It had been raining when I left work. I was on my way to pick up Hilda so that we could run some errands together. I had to get to the vet to pick up some doggy downers for Marley who had completely freaked out on Christmas Eve with the fireworks. I wasn’t prepared to deal with his panic on New Years Eve. We were also going to drop a letter of thanks to the baker at Manda Hill shopping center for his kind donation of 50 donuts on Christmas morning for the patients at the hospice.
I crossed Bishop Road continuing on the last block of Roan Road going my usual [slow] speed. On my left was a pedestrian who was talking on his phone. In a split second as I passed it appeared he was going to cross the street after I had passed. I heard a knock on the rear left side of the car and thought to myself, ‘Did he throw something at the car?’ It was audible enough for me to slow down. I looked in my rear-view and side-view mirrors to see this guy holding his foot and jumping up-and-down. My first thought was, ‘I’m about to be duped.’
There is a security circular issued from the US Embassy in Lusaka for foreign nationals in the country. It has to do with a recent, recurring carjacking problem in and around the city. Often times, according to the circular, thieves try to get a foreigner to stop his/her car by waving their hands, pretending there to be an accident, or a vehicle breakdown. The circular warns and advises against stopping, quite frankly, in all situations. The best course of action is to go immediately to a police station for assistance.
I continued to look in my mirror until I turned into Hilda’s driveway and lost site of the man. I greeted Hilda and said ‘something very strange just happened to me and I think something isn’t right’. We came out of the house to get into the car as I was about to begin explaining what I meant. There, at the end of the driveway, was a man looking around. It was not the man who had been jumping up-and-down on the side of the road a block away.
Hilda and I got in the car and drove to the end of the driveway. I said to Hilda, ‘this is what I was talking about’. I rolled down my window and asked what he wanted. ‘This man across the street says you hit him and did not stop. He says he needs help’. I said, ‘OK, let us park’. I pulled out of the driveway and onto the dirt adjacent to the road. My heart started to pound heavily in my chest.
We walked over to the man sitting on the side of the drainage wash on the opposite side of the road. Hilda immediately started to ask questions. ‘Brother, what is happening here?’ she asked. ‘This big man hit me and left me’. He rubbed his foot. His shoe was removed. The first thing both Hilda and I noticed was his new knock-off converse shoes still perfectly clean and new [read: no tire tread marks]. Hilda said, ‘brother, you should go to the clinic and have an x-ray. Let’s exchange contact details and if there is a problem we will be glad to pay for the expenses’. She spoke as if she knew immediately what was really happening. ‘No, sister’ he replied. ‘OK, brother. Then what is it you’d like to do’, she asked. ‘I need to go to UTC’ [University Teaching Hospital] (about a 20 minute drive from Hilda’s house). Hilda responded, ‘brother, you’ve just walked down the street after being hit by a car. There is a clinic just 5 minutes down the street. Go there. Let’s exchange contact details and we can sort this out tomorrow after you have been seen by a doctor’. Again, Hilda’s suggestion was declined. The conversation quickly turned somewhat heated and became an argument in Nyanja (one of Zambia’s many tribal languages). Everything Hilda offered, the man declined. It became very clear to us that this was not about me having allegedly hit this man with the car but rather how much Kwacha (Zambian currency) he wanted to extract from me then and there to resolve the issue.
The man said, ‘I think I will go to the police now,’ to which Hilda replied, ‘please brother get in the car. We can go together’. As you can imagine this offer was declined, too, immediately. The man would have had access to taking down the license plate number of the car so the best thing for Hilda and I to do was to go to the Kabulonga Police Station less than five minutes away and report the incident to cover my exposure if the man did report the alleged incident to the police. We told the man we would return with the police shortly.
Hilda and I entered the police station, located in the back corner of the Kabulonga Melissa grocery store parking lot. The station, made of corrugated tin complete with a lockable cell in the back, had a desk, several chairs and a bench inside. On one side of the table sat three officers; one gentleman and two ladies. They asked why we had come. Hilda began to tell the story.
The ‘chief’ asked that we take he and one of the female officers to where we had left the ‘injured’ man on the side of the road. This police office was not furnished with a police vehicle so anyone needing assistance had to furnish transportation. The four of us loaded into Jeannie’s and took of to Roan Road where the man was left on the side of the road rubbing his foot.
By the time we returned the man and his witness were gone. ‘Perhaps he got a cab and went off to a clinic to be seen’, I thought. Hilda and the police officers recommended we drive around the neighborhood to see if we could catch up with the man. We turned the corner and another and drove down Sable Road the road where I live. We continued down Sable Road and just as I began to turn the car left on to Bishop Road Hilda exclaimed, ‘there they are!’ The police recommended I turn around so we could catch up with them. Interestingly enough, the ‘witness’ to the accident now appeared to have befriended the injured man as they walked together…or they had been working the streets together the whole time.
As we approached the two men the man who purported to be hit by me walked along with a certain kind of strut and attitude—a cool like swagger. In his motions was no sign of a limp or anything related to a man walking who had just had his foot run over by a car. Hilda pointed this out and the police took notice. As soon as we passed the men and they noticed who we were and that we had two Zambians in the back seat the strut turned quickly to a hobble.
We parked the car and allowed the men to approach us. A conversation ensued shortly turning into a heated debate. It came down to the men being irritated that Hilda became involved as my advocate. Threats of ‘going to court’ ensued. At one point the chief took the ‘injured’ man aside and talked to him. It was apparent the police did not believe the man’s story but because he accused me of hitting him the police recommended we return to the police station to sort it out.
While I didn’t feel like I would be a candidate for the next episode of locked up abroad, the feeling of not understanding the law and local protocol began to make me feel uneasy. The man was given ‘10 pin’ (10,000 Zambian Kwacha, about US $2.00) by Hilda to pay for his cab ride to the station. It all seemed a bit surreal.
Back at the tin station, the arguments and accusations continued to fly. All in the station gathered around to listen and watch. The ‘witness’ who did not appear to know the victim initially became heatedly involved in the unfolding argument. Hilda asked the police to ask the man to leave the room and the police obliged. The man walked out into the parking lot but still remained earshot to the deliberations. Hilda said something about the men trying to take advantage of us. The man outside the station approached the door of the station quickly as he pulled his wallet from his pocket exposing a wad of Kwacha and visible US $100 bills suggesting, at least, his intent was not financially motivated.
A heavy-set female officer clad in her blue skirt and sweater uniform became involved as well. She began to say that the Zambian custom is to offer some money to someone who alleges to be injured in order that that person can seek medical treatment. ‘Can you imagine?’ I thought. My anxiety was quickly turning to anger and frustration. This guy was scamming me for some money when I hadn’t come close to running over his foot. The option was for me to put the man in Jeannie’s car and take him myself to the clinic. I told the police about the US Embassy circular and that I could not transport the man in the car as the car did not belong to me. This was understood by the police to mean I worked for the US Embassy and was driving a US Embassy vehicle. At this point I didn’t even try to correct the misunderstanding.
I handed the man 50,000 Zambian Kwacha (about US $12) so he could go to a clinic of his choice and have an x-ray of his foot. An agreement was made between the man, the police and I that the man would return the next day by 14h00 (2:00PM) with his x-rays. If the man had an injury I would pay for the medical expenses. On the other hand, if the man did not return with x-rays the matter would be closed.
Hilda and I got in the car and drove away and the man hobbled off with his friend.
14h00 came and went the following day. Hilda and I were together again and I told her I felt I needed to go back to the police station and tell the officers how poorly they handled the situation. Essentially, the police condoned a thief to rob me in their presence.
The eyes of the officers went wide when I walked into the station. ‘Good afternoon’ I said. ‘Oh, good afternoon…’ they replied, wondering if they should be saying something else. ‘I’ve come back to tell you how poorly I think things were handled yesterday. You let a thief take my money when you clearly saw he was not injured at all.’ The chief stood up and asked me to step outside. For a moment I thought ‘why is it always so important for you to make your point, Tom?’
Outside the chief and I spoke and I told him I did not feel I was treated fairly and as a foreigner I look to the police to assist me in these matters. The first point the chief wanted to make was that no money was exchanged through the police themselves and because of this the police were absolved of any wrongdoing. ‘After all sir’, the chief said, ‘let me make it clear the police handled no money in this situation.’ I shook the chiefs hand and told him I understood (not) but recognized it futile to go into it further. I said what I had to say.
In the end the situation cost me about three hours of my time, about US $14 and emphasized just how differently the law is interpreted and enforced in different parts of the world.
I hope the man was able to have a good meal that night if that is what he needed.
