The traffic cop and me

We’ve all had at least one. A run-in with the boys in blue.

In sunny South Africa this inevitably ends with the driver parting with about R200 – or in colloquial terms – a cooldrink.

I knew traffic officers were up for a bribe, but no-one ever told me the procedure so when a Metro cop asked me for a Coca Cola I happily obliged and gave him a can. He looked at me like I had crawled out of cheese.

When I told the tale to some friends they laughed uproariously and told me I was supposed say, “How much is a Coke?” whereupon he would name a price and I would drive off into the wide blue yonder a little lighter in pocket.

I’ve been pulled over as a suspected hijacker 8 months pregnant and had four heavily armed policemen point R4 rifles at me. When their superior officer finished his phone call he admonished them in-between guffaws of hysteria that I hardly fit the profile and they gave me an escort to work.

But, my latest interaction takes the cake.

I was sick. Really, really sick. I was driving home in a desperate attempt to make it to my own loo before heaving.

A traffic cop leapt directly in front of my car and waved me over to the side of the road.

My licence checked out, but I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. For good reason. My tummy was not a happy travelling companion.

I wasn’t in the mood to negotiate the price of cooldrinks I just wanted to go home. So, I asked for the fine.

He ummed and ahhed about the making of plans as I gazed in nausea induced misery at his face.

As I turned up the air-con and b lasted cold air at my face the wheels of justice turned exceedingly slowly.

I did ask him to step back so I could get out of the car, but he wouldn’t budge. In fact I asked him twice.

I said, “Excuse me, please may I get out of the car?” He refused.

I tried again, “Sir, please could you step back, I’m going to be sick.”

And then I was. Gloriously. Unapologetically. Violently. All over him.

His cohort chuckled and said, “She did warn you.”

He still gave me the fine.


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