It wasn’t like I had committed a heinous crime. The hit and run victim I spotted on the way to town this morning had a much worse perpetrator. My incident didn’t actually hurt anyone or cause any trauma, maybe just some minor inconvenience or light braking. But nonetheless there I was, idling in the Landcruiser while officer gundi (so-and-so) chewed me out. “Why did you just violate that traffic light?” the man demanded. I didn’t need to pull over…I could’ve kept driving…like Saturday, when they tried waving me down in Kajjansi… my thoughts continued: It’s not like they can chase me on foot, or track me down…
I’ve been stopped before. This was probably my fourth face-to-face encounter with a member of Uganda’s police force (traffic division…as always). The first was a routine check made by a bored officer in a rural area up north near volatile Gulu town. After his greeting and request for ID, I handed over my Oregon driver’s license and waited to see his response. My lack of a Ugandan or international driving permit didn’t seem to phase him and he passed it back with a shrug of his shoulders, glanced at my insurance stickers and waved me on. The second run in was similar. But number three was a doozie.
At 2 am I was rushing a couple of friends to the airport for an early morning connection through Amsterdam on KLM. The desolate early morning streets posed no threat to our hurried plight, and we plowed forward (at a breakneck 90 kph) for most of the 45 minute cruise to Entebbe. As we passed the Civil Aviation Authority offices, I neglected to reduce my zoom and found our vehicle running headlong towards the international airport police checkpoint. Screeching to a halt, the olive green uniformed man scowled mightily and informed me that I had broken the law and would promptly be taken to the police station. With some convincing, the officer allowed me to put my friends on the outgoing flight before returning to negotiate my fate.
Knowing that my pale complexion is a continual target for impoverished opportunists in authoritative positions, I breathed a prayer for wisdom on how to get through the checkpoint without feeding the corruption that has eroded away justice and equity in Uganda from the federal government to the market seller. His immediate plan (he said) was to hold me there until daybreak, write me up a citation, personally take me to the police station until judgment could be made against me, at which time I would pay a large sum and receive my vehicle back. Aware of his ploy to squeeze funds from my wallet, I played into his little game with difficulties of my own: “I can’t do that today. I’m heading out of town this morning and won’t be able to appear at the police station. I can come back next week, but today just won’t work for me.” As our tense conversation progressed, I finally stopped the man in his tracks with a simple, “Ok, let’s just do what you want to do. Take me down to the station.”
He knew I was never going to feed his sinful lust for filthy lucre. And as the realization washed over him, he gave me a steely glare and uttered a strange phrase that I never expected: “I forgive you.” I didn’t quite understand what was transpiring and attempted to continue my train of reasoning about visiting headquarters… “Did you hear me? I forgive you.” “Oh…Thank you sir. So, I can go?” “Yes, but can you at least leave me with a soda?” The pathetic request for 700 shillings (about .44 cents) aroused about as much pity in my soul, and sensing the shift from demanding bribes to begging pennies I gladly “thanked” my captor for his mercy and went merrily on my way back to bed.
With the same determination to not bestow any sweetener, I now sat beside Michael, our ministry partner on Lake Victoria’s Islands. “Just give him 5,000 and we’ll go.” he said, as the officer now waited patiently at the open window. Michael had been stopped for using his mobile phone while driving just a few months ago. He knew how the system worked. I turned back to the man using my make-it-difficult logic once more: True tales of why it wouldn’t work for us to go to the police station. Real recounts of phone calls from my wife needing me at home as soon as possible. Verifiable facts of our distant destination and lack of available funds for alternative transport. The policeman just walked away, and we simply fired up our machine and drove.
I think next time I’ll just get straight to the point, tell him bribery is sin and that he should either prosecute or forgive me. That way I’ll get home a lot faster to help my wife with a screaming baby…