‘Foreign aid might be defined as a transfer from poor people in rich countries to rich people in poor countries.’ – Douglas Casey
When the first white men arrived at what is now Lake Malawi, they asked the local chiYao name for this body of water.
“Nyasa,” the natives replied. Nyasa translated as ‘lake.’
The explorers called it Lake Nyasa, or ‘Lake lake.’ They left this kind of perseveration tradition for the new ‘Life President,’ Dr. Kamazu Banda, to play with when they left. I know. I mentioned ‘left’ twice. Dr. Banda enforced a strict censorship and dress code. The only singular requirement was the mandatory celebration of the Malawi Congress Party party, the only legal Party party allowed. There was Swiss-style redundancy in every other aspect of life. And it waited weighted for me in the Immigration building.
Two black officers in identical frost-white starched shirts, gold and black epaulets and black ties, greeted me in the front office.
“May we help you?” said the First Officer. We were off to a good start. I handed him my passport.
“I’d like an entry stamp to Malawi,” I said.
“But you’re already in Malawi,” said the Second Officer.
“Well, I’ve actually come from Mozambique,” I added.
“But that’s impossible,” said the First Officer. “The border is closed to non-essential traffic because of the war. You couldn’t possibly have come through Mozambique,” he insisted.
“How then do you explain my Mozambique entry and exit stamps?” I asked.
“You don’t have a Mozambique exit stamp,” said the Second Officer.
I looked at my passport. They hadn’t stamped me out when they had taken Jonah’s and my passport.
“Technically you are still in Mozambique, but that’s impossible because the border is now closed to non-essential traffic. If you go back and try to get an exit stamp, they will want another visa to enter so you can leave. You can’t get one because you’re here. And they are no longer issuing visas anyway. They might also be upset that you left the country illegally, but of course you didn’t, because it’s impossible that you came through Mozambique. And besides, you would have to go to Blantyre to the Mozambique High commission to get one, but that would be impossible because you aren’t here legally yet either.”
My head was spinning.
“So where am I?” I asked.
“Well, nowhere actually,” said the Second Officer. You aren’t there because you’re here, and you’re not here because you never came through there, and you don’t have a Malawi stamp in your passport.”
“So, other than living right here for the rest of my life, what do you suggest?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
“Well, we could let you go to Blantyre and speak to the Head of Immigration, but that would be illegal,” said the First Officer.
“Why don’t you just phone him?” I asked.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“Maybe he’d be more disturbed if he found some mzungu living in his Immigration building at the border for the rest of his life,” I suggested. They weren’t buying any of it.
The deal we finally reached was that, if I promised to go directly to meet the Immigration Director in Blantyre and didn’t ‘dilly-dally’ (one dilly would have sufficed), they would let me through the border illegally. Sweet.
I agreed, because I had to get out of there before my head exploded, and because it was my only hope. My thumb carved an arc. A Coca-Cola truck stopped, and I climbed in. Ken was the driver and his seven-year-old daughter, Alisha, sat on the engine cover. She was wearing a cute little dress and blouse with a string of pearls. She was drinking a Coke. I told Ken my improbable story on the way to Blantyre. The road was poor and the sun hot. We stopped for a Carlsberg ‘Green.’ The waitress was stunning and kept making provocative gestures.
“Eh, Bwana,” she said.
“He does not have the time,” Ken said. “He must go meet to Mr. Big and become legal.” Despite her persistence we really had to go. Because getting waylaid to get way laid would have been punished for sure.
Ken dropped me outside the government building of Mr. Big. I went in, and up to the reception counter.
“Do you have an appointment?” Asked the receptionist. I said I didn’t think so.
“Please come back tomorrow and make an appointment,” she said. I wondered why I couldn’t stay here today and make an appointment. I really couldn’t afford a process with more than one step.
“I’m actually here in the country illegally, so I can’t come back tomorrow,” I explained. Her eyes glazed over.
“He’s expecting me,” I said.
“OK. Wait here,” she said.
Five minutes later, I was ushered into the inner sanctum of high-level Malawi Immigration decision-making.
The office was huge, but he was bigger. He was ‘bling’ before it was a word. Mr. Big was all rings and neck chains and watches. The massive arms in his tailored frost white shirt opened wide as he stood to greet me.
“Welcome. Welcome!” He said. “Welcome to the Switzerland of Africa.”
He had a large picture of the Matterhorn on the wall behind his desk, and a gold Rolex he could have used as a weight belt, if he had been a diver. Maybe there was something in this.
“How can I help you?” I had heard that one earlier today, but I told him of my dilemma. Turns out he had already had the phone call.
“You’re a Commonwealth country. We’re a Commonwealth country,” he said. Hopefully, we were going to become one big happy family. But not before the requisite anti-colonial lecture.
“I have travelled widely like you,” he expostulated. There was no other word for it.
“Not probably quite like me,” I said. He probably never had to come up with an instant carton of cigarettes to avoid getting his head blown off by a rocket-propelled grenade.
“Your mind is closed. My men did not make a mistake,” he said. I told him I wasn’t there to apportion blame for anything. I just wanted to be in Switzerland legally.
“Perhaps there is a way,” he replied. Bingo. Those were the magic words. Now I was worried. Mr. Big would likely want to be paid in Swiss Francs.
He started at two hundred dollars. He took twenty. As he stamped my passport, I looked at his watch again. It was a ‘Rolex-Rolex.’ I didn’t mind paying for the extra quality service.
——
Image: Dall-E remixed