As poverty has continued to chew deep into my pockets, I have resorted to walking to town instead of using taxis. My friends at SFB refer to this type of transportation as RAV-2.

With a RAV-2 you are able to save costs, however, by the time you arrive at your destination, you are sweating profusely and sometimes can give out an unpleasant smell.

But since my pockets are in a state of constant weeping, I have no choice but to hit the road on foot. Sometimes when I am walking, motor cyclists take pity and offer me a lift.

So I jump on the moto which takes me to town for my usual office to office search for employment. There is this kind motor cyclist who usually offers me a lift from Gikondo.

We have struck a real friendship and we are actually planning to raid one of the Gikondo bars for a quick sip of Amstel.

However, the other day I met him also driving a RAV-2. What had happened? His bike had been stolen by crooks in town. I felt so sorry for him. In order to console him, I also narrated to him how I once lost a bike in very tricky circumstances.

It was over 12 years ago when Aggrey and I were still young lads trying to make ends meet here in Kigali. We used to work at an NGO where salaries were paid to us in American dollars. With our small savings, we had managed to buy ourselves some motor cycles.

We quickly hired some small boys to teach us how to start a motorcycle. It did not take so long for us to learn how to man these machines. We applied for permits and everything was on course.

I rode the bike for one week. I was always on time and my boss was impressed. He was considering promoting me. That implied an increased salary. All thanks to my nice bike. I loved it so much…

The next Saturday, I rode my bike to town. I was off duty and I needed to spend some of my dollars on new jeans and jackets.

So I parked my bike along the busy "Quartier Commerciale” street. There was a strong pole on the side for tying my bike. I firmly chained it with a padlock and walked into the shop.

I was lucky to find a good helmet. I did not hesitate to pay for it. Then I spotted a leather jacket and some Levi jeans. Being so eager to impress, I asked the shopkeeper to avail a room so that I could change into the clothes immediately.

A few minutes later I stepped out of the shop. I stretched my arms out wide to show the whole world! I fastened my new helmet and mounted my bike. I kicked the starter with pomp. I kicked again. Again and again. However, the bike refused to start.

I got off and checked around the bike. Had someone spilled some water in the fuel tank? I opened the tank lid and sniffed. Was it pure petrol? Had it been contaminated?

As I pondered on my next move, a young man approached me. He had been standing idle all along as I fidgeted with the bike. He claimed to be a mechanic and he claimed to have the answer to my problem.

Did I have five thousand francs for the job? Being so desperate, I agreed and handed him the money. He then bent down and touched some wires, twisted them around and hammered some into place. He then told me to try again.

I kicked once, twice, and thrice! No way. The bike just refused to start. The mechanic once again fixed some wiring. After some minutes of hammering, the mechanic asked me for the keys. He sat on the bike and kicked once. The bike started. Wow!

Before I could thank my Good Samaritan, the bike was already speeding down the street. I convinced myself that the mechanic was on a road test. So I waited for him. It was after an hour that I realised what a fool I really was. I had been conned out of my socks!

By the time I called out for help, the motorcycle was history. Onlookers came to console me. They told me that the trick was a very common one indeed. They explained to me that the quack mechanic had eyed me when I first entered the shop.

He had quickly disconnected a cable so that when I tried to start the bike, it would not work. He had then waited for me to sweat with it before coming to my aid. He had calculated his moves smartly and had indeed outsmarted me.

With my new helmet sill fastened, I walked away in misery. I called out for a taxi to take me back home. When I searched my pockets, I realised that the only cash I had was paid to the ‘mechanic’. I was stuck. Thank goodness for good old RAV-2.
 
Contact: diaspoman@yahoo.com