“So when you see electric for somebody’s wall it follow say you no go put your parking light? What section of Traffic Law be that one?”
“It’s a matter of common sense, I should say.”
“Common sense! So me self I no get common sense; na so you talk. OK, Mr. Commonsense, make I see your particulars.”
A number of people had come out of the hotel premises to watch the palaver and were joined by a few passers-by on the road. Very soon every Abazon man still around had joined the scene and the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward and asked the policeman if he did not know the Editor of the National Gazette.
“I no know am! Na sake of editor he come abuse me when I de do my work. He can be editor for his office not for road.”
“He no abuse you. I de here all the time,” said one bystander.
“Make you shut your smelling mouth there, Mr. Lawyer. Abi you want come with me for Charge Office to explain? You no hear when he say I no get common sense. That no be abuse for your country? Oga, I want see your particulars. Na you people de make the law na you dey break am.”
Without uttering another word Ikem produced his papers and handed over to the policeman.
“Wey your insurance?”
“That’s what you are looking at.”
He opened a notebook, placed it on the bonnet of the car and began to write, now and again referring to Ikem’s documents. The growing crowd of spectators stood in silence in a circle around the car and the chief actors, the policeman playing his role of writing down somebody’s fate with the self-important and painful slowness of half-literacy… At long last he tore out a sheet of his note-paper and handed it like a death warrant to Ikem.
“Come for Traffic Office for Monday morning, eight o’clock sharp. If you no come or you come late you de go answer for court. Kabisa.”
“Can I have my papers back?”
The policeman laughed indulgently at this clever-stupid man.
“That paper wey I give you just now na your cover till Monday. If any police ask you for particular show am that paper. And when you come for Monday make you bring am.”
He folded Ikem’s documents and put them with his notebook into his breast pocket and buttoned down the flap with the flourish of a judge’s gavel.
The Master of Ceremonies was boiling into another protest but Ikem made the sign of silence to him—a straight finger across sealed lips, and then swung the same finger around to hint at the law officer’s holster.
“Don’t provoke a man doing his duty. The police have something they call accidental discharge.”
“No be me go kill you, my friend.”
This retort was made frontally to Ikem. With a strange expression of mockery and hatred on his face the policeman mounted his heavy machine and roared away. The Master of Ceremonies asked Ikem:
“Did you get his number?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t think of that. Anyway it doesn’t matter.”
“Here it is.”
And he held to him a number written with biro on the palm of his left hand and Ikem took it down on the back of his summons paper.
MONDAY MORNING at the Traffic Police Office. Ikem had decided to do what he rarely did—use his clout. There were more important things to do with his time than engage in fisticuffs with a traffic warden. So he had telephoned the Superintendent of Traffic from his office and made an appointment for nine-thirty.
There was a senior officer waiting for him at the Desk Sergeant’s front room who took him straight into the Superintendent’s office.
“I never meet you before in person sir,” said the Superintendent springing out from behind his massive wooden desk. “Very pleased to meet you sir… I was expecting a huge fellow like this,” and he made a sign sideways and upwards.
“No, I am quite small. Anyone who feels like it can actually beat me up quite easily.”
“Oh no. The pen is mightier than the
sword. With one sentence of your sharp pen you can demolish anybody. Ha ha ha ha ha. I respect your pen, sir… What can I do for you, sir. I know you are a busy man and I don’t want to waste your time.”