Diaspoman: When my pompous friends danced to the tunes of reality

Before leaving the Diaspora over six years ago, I had managed to network very effectively. I had pulled strings here and there so that life could flow smoothly once I returned to my beloved country. Pulling strings did not mean that I had to place telephone calls all the way to Mutara province in order to talk to the old folks. In any case, whenever the old folks in Mutara received such a long distance call, they always began and ended the conversation by demanding for two things; “Cash” plus a “bride”. So, when I talk about pulling strings, I hereby refer to people who would not ask me for money. I refer to those numerous old boys of mine, who had since chewed very important posts. They are usually referred to as Directors or “DAFs”. Some are known as Afandes or Deputés. Then there are some who have made it into the real business world. One of them happens to be my old buddy from the mid 90s. His name, of course is Aggrey. When I returned to my motherland, Aggrey was there to receive me and accommodate me in his Nyarutarama castle. He also introduced me to my long lost old boys (OBs), who were more than eager to show me how very different they had become from what we used to see in the 90s. “Man, things have changed. We are no longer living like refugees, Man!” My old boys would then drive me around Kigali for a tour. They cruised around in serious jeeps, occasionally stopping at one of the petrol station to fill the vehicle. Out of his dashboard, he would pull out a booklet and pluck out a few fuel coupons. His fuel gauge would then point towards the letter “F”. My OB would then proceed to drive along the Kigali streets at a snail pace. He would not exceed the 30km speed mark and sometimes this would irritate the other motorists driving from behind. My OB would be driving at such a speed in order to show off to everybody that he was indeed someone to reckon with. One or two other motorists would honk their cars, immediately prompting my OB to screech to a halt. In the middle of the busy street, OB would park the jeep and start hurling terrible insults at the honking drivers. In short, he was so arrogant! Then one day, everything changed. My OB friends suddenly found themselves out of the Mitsubishis straight into footsubishis. This situation surfaced after an order to grab all Government registered jeeps was swiftly acted upon by the men in yellow. The men in yellow positioned themselves in all sorts of corners. If you were driving a Government registered jeep, you could dodge one or two check-points. But you could not survive the third one. My OB friend happened to be driving me around the City in search for the Chinese restaurant, where we would share a meal and discuss my unemployment situation. Being on a nice road, my OB slowed his car within the 30km speed mark. He was slowing down so as to pose around for everyone to see. Unfortunately for him, his vehicle was also being admired by the men in yellow. That is why they stood in the middle of the road and stopped us. Before we could spell out the word “Negotiate”, the jeep was being steered away by the cop. OB was frustrated to the brim! A few weeks later, I happened to be standing somewhere near Chez Lando waiting for a lift. I spotted a single cabin Toyota pickup. It was a ramshackle. The tyres were bent in an awkward angle. It was emitting black fumes and it was moving its body like a snake. Behind the steering wheel sat a really familiar face. Yes indeed. It was my famous OB. When our eyes locked, he quickly turned the other way in shame. This time, OB did not want anyone to see him because his “new” Government registered vehicle was in a dire strait! Oh yes! My pompous OB had danced to the tunes of reality! diaspoman@yahoo.com