How I paid for breaking traffic law

        Dar es Salaam. It was supposed to be a normal day. I left the house with my brother at around 6:20am since I had an early meeting at the office. My mind was focused on making it on time as I hit the road.

It was just after a short driving distance that we found traffic, unusual at that time of the day in that area, just before you reach Mbezi Luis. We were approaching ‘Kwa Yusuf’, just near the junction to Malamba Mawili. I do not usually drive on the other side of the road, what is famously known as ‘kutanua’ in Kiswahili.

But without even thinking much, I moved towards the right and started driving towards a tarmac road on my right, that would be a detour to Mbezi Mwisho. I had to be in the office on time, at any cost. This was an exception.

But I did not even drive that far, when I saw cars advancing towards me, full lights on. Then I realised that there were police officers all over the place. And that was when it hit me, a motorcade was advancing towards me. I quickly moved back in line, my hand covering my mouth. “Do you think they saw us?” I asked my brother. Of course, they saw us. “They are going to throw me in jail. We need to hide. Can we hide?” I asked my brother who remained calm. There was no way that I could hide. And, after the motorcade had passed, and the cars started moving, and the policeman instructed me to move my car to the left, I knew that there was no hiding now.

A senior traffic police officer came by with a junior one. I agreed with them, I was in the wrong. However, my explanation and apologies were of no use. Apparently, it was the Second Vice President of Zanzibar Seif Ali Idd’s motorcade passing, heading to Dodoma for Union Day celebrations that would be held the following day.

“So do you want them to think that we do not care about our Union?... Is this how we treat this leader from the Isles?” the policeman questioned. Of course, I did not do it intentionally, but that did not matter to him at that moment. “We must take you to the station,” the senior one said and instructed his subordinate to get into the car and go with me.

When we reached the station, I asked my brother to wait in the car because I knew it would just take a few minutes to sort this out. I found a female police at the reception, and asked her if they could release me. I was sorry. Not yet, she said and had me explain what had happen.

“We have to open a minor,” one policeman there said.

I did not know what that meant exactly. I had never done any traffic offence that led to opening anything at the police station. “Surrender your keys,” the officer told me.

This is when I realised that they weren’t going to make me pay a fine. I felt panic in my skin.

It was already 6:54am. I called a colleague at work, Bernard, who knows law procedures better than any other journalist there. He explained to me what was happening. They were not going to release me.

Teach me a lesson

I got off the phone, got out of the station and went to the car to get my belongings and release my brother who was on his way to work as well. As I approached the vehicle, I could not help but start crying. I do not cry in front of people. I often try to avoid fitting the stereotype -- woman who cries is weak. “I don’t know what they want,” I kept telling my brother. But of course, I knew what they wanted. They were going to teach me a lesson.

At this point, I knew that I wasn’t going to make it to the meeting. I was in constant communication with my superiors and colleagues through WhatsApp. They were trying everything they could to get me out.

When the ‘Mkuu wa Kituo’ came in, he had his own comments for me. It was people like me who killed policemen; we didn’t care about them. I was careless, he said. I must learn, so that others also learn, he said and left. The female police told me they were now going to lock me up. “Why? Can’t I just pay a fine?” I asked. “Do you think that what you have done is a small offence?” she asked. No, it wasn’t.

She decided that I should be taken to a bigger station, to ‘Kwa Yusufu’. A traffic police took me there. When we got there, it was said that I was being charged for reckless driving. “You will be out in 20 minutes,” said one policewoman who collected my phone, Sh20,000, powerbank, shoes and purse. I also had to take off my jewellery. It didn’t feel like I was going to be there for just 20 minutes.

“Guys, I’m gone,” I texted the group and switched off my phone.

I felt hopeless inside the cell. I did not know what would happen to me, and for how long I would be in there. I just had hope that someone out there was handling this and I was going to get me out soon.

There were two other women when I walked inside the cell. They both looked like they were in their 40s. I walked to the end of the room, near a shelf full of dusty files. I sat on the floor, stretched my legs and looked at my well-painted nails. I had just manicured them. The room looked so much different from the floor. It was dark, the walls and the floor were dirty. It was stinking. But the two women were laughing.

“Cheer up,” one of the women said. I turned to their direction, and started listening to their stories. Everyone has a story inside a cell, and everyone is innocent. In no time, three more women were brought in. One of them worked for the UN, another was a tomboy who the police had thought was a man; then there was a woman who had diabetes and the other one who had been abducted before she came in. The last one, she didn’t say much about where she came from. It was through our stories that we found something to hold on to, even for a moment.

When the women finally realised that I was a journalist, they started speaking to me differently. “You must write about us dada. What is happening to us is not fair,” one said. It was hard to believe that three hours had passed while I was in there. I did not promise them anything. But I did tell them to hold on, it was going to be alright. Hope was the only thing I knew they were looking for at that moment.