ruben handed him their passports. He scrutinised them
carefully, making sure all the pages were intact and their
photographs had not been tampered with.
‘No visas,’ he observed, inspecting the passports. ‘No visas, no
stamps, nothing.’
‘Don’t need any,’ Ruben informed him.
He smiled slightly, looking from her passport photograph to
Kimberly and back.
‘You are very thin now,’ he said to her.
She ignored him. She stood with her back against the vehicle, her
bundle in her arms, and let Ruben deal with it as he had offered to
do.
‘Bwana Ruben,’ Bwana Forodha said, turning to Ruben. ‘This
does not look like you at all, Bwana Ruben.’
‘I’m thinner too,’ said Ruben.
‘You also have a bad beard,’ he observed. ‘Is it, perhaps, a
disguise?’
Ruben left him to decide for himself.
‘I like your hat,’ he said, slipping the passports in his breast
pocket.
‘Thanks,’ said Ruben.
‘Director,’ he read the logo on Ruben’s cap. ‘Are you a big boss
then?’
‘No,’ said Ruben.
‘You are not a director?’
‘I am a director.’
‘Then you are a big boss,’ said Bwana Forodha. ‘In Tanzania, a
director is a big man.’
Ruben decided to let him believe what he may. He looked them
both up and down, nodding to himself all the time, weighing them
and wondering. Finally, he whipped the stick from under his arm
and tapped it on the clipboard in his other hand.
‘And now,’ he said, turning to their luggage. ‘We shall proceed
to pay Government duty.’
READ ON ...
| Mama Dudu - the Insect Woman |
| Kimberley, an American scientist specialised in termites, has established a research station in the African bush. Although she does not want any children, she is about to have a baby. Her husband driving her to a Nairobi hospital loses his way and Kimberley gives birth in a bush hospital. The next morning, in their car and far away from the hospital, they realise that the baby does not look like either of them …Is this the result of the curse of the nomad woman who asked Kimberley for help and was turned away? They are stopped at a border crossing in the middle of nowhere and are held there for days suspected of baby smuggling. Meja Mwangi tells with a lot of humour how the customs officer and his wife strike a friendship with the American couple and how the mystery is finally resolved. |
| ISBN 978-1-84728-468-6 |
| Mama Dudu hm books, 2007 315 pgs |
| Mama Dudu |
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| EUR. 17,99 |
| US $ 25.95 |
| MARIAM Pastels by Bonsalles |