The Police are Hitting on Sarah

Sunday afternoon saw Sarah and I at Veky and Dave’s for a braai. I enjoyed the meat, the guacamole and hearing about Peter and Hilda’s eight month drive from Cape Town to Holland with their two small children. I was a bit annoyed, however, that some time between leaving my house and eating at Veky’s I had lost my cell phone. For those who know me, this will come as no surprise.

Sarah and I set off at about 8 o’clock and I was driving. We wheeled up and down the hills leading from Veky’s as I expertly maneuvered gears manually. As we created the intersection into Mbabane city center, I tried to down-shift too low, heard a crunching of gears, quickly rectified the problem and came to a stop at the red traffic light.

When the light turned green, I couldn’t put the car in gear. Something had gone terribly wrong and we were stuck. We decided the best thing to do would be to push the car to the side of the road. I rolled down the window through which to steer, and we began pushing it backwards toward the curb. Suddenly, the car gained momentum. Sarah and I had underestimated the power of our strength combined with inertia. I ran after the car, jumped in the front seat and slammed on the brakes just before it hit a white sedan parked behind us. Needless to say the car was still sticking out halfway into the lane.

The next step was to find someone to come help us. As my phone had recently been stolen, Sarah was our only hope. Sarah did not have the number of anyone who had been at the braai. Luckily, she had met someone working in HIV for PSI. She’d jotted down his number as a possible contact for her research. She called him:

“Uh, hi Dom? This is Sarah…..we just met, like 10 minutes ago.”

Dom had gone home and didn’t have Dave’s number, but walked over to Dave and Veky’s and had Dave call Sarah back. He was on his way.

While Sarah was arranging this, a police van had pulled over and three officers gotten out. I assumed they came to inspect why a Fiat Station Wagon was parked halfway into the traffic lane with its hazards blinking. But that wasn’t the case:

“So where are you from? Are you married?”

I concocted an elaborate story that I was married for five years and lived next door to Sarah and her boyfriend. When asked about the whereabouts of my wedding ring, I pointed to my tattoo and explained my husband and I had matching tattoos. I don’t think the officers bought it, but at least they determined that I was too strange to pursue. To make the story more believable, I knew Sarah and I both couldn’t be married, so I mentioned that Sarah had a boyfriend, a large over sight I later had to apologize for. The police swooped in on her like hawks. It was rather uncomfortable and the imaginary boyfriend did not even faze them.

“I don’t care if you have a boyfriend,” one officer stated. “I asked about a husband. I want to be your husband.”

Eventually the officers got the hint. Went into the shop, bought some beers and drove off. They were immediately replaced by a crazed, fasting Roman Catholic named David who cased us up and down the sidewalk with wild hand gesticulations. Finally Dave arrived to rescue my car, diving it in forced first gear, dripping clutch fluid, to the mechanic and then giving us a ride home.