It was a clear case of know-who

Lenox Lizwi Mhlanga

A story is told about the how the late retired High Court judge Washington Ega Sansole was arrested by the very government he used to work under. Police officers came to his house in Hillside, Bulawayo, to pick him up but had no arrest warrant.

He informed them that they could not arrest him without one and maintained an all night vigil outside his house “awaiting further instructions” from their superiors on what to do next.

He was to later tell his lawyer that he slept secure that night with the knowledge that he had free protection from the police.

“I was the safest resident in Hillside that night, with all the break-ins that were taking place. Though of course they eventually took  me in the very next day!” said the jocular Sansole.

The story does not end there; in the holding cells at Bulawayo central police station, the retired judge was an instant hero among other cell mates.

“Make way for the judge,” or “be quiet, the judge wants to sleep,” could be heard from inmates as they proffered Sansole five-star treatment.

They even shared their food with him. It was a case of being known that his experience was not that bad.

Though being ‘recognised’ had previously produced hilarious results. While strolling in the city centre, he had met a man he had condemned to death row.

“Do you remember me, sir?” the man asked a perplexed Sansole. “No I don’t,” was his reply. “Sir, I’m the man you sentenced to death,” the man said.

“Then what are you doing here?” came the typical reply from the retired judge.

I was arrested once and my stint in the cells was a very unpleasant one compared to the honourable judge’s. It was the time of my life when I never missed a music concert, and this time around, British reggae bands Aswad and King Sounds were scheduled to perform at the Trade Fair showgrounds.

It was the first time that such a venue was being used, the usual being White City or Barbourfields stadiums and Queens Cricket grounds.

Our preparation was meticulous. We made sure we had the requisite funds for the “refreshments” that we were to take with us. First, was a visit to the local beer hall eMasilela for the first layer.

This was isitshwala (sadza) with roasted meat or amacimbi (mopani worms) as a snack followed by two izikali (mugs) of Ingwebu traditional beer. We would then move to Pelandaba Cocktail bar where we “graduated” to Indlovu shake-shake.

From there the next port of call was Palace Hotel where we drank bottled clear beer. Finally, we bought spirits as take away from the off sales outlet.

You can imagine that by then, our state of sobriety would be nowhere near that of a priest.

If this was not a clear abuse of alcohol, then I do not know what was.

We were just short of taking any intoxicating substance known to man, but I must confess that at no time were we rowdy. We were just tipsy, if you know what I mean.

As fate would have it, the Aswad-King Sounds show never fully took off the ground. Now did I mention what a wonderful afternoon it was?

The green, green grass of the arena was filled with a kaleidoscope of music lovers out to have a good time, which was not to be.

That the two groups arrived late did little to dampen the spirits, including those flowing in our veins, of course.

Then the sound system started acting up just as they were doing their sound check.

It became obvious, to the sober among us that is, that professional groups such as these would not risk their impeccable reputations to perform under such conditions.

We on the other hand were totally oblivious of the trouble that was slowly brewing around us.

The MC was mouthing something hardly audible on the public address system and there was a row of disapproval from those nearer the stage.

Apparently he was informing the crowd that the show could not go on to which our reaction was that of obvious incredulity.

Even the gate crashers were now baying for their money, which was bad enough. In the midst of all this, my colleagues and I were still lost in a blissful aura of intoxication that was quickly shattered by the first volley of bottles flying towards the stage.

The next thing we saw were a row of cowering rastas speeding towards the Express Motorways luxury buses. Big mistake! Those soon became the target and all one could hear was the pop, pop of the windows giving way to the assault.

We moved out of the line of fire and positioned ourselves strategically from where we could witness the action. That was big mistake number two. Because we were not showing that we were not complicit by moving out of the arena, that, unbeknown to us made us prime suspects. There were plain clothes police details who were observing the chaos.

By the time the riot police arrived, the damage had been done and the vast majority of the fans had streamed out of the arena. This made them angry beyond words.

They went for anyone who was in the city centre who suspiciously looked like a music  fan.

They raided Woza, the popular bar at the Sun Hotel (now Bulawayo Rainbow.) Yours truly was picked up at the City Hall and thrown into the cells at Bulawayo Central.

I was accused of Malicious Injury to Property for being among those who smashed the bus even though I was too drunk to even lift up a pint of lager.

We were moved around and I ended up at Sauerstown police station, now stricken by the mother of all hangovers.

I eventually spent two nights there along with others variously accused of stealing amplifiers and other equipment.

They were shunted off to court giving the impression that mine was the more serious crime. Later that afternoon after spending              what seemed like eternity, I was told I was free to go.

At the back of my mind I was thinking that perhaps my father had used his influence to get me freed. A clear case of know-who.