The Word Cloud

Yesterday, I was stopped by the police again.

Last week they fined me for my passenger not wearing a seat belt.

Last month, it was for not having a reflector strip on my car boot.

This time it was for not having my ownership details displayed on the windscreen. I wouldn’t mind, but whilst I am pulled over, a dozen or so vehicles drive past, held together by bits of string, spewing out black exhaust fumes and overloaded with passengers who are literally hanging out the backs.

They want me to park at the side of the road and walk through the crowded bus depot to pay my fine of six pounds equivalent. It is almost dark, I am late for my daughter’s piano lesson and have left my other children at home alone. I don’t have time for this nonsense.

Can’t I just write my name and address on a piece of paper and stick it in the window?

Yes, madam, but first you must pay the fine.

All my other discs are displayed and are in date… insurance, tax, MOT. I show the officer my driving licence, and tell him that my husband has just built the police a new victim support unit (after an employee was raped and there was no support available for her). He takes my licence and tells me to come back tomorrow with the fine.

Fine!

This morning I drive through the bus depot, where most of the petty crime happens, and into the traffic police station. It’s a dump. I politely pay my fine and ask for my licence back.

Ah – ah!

A maize sack is produced and hundreds of driving licences are tipped out onto the desk.

Surely they didn’t confiscate all those yesterday?

No, these belong to the drivers who can’t afford to pay the fines.

Now I know why I keep being stopped.

I rummage through the piles of grubby white Malawian driving licences. Mine is pink. A UK one. It’s not there. The police officer who took it must have it still.

Do you have airtime on your phone?

No, my credit ran out last night. I meant to buy some from the lady at the end of my road on the way to school this morning.

So, how can we contact the officer?

Err… don’t you have a phone here? A radio?

No land line, no radio, no credit.

Eventually, I spot it lying on a desk. It’s examined and handed over.

I’m out of here…