Dash

“I see you.” He's standing in the middle of the street and he is furious. His big white eyes illuminated by the headlights of the passing vehicles are staring straight at me. “You get out of the taxi up there. I see you!” he barks at me while his torch carefully scans the passengers of the vehicles passing through the blockade. My story no longer makes sense. Not that it ever did. An obroni walking along the highway in the middle of the night, by himself, to meet some friends 'further up the road'. Fat chance. My story starts changing ever so slightly every time I open my mouth as I try to reconcile my 'story' with his observations. I'm lying. I know it. He knows it. But I'm not prepared to conceded just yet. I'm remarkably calm considering I'm surrounded by irate policemen with AK 47s slung around their necks. I realise it wasn't the smartest idea to jump out of the taxi further up the road just because our driver was concerned about being pulled over by the police for carrying too many passengers. Four people in the back was one over the legal limit and most definitely two over the reasonable carrying capacity of the tiny vehicle we crammed into. So I decided to pass the blockade on foot. I managed to pass the police officers, but as I kept walking along the road it became increasingly hard to ignore the voices shouting at me from behind. Once I turned my head it was all over. The policeman coming after me called me back.
So here I am, standing on the roadside wondering what they will do with me. For all I know there's not much I did wrong. Yes, I did exit the taxi, yes, the taxi was carrying more passengers than allowed, and yes, I did try and get the driver out of trouble by jumping out of the taxi. So what? As I'm standing by the roadside I see cars passing by that failed the road worthiness test in some European country decades ago. There are vehicles with cracked windscreens, flat tyres, non-existent suspension, taxi driver's without licenses, car's without lights, tiny trailers loaded with the possessions of an entire Ghanaian family. You name it. And then there's me, a white guy walking along the street. I'm starting to wonder what the fine is for getting out of a taxi and walking along the street, but as I witness all the other traffic infringements passing by I realise that enforcing the rule of law is not what these policemen are here for. Surprisingly it takes me rather long to figure out how this game is played. Even the policeman who keeps coming up to me to ask me more and more detailed questions isn't really interested in playing Sherlock Holmes. He's becoming increasingly frustrated by the amount of time it takes me to figure out the solution to my predicament. Being a nice guy he starts helping me get up to speed. “What you say if I let you go?” he asks. “I would be rather grateful.” I respond perplexed by the sudden twist of events. “Rather grateful” he repeats with a smile on his face. “Rather grateful.” Listening to my own words I realise just how pathetic I sound. “So what if you invite me and my colleague. Some coffee in the morning?” he suggests. Serious? He wants to be my friend? Hang out for coffee tomorrow morning? I'm wondering if he's going to show up with his rifle in case he feels like lunch as well. Then, finally, it dawns on me and I am a little ashamed that it took me twenty minutes to figure it out. My new friend and mentor wants a 'dash', though he gets rather upset when I pull out my wallet. “Come” he says as he pulls me behind one of the parked trucks on the side of the road. “Don't show your money” he tells me sternly. So I randomly pull a note out of my pocket, hoping it hasn't got too many zeros on it. We emerge from behind the vehicle and bid each other farewell with a typical Ghanaian handshake. As I continue my walk along the road I wonder if the intricate Ghanaian handshake was invented for the sole purpose of passing a bribe from one hand to the other.