Thursday started off like any other workday in Harare. The roads buzzed, traffic piled up en route to the Central Business District. My eyes were still heavy from the previous night’s drinks at Club Zone, where I had watched the Champions League match between Barcelona and PSG. Barcelona’s loss should have been a warning sign that the week to come wasn’t about to be pleasant.
But moving on, the car we used to and fro belonged to my future father-in-law. We had only covered a really small fraction of the journey when my fiancée asked me to take over driving as she was tired from a long week. A man being a man, I took the honors. I have asked her a couple of times if her father knows I am always her chauffeur, but she always shrugs it off, and I knew it was just us being mischievous.
When we got there, Southerton was already jammed with that familiar madness of trucks, delivery vans and kombis cutting lanes to get to the terminus first. At a T-junction, I tried to edge my way through and lightly swiped the back of another van. Nothing serious as there were no dents on the car I hit, but my heart started boiling the moment the driver of that van parked sideways. I parked sideways also to express diplomatic etiquette. We both got back into our cars and decided to continue with the day’s drive.
But the universe had other plans.
A few blocks down, a massive haulage truck rolled past a robot I barely noticed. I only realized it when the amber faded and my foot was already pressing the accelerator. I drove straight through, unaware. Moments later green reflectors flanked the car: the cops frantically trying to stop me after failing to intercept the truck which evaded the scene moment earlier.
Two of them – a woman and her partner – surrounded the car. My palms turned sweaty as they asked for my license and ID. I handed them over, praying that would be the end of it. But the male officer walked off with my documents and hopped into another cop car, leaving me to deal with his colleague. She ordered us to follow her to Mbare Police Station.
That short drive felt like a lifetime. I drove carefully and safely as I now had a cop right in the backseat. My fiancée sat beside me in silence. It was the first time she got nabbed so you can understand how tense it was. The cop told me to park at the police station. My fiancée remained in the car the cop escorted me inside. Inside, I was greeted with an air full of cigarette smoke and the murmurs of other offenders. The cops listened to my offense. Their facial expressions were enough to hint that I was not going to walk out of this issue easily.
Their questions came sharp and intimidating. I was new to this, a first-time offender with no experience handling cops. When one of them hinted that my “fine” could be settled quietly, I took the bait. I walked out forty dollars lighter, feeling free but hollow, the weight of that bribe pressing down on me harder than any punishment could.
The rest of the day dragged on like a bad hangover. Work was a blur, with my mind replaying every mistake.
By evening, I offered to drop my fiancée home in Glen Norah, hoping the drive would wash off some of the day’s bad luck. Somewhere along the way – and only the gods know why – we decided to stop by PaFatso’s Braai Spot: our little escape in the south of Harare.
Smoke curled into the night sky. Laughter mixed with loud music from the speakers. Our guy Wilengo was at the grill, always half-flirting with my fiancée. “Gulez madii?” he called out, flashing a mischievous grin. We laughed it off, quickly ordered our quarter chicken and went for drinks while we waited. The bartender offered me a sip of his “special mix,” and I downed it without thinking. I treated it as one small act of surrender to a day that had already taken everything from me.
We found a quiet spot to sit, still half-laughing, when I reached into my pocket for the car keys. Nothing. I checked again. Still nothing. My chest tightened.
“Babe,” I asked slowly, “do you have the keys?”
Her smile vanished instantly. That sinking look said it all. We’d locked them inside. “We” because we were together, but it was just me having a terrible day.
What followed was pure chaos. We tried cell tape, wires and screwdrivers, desperately trying to pry open the car without damaging it.
I asked the guy parked next to us if we could try his keys but it didn’t work. Moments later he joined us with his friends and started tossing ideas. As I walked up and down, fetching all kinds of objects the drinkers-cum-mechanics might need, little did I know that the same guy I asked for help was already chatting up my fiance, taking advantage of the situation. I barely noticed, and worse still, I was in no position to rebuke him.
All we needed was a solution to unlock the door and drive home before the night deepened. However, it got to as late as nine pm, and all this trial-and-erroring hadn’t solved anything. Eventually one of the men looked at me and said, “Bro, there’s only one way now.”
I nodded, defeated. He lifted a piece of metal and smashed the window. The sound of shattering glass pierced my soul. At least we got the keys.
We drove down empty streets in silence, the night air slicing through the broken window. My mind was crowded with regret. A careless bump to a police bribe to a smashed window, all in one cursed Thursday.
Sometimes, Harare doesn’t just test your patience; it humbles you completely.
