White Man Crawling

Rite of Passage

66 Rite of Passage In the end it wasn’t a woman too young or a back too sore, which nudged me over the threshold from middle age to old age. It was South African officialdom. My best friend, Fred, who lives in New Zealand, provided me with enough foreign currency to buy a new starter motor for my 1978 Ford Escort, and a new pair of shoes (Grasshoppers) for my 1947 feet. I booked the car into a reputable garage in Louis Trichardt, and myself into a delightful guest house in the mountains, which gives special rates to beleaguered Zimbabweans. All went well. The car got its starter motor and I got my shoes. It was on my return, a Saturday, when things began to go wrong. I left the guest house around seven in the morning. I didn’t have to push start the car, and my feet felt snug in their brand new tancoloured shoes. What’s more I still had five hundred Rand in my pocket, five blue notes, enough to pay for my son’s school books back in Bulawayo. At the bottom of the last mountainous descent I encountered my first blockade. A smartly dressed policeman (or was he a soldier?) waved me down and swaggered over to my window. His eyes positively lit up when he saw that I had forgotten to secure my seat belt. He ordered me to park off the road and to surrender my driver’s licence, a faded copy of a copy of the original, which had been stolen some years back. He held my licence, poised, as if he were about to make a move in a game of cards. He had trumps. ‘I caught you, didn’t I, old man?’ ‘Sorry, I -’ ‘We don’t accept ‘sorry’ in this country. Too late!’ I was making a gesture to fasten my seat belt. ‘I caught you.’ ‘I forgot.’ ‘In this country you don’t forget these things. Old man, you have committed a serious offence. I am going to have to arrest you, or you will pay a spot fine of four hundred Rand?’ I dragged the five blue notes from my pocket saying ‘This is all I have’, but when I held them up to him he became agitated and looked 67 about him: at the vendors and their watermelons, at the other law enforcers and their assault weapons, at the late model cars with South African number plates being cheerfully waved through the blockade. ‘Keep them down!’ he growled, and he pushed my hand of five buffalo knaves onto my lap. Then he made me test my hooter, my lights, and my hand brake. He walked round the car a few times, all the while tapping my licence thoughtfully against his cheek. At last he returned to the driver’s window and stared at me in silence for about a minute. I had begun to tremble. He reminded me of a character from one of Wole Soyinka’s satires. Then he said: ‘You know, old man, I pity you, I really pity you. I am thinking how can I help you in some way.’ ‘I’ll pay the fine,’ I said lamely. ‘But that is all what you have got, and you are an old man with an old vehicle. From where are you?’ ‘Bulawayo.’ ‘And you do what?’ ‘I’m a school teacher.’ ‘Ah, that is a good job. You are helping the little children?’ ‘I try.’ ‘Now, I have this problem. I pity you. Tell me, what must I do?’ ‘I have enough to pay the fine.’ I selected four notes and held them up to him, but he pushed my hand onto my lap. ‘Just give me something for drink.’ ‘Like this,’ I said, holding up one note, but not too high. He executed the disappearing card trick, returned my licence, and said, ‘Now go!’ The next blockade was in the middle of some chaotic road works between Musina and Beitbridge. There were yellow and red signs all over the place warning motorists to slow down, to detour here, detour there; and earthworks, bulldozers, everywhere. Consequently, no longer having the reflexes of middle-age, let alone youth, I crossed the blockade line before my brakes brought me to a screaming halt. Luckily I had been travelling at well below the recommended speed. The biggest, most scary-looking of the law enforcers shouted, ‘That one is mine!’ and came running at me from...