I die the small deaths Africa dies

I have travelled Botswana for about 10 years now. A clean country. 

A lawful citizenry. And a police

force bent on upholding the rule of law. An immigration that works without looking at faces. For six years, this clean image of Botswana sat on my mind.

Four years ago, I was stopped between Gaborone and Francistown. It was a 60km per hour stretch and I was doing about 100km an hour. I was slapped with a 700 pula spot fine. I had no cash on me.

They took my passport and driver's licence and ordered me to bring the money.

Francistown was about 50km away. I rushed and returned. One of the officers took the money, peeled off five 100s, handed back my documents, and waved me away.

My eyes watered, weeping a small death Africa dies everyday.

Last year, Christmas time. The queue at the Botswana border post was thick, long, immobile and suffocating. I braced for a long wait. A soldier walked up to the tail end of the queue, spoke to some guys behind me. He then led them to the head of the queue. I followed.

In the corner of the empty building, the officer asked each of us to pay 50 pula. He then gave us forms to complete before proceeding.

On my way back to Windhoek, my front number plate had fallen off. I had paid for it three times between Harare and Bulawayo. On the Botswana border side, a soldier stopped me. I told him

I had paid for the licence plate.

But he said either I parked the car at the police station or pay. I stared at him. And he said that is how it was. I then said Botswana has changed. He replied: Nothing remains the same. That his salary was not enough. That if I chose to park at the station, there would be more officers to pay.

How much? I asked him. How much did you pay in Zimbabwe? he asked. US$10, I told him. Then he said: Give us US$10 each. I protested and he said: Well, give us the US$10. I grudgingly did.

Mozambique, 12 years ago. I took a trip to Maputo from Harare. I was part of a group in a minibus. It was around 22h00 and we were within the city. Our driver was asleep and I had taken over. The roadblock was around a bend and the officer appeared from the shadows.

I managed to slam the brakes and the mini bus almost rolled over. He came over, asked for my licence, checked it and then asked me to get off. I followed him. When we got to the makeshift table where his colleague was, the officer said I almost ran him over. Then questions rained. Their verdict: We will lock you up!

My colleagues also came over. I had been ordered to sit on the ground. One colleague understood Portuguese. After what sounded like an argument, an officer dragged him into the darkness. On return, I was 'released'. Later the colleague said he had paid.

I have run countless battles with Zimbabwean traffic police. Each time I insisted to get a ticket and pay. Each time, I am charged more.

In 2012, 75km from Harare. I stopped at an accident scene to take pictures. An officer approached me.

I was not supposed to take pictures, he said.

Why, I asked.

It is close to a roadblock, he said.

So what? I went on.

It is a security zone, he informed me.

He grabbed my camera and dragged me to the roadblock – just 20 metres away. The grilling started. These are journalists who write negatively about the country, one officer said. Which paper do you write for? Where is your accreditation? The questions came. Then demands for my ID and licence. I kept quiet. For about an hour, I sat in the sun.

Then an elderly officer walked over. I see, he started, you are angry.

I kept quiet.

He went on: Look these kids do not care. They will detain you. You will lose precious time.

I looked past him in disgust.

He pressed on: If you deal with me, I will sort it out.

I ogled at him, my eyes watering, weeping another small death Africa dies everyday.

A mini bus driver was hauled in. He did not waste time buying his way past.

See, the elderly officer said, those are really men. Their hands don't shake.

I demanded to see the commander. The station was close-by. I drove there with four officers. Fortunately, the commander knew me. He dismissed the officers, telling them I was a journalist.

I asked him why such rot was being done openly.

His words: What can they do? They have families. In any case, some of you promote it. You offer to pay and this is what we get.

Namibia. Last December. I had received a letter confirming my permit from Home Affairs and Immigration late. When I inquired in Windhoek, a girl on the counter told me I could travel and show the letter at the port of entry.

When I presented the letter and my passport at Gobabis, the officer looked at me, paged through my passport and returned the documents.

Go back and have the permit stamped, he said. I tried to explain but he stood his ground. Another took my passport and checked in the computer.

You entered Namibia on an emergency travel document in April, she said, and I laughed at her because it was a lie.

They kept me for an hour. Later I told them to let me go and deny me entry on my way back. One of them said: What kind of a Zimbabwean are you?

My eyes watered, weeping yet another small death Africa dies everyday.