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| THIS SITE |
Bwana Custom
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.
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.
READ ON ...
| ISBN 978-1-84728-468-6 |
| Mama Dudu hm books, 2007 315 pgs |
| Mama Dudu by Meja Mwangi |
| US $ 25.95 |
| Eur. 17.99 |
 |  |  |  |  |
Mama Dudu
