| MAMA DUDU by Meja Mwangi |
| HM Books |
| HM Productions Intl. All Rights Reserved |
| copyright 2008 by HM Entertainment Inc. |
Bwana Custom
The sun had finally risen, scattering the cold haze and bringing with it an air of irrational
optimism, an unreasonable expectation.
‘You know,’ the giant said, pointing at the barrier with his silver-tipped baton, ‘In the old
days this place was full of strange incidents.’
He had stepped out of his office at nine o’clock sharp as promised, dressed incongruously
in white shorts and shirt, and his dreadlocks tucked under an official cap with a shiny
badge that identified him as an officer of the customs and exercise department of the
Government of Tanzania. He had proceeded to raise a tattered flag on a mast in front of
his office hut, saluted smartly and, only then, turned and approached the travellers’
vehicle.
‘Welcome to Mara,’ he had said with unnecessary geniality.
He wore huge Government boots, well polished and shiny, and olive green puttees with
an array of ballpoint pens tucked in the band of the right one.
His name was Bwana Fadhili, he had told them, but they were free to call him Mister
Customs or Bwana Forodha in Kiswahili as other travellers had before they were all lured
away by the new crossing at Namanga.
‘Many travellers came here in the old days,’ he informed them. ‘Some going north, some
going south, and some going nowhere; just helping stuff across my border.’
But no one came this way anymore, he revealed, no one except hardcore smugglers.
Even those were having second thoughts after he caught two of them sneaking past his
post with gemstones stolen from the diamond mines at Mwadui.
‘They are buried over there,’ he said, pointing to a gnarled tree about two hundred yards
away, ‘where they fell trying to dodge my bullets.’
Two piles of rocks marked the smugglers’ final resting place.
He let Ruben contemplate the sight and consider whether it was worthwhile trying to
outwit him. Then he cleared his throat loudly and said, officiously, ‘Your passports,
please.’
The interlude was over.
Ruben handed him their passports. He scrutinised them carefully, making sure all the
pages were intact and their photographs had not been tampered with.
‘No visas,’ he observed, inspecting the passports. ‘No visas, no stamps, nothing.’
‘Don’t need any,’ Ruben informed him.
He smiled slightly, looking from her passport photograph to Kimberly and back.
‘You are very thin now,’ he said to her.
She ignored him. She stood with her back against the vehicle, her bundle in her arms,
and let Ruben deal with it as he had offered to do.
Bwana Ruben,’ Bwana Forodha said, turning to Ruben. ‘This does not look like you at all,
Bwana Ruben.’
‘I’m thinner too,’ said Ruben.
‘You also have a bad beard,’ he observed. ‘Is it, perhaps, a disguise?’
Ruben left him to decide for himself.
‘I like your hat,’ he said, slipping the passports in his breast pocket.
‘Thanks,’ said Ruben.
‘Director,’ he read the logo on Ruben’s cap. ‘Are you a big boss then?’
READ ON ...
The sun had finally risen, scattering the cold haze and bringing with it an air of irrational
optimism, an unreasonable expectation.
‘You know,’ the giant said, pointing at the barrier with his silver-tipped baton, ‘In the old
days this place was full of strange incidents.’
He had stepped out of his office at nine o’clock sharp as promised, dressed incongruously
in white shorts and shirt, and his dreadlocks tucked under an official cap with a shiny
badge that identified him as an officer of the customs and exercise department of the
Government of Tanzania. He had proceeded to raise a tattered flag on a mast in front of
his office hut, saluted smartly and, only then, turned and approached the travellers’
vehicle.
‘Welcome to Mara,’ he had said with unnecessary geniality.
He wore huge Government boots, well polished and shiny, and olive green puttees with
an array of ballpoint pens tucked in the band of the right one.
His name was Bwana Fadhili, he had told them, but they were free to call him Mister
Customs or Bwana Forodha in Kiswahili as other travellers had before they were all lured
away by the new crossing at Namanga.
‘Many travellers came here in the old days,’ he informed them. ‘Some going north, some
going south, and some going nowhere; just helping stuff across my border.’
But no one came this way anymore, he revealed, no one except hardcore smugglers.
Even those were having second thoughts after he caught two of them sneaking past his
post with gemstones stolen from the diamond mines at Mwadui.
‘They are buried over there,’ he said, pointing to a gnarled tree about two hundred yards
away, ‘where they fell trying to dodge my bullets.’
Two piles of rocks marked the smugglers’ final resting place.
He let Ruben contemplate the sight and consider whether it was worthwhile trying to
outwit him. Then he cleared his throat loudly and said, officiously, ‘Your passports,
please.’
The interlude was over.
Ruben handed him their passports. He scrutinised them carefully, making sure all the
pages were intact and their photographs had not been tampered with.
‘No visas,’ he observed, inspecting the passports. ‘No visas, no stamps, nothing.’
‘Don’t need any,’ Ruben informed him.
He smiled slightly, looking from her passport photograph to Kimberly and back.
‘You are very thin now,’ he said to her.
She ignored him. She stood with her back against the vehicle, her bundle in her arms,
and let Ruben deal with it as he had offered to do.
Bwana Ruben,’ Bwana Forodha said, turning to Ruben. ‘This does not look like you at all,
Bwana Ruben.’
‘I’m thinner too,’ said Ruben.
‘You also have a bad beard,’ he observed. ‘Is it, perhaps, a disguise?’
Ruben left him to decide for himself.
‘I like your hat,’ he said, slipping the passports in his breast pocket.
‘Thanks,’ said Ruben.
‘Director,’ he read the logo on Ruben’s cap. ‘Are you a big boss then?’
READ ON ...
Kimberley, an American scientist specialised in
termites, has established a research station in
the African bush. Although she does not want
any children, she is about to have a baby.
Her husband driving her to a Nairobi hospital
loses his way and Kimberley gives birth in a bush
hospital. The next morning, in their car and far
away from the hospital, they realise that the
baby does not look like either of them …Is this
the result of the curse of the nomad woman who
asked Kimberley for help and was turned away?
They are stopped at a border crossing in the
middle of nowhere and are held there for days
suspected of baby smuggling.
Meja Mwangi tells with a lot of humour how the
customs officer and his wife strike a friendship
with the American couple and how the mystery is
finally resolved.
termites, has established a research station in
the African bush. Although she does not want
any children, she is about to have a baby.
Her husband driving her to a Nairobi hospital
loses his way and Kimberley gives birth in a bush
hospital. The next morning, in their car and far
away from the hospital, they realise that the
baby does not look like either of them …Is this
the result of the curse of the nomad woman who
asked Kimberley for help and was turned away?
They are stopped at a border crossing in the
middle of nowhere and are held there for days
suspected of baby smuggling.
Meja Mwangi tells with a lot of humour how the
customs officer and his wife strike a friendship
with the American couple and how the mystery is
finally resolved.
| ISBN 978-1-84728-468-6 |
| Mama Dudu hm books, 2007 315 pgs |
| Mama Dudu by Meja Mwangi |
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Mama Dudu
