Doesn’t that make us all guilty?
July 4th, 2005
Were you aware that it is an offence now to sell your own clothes second-hand unless you have a vendor’s license? At least according to the Harare police …
At 4.30 pm on June 27, I was called to the front gate of my house. There were four police officers standing there, holding suitcases full of second-hand clothes. My conversation with the police went something like this:
Police: “Who gave you permission to sell these things?”
Me: “I did. They are mine.”
Police: “Do you have a licence?”
Me: “No. Do I need one for my own clothes?
Police: “If you don’t have a license you are under arrest.”
I went inside and while waiting for a police vehicle to arrive to transport me to the police station, made a few quick phone calls to inform friends of my plight. When the police pickup arrived I was told to get in the back where I sat perched on one of the suitcases. Judging by the twittering and giggling I should say that people walking by found my predicament rather amusing. I was not amused myself at the time.
When we stopped at the robots the police caught sight of some vendors selling mealies on the street. The police detail with me in the back immediately jumped out and gave chase. Needless to say the street vendors outran him, but on his return he broke down their fire and confiscated whatever mealies and vegetables were lying around. I took the opportunity of being unobserved to send off a couple more sms messages on my cell phone
, to let friends know what was happening.
We proceeded to the Milton Park police station and on arrival I was relieved to see that three of my friends were there already. Their presence was most welcome, I can tell you. The local police detail told me to sit on a bench and wait.
More questioning followed as to where the second-hand clothes had come from. My interrogators seemed to find it difficult to believe that I was just selling off clothes left behind by my children. I was asked if I was willing to pay an admission of guilt fine. I readily agreed, and enquired how much. $ 25,000 I was told. Better than I could have hoped for. I felt my knees ready to give way beneath me. My worst fear had been of spending the night in the dark and dingy police cell, surrounded by all manner of unknown horrors.
I had come with $ 45,000, two 20,000s and a 5,000 bill. I put the money out on the counter, my hands shaking a little. A sympathetic policewoman came over and took my hands in hers, saying how cold they were. She rubbed them and told me not to worry and how lucky I was to be going home. Another police detail made out the admission of guilt forms for me to sign. They were all very courteous now. The ordeal over, I made for the door. My friends packed the suitcases of clothes into the back of one of their pickups.
I was so shaken up I hardly slept that night. It was 1.30 the following morning before I dropped off into a troubled sleep. And then it was – it seemed like barely a few minutes before I woke again with a start. I suddenly remembered the cash I had put on the desk in the police station – two 20,000 dollar bills and one 5,000, to pay a fine of $ 25,000. What about the $ 20,000 change? No doubt in the back pocket of some police officer, I thought. So much for “law and order” in Zimbabwe.
