Christmas Cops in Kinshasa

My truck Texas has just arrived from the market. Mayolo is on the left on the tailgate and Innocent, the driver is on the right. I am in the back with Lupangu. One of the funniest stories I ever remember is when Mayolo and Innocent ran up against a false traffic arrest. As told in Grains of Golden Sand:

"Christmas was nearing and the small gang of cops clustered on the sidelines under a convenient tree wanted “bonuses.” December was known as a free-for-all for con artists and it was a risky month for law-abiding citizens.

Dutifully, Innocent pulled out the registration papers and his driver’s license. “Oh, no!” Mayolo declared. “Hold on a minute. This car is the work vehicle of the famous INRB.” (Not true, and Texas didn’t have the government license plates to prove it.) A weak ploy that didn’t wash with the gendarmes.

Politely, Innocent tried to explain that he had broken no law while Mayolo fumed in the seat next to him. “Well, we are on duty for our boss who works at the INRB!” Mayolo spouted. This took them aback: it was clear that Mayolo was wearing the white smock with a red cross insignia, often worn as identification by medical workers. That was a good counter, but the policeman—backed by his brood of fellow extortionists homing in for the kill—said that one of the officers would have to accompany the truck to jail where Innocent would have to pay “restitution.”

Suddenly, the passenger door flew open and Mayolo leaped out of Texas. Without a backward glance, white tails flying, he strode up the block, shouting, “They’ve arrested a poor work-truck of the INRB! We poor workers are going to lose our jobs! We work for a famous doctor! We have done nothing wrong! Our truck has been arrested!”

On and on Mayolo proclaimed, building steam as he went. Startled, the officers watched him march boldly down the sidewalk, singing his litany of hideous torture at the hands of the cruel and terrible forces that hammered downtrodden workers.

It was a masterful counter-bluff. The traffic goons had merely their numbers and their powers of intimidation. Against Mayolo’s rage, they were chaff in the wind. They had not one weapon, car, motorcycle, handcuffs, radio, or telephone. They couldn’t call in reinforcements, and they were just a little afraid of the strange apparition working himself into a spittle-flying frenzy.

“Nothing! Nothing! We’ve done nothing wrong! We’re workers of the state! A truck of the state! How can they do this to us?”

Mayolo crossed to the other side of the street and continued his diatribe at the top of his considerable baritone. Pedestrians shortened their stride and swerved to avoid him. Others, curious, turned and stared as he passed. Shopkeepers came to the front of their stores and peered out to see what was happening. Passing cars slowed and honked.

At first the cops tried to ignore Mayolo. They turned back to the task at hand and put the screws to Innocent who sat obdurately in the car. A few drifted back to their original modus operandi and continued fishing for other small infraction-committing fry. Mayolo, however, was just warming up. Ten minutes into his oration, he had woven a neat pattern—up the sidewalk a block, across the street, down the other side past the West African textile wholesalers, jaywalking the thoroughfare again where Texas was detained, and starting the rounds over. He chanted his lament of grave injustice like a holy incantation.

The cops had become a little embarrassed by now. One walked over and upbraided the chauffeur. “Hey, what gives? Be reasonable. Tell him to stop.”

“Stop? That one?” Innocent waxed poetic. “Sir, that is like telling a man not to eat, lovers not to meet, a baby not to teat. The only thing to stop that one is to let his vehicle go.” The constabulary huddled briefly and then tried to continue as before, but it was becoming difficult to work the traffic scam with onlookers staring at the dude carrying on like a cross between a religious zealot and a crazy man. Shoppers loitered in the shallows of the swirling foot-traffic to see if something worth watching might occur. Five minutes more passed and the tirade seemed to have settled in for the long haul, although Mayolo was becoming a little hoarse.

The Yuletide cops had been out-buffaloed at their own game. They milled uncertainly, then, abruptly, made their decision. A patrol officer went to the driver’s window. “You win, you clever bastards. Call off your dog. Get out of here.” And, to save face, “Don’t ever do it again.”