You know-who?

A STORY is told about the how the late retired Zimbabwe High Court judge Washington Ega Sansole was arrested by the very government he used to work under, for political reasons.

The story does not end there. In the holding cells at Bulawayo Central Police Station, the retired judge was an instant hero among other cell-mates.

“Make way for the judge,” or “be quiet, the judge wants to sleep,” could be heard from inmates as they proffered Sansole five star treatment. They even shared their food with him.

Being “recognised” had previously produced hilarious results for the judge. While strolling in the city centre, he had met a man he had condemned to death row.

“Do you remember me, sir?” the man asked a perplexed Sansole. “No, I don’t,” was his reply.

“Then what are you doing here?” came the typical reply from the retired judge.

I was once arrested in Zimbabwe, and I must say it was a very unpleasant one compared to the honourable judge’s. It was the time of my life when I never missed a music concert, and this time around, British reggae bands Aswad and King Sounds were scheduled to perform at the Trade Fair show grounds. It was the first time that such a venue was being used, the usual being White City or Barbourfields Stadiums and the Queens Cricket ground.

Our preparation was meticulous. We made sure we had the requisite funds for the “refreshments” that we were to take with us. First up was a visit to the local beerhall eMasilela for the first layer. This was isitshwala (sadza) with roasted meat or amacimbi (mopani worms) as a snack followed by two “izikali” (mugs) of Ingwebu traditional beer.

We then moved to Pelandaba Cocktail Bar where we “graduated” to Indlovu Shake-Shake.

From there, the next port of call was Palace Hotel where we partook bottled clear beer. Finally, we bought spirits as take-away from the off-sales outlet.

You can imagine that by then, our state of sobriety was nowhere near that of a priest. If this was not a clear abuse of alcohol, then I do not know what was. We were just short of taking any intoxicating substance known to man, but I must confess that at no time were we rowdy. We were just tipsy, if you know what I mean.

As fate would have it, the Aswad-King Sounds show never fully took off the ground. Now did I mention what a wonderful afternoon it was? The well-manicured lawns of the arena were filled with a kaleidoscope of music lovers out to have a good time which was not to be. That the two groups arrived late did little to dampen the spirits, including those flowing in our veins, of course. Then the sound system started acting up just as they were doing their sound check.

It became obvious, to the sober among us that is, that professional groups such as these would not risk their impeccable reputations to perform under such conditions. We on the other hand were totally oblivious of the trouble that was slowly brewing around us.

The MC was mouthing something on the hardly audible Public Address system and there was a roar of disapproval from those nearer the stage. I would later learn that he was informing the crowd that the show could not go on, to which the obvious reaction was that of incredulity.

Even the gate-crashers were now baying for their money, which was bad enough. In the midst of all this, my colleagues and I were still lost in a blissful aura of intoxication that was quickly shattered by the first volley of bottles flying towards the stage.

The next thing we saw was a frightened bunch of Rastas fleeing towards the Express luxury buses. Big mistake! Those soon became the target, and all one could hear was the pop, pop of the widows giving way.

We moved out of the line of fire and positioned ourselves strategically from where we could witness the action. Big mistake number two. Because we were not showing that we were NOT complicit by moving out of the arena, that made us prime suspects!

There were plain clothes police details who were observing the chaos. By the time the riot police arrived, the damage had been done and the vast majority of the fans had streamed out of the arena. This made them angry beyond words.

They went for anyone who was in the city centre who suspiciously looked like a music fan. They raided Woza, the popular bar at the Sun Hotel (now Bulawayo Rainbow.) Yours truly was picked up at the City Hall and thrown into the cells at Bulawayo Central.

I was accused of Malicious Injury to Property for being among those who smashed the bus, even though I was too drunk even to lift up a pint of lager. We were moved around and I ended up at Sauerstown Police Station, now stricken by the mother of all hangovers.

I spent two nights there along with others variously accused of stealing amplifiers and other equipment. They were shunted off to court giving the impression that mine was the more serious crime.

On the second day, after spending what seemed like an eternity, I was told I was free to go. At the back of my mind I was thinking that perhaps my father had used his influence to get me freed.

Stinking of urine, with prison blankets stuck to my hair and possibly a few hundred lice as well, I gave the Terrace Garden a very wide berth. Though I still had enough money to drown a whale, the last thing I wanted was to be caught on the wrong side of the law again. I must add that I lost a couple of kilograms while incarcerated. I was psychologically traumatised and at my age then, imagining myself as a jailbird was a scary prospect.

When I arrived home, my parents were hardly nonplussed. I never got the reception of the prodigal son either. This made me suspect that they had knowledge as to how I was released without as much as a slap on the wrist.

I was later to learn that they had gone from one police station to the next looking for me until some relative who was a senior detective came out of the woodwork to press a few buttons. That in a nutshell is how Zimbabwe works: you have to know some senior civil servant somewhere just to assert your right to live without interference.