The Flying Policeman

The Flying Policeman, a short story by LJ Kundananji

My home town, Namalundu, is full of rumour mongers of the best quality. Tucked away neatly at the very edge of the Kafue Gorge and separated from the appropriate distractions of big cities and the rest of the civilized world by lush, green vegetation and steep mountains, it is a heaven for the big nosed. Being a small town, almost everyone knows each other, and their noses, being so large, nothing escapes them—nothing.

If you are a rumour monger seeking to spread the juiciest rumours, Namalundu should be your first choice. The place is simply teeming with rumours. Probably you don’t believe me, but at one time, it was rumoured that the reason I had returned from the university was because I had impregnated the daughter of one of the lecturers! I could hardly go out in public for about a month without people turning aside to whisper to their colleagues, a hand to their side of their mouths, and a contemptuous eye in my direction.

One day, I was on my way to the Mini Mart to buy some airtime for my phone (I wanted to talk to my fiancée) when I happened to catch sight of a group of young men being entertained by Larz, the biggest rumour monger in town. They were gathered around him, and him was seated on the dead log under the soothing shade of the tree, which tree, shade and log served as the bus station. There was no bus hard by, and so I figured that the young men were waiting for a truck or lorry to magically appear so that they could hurl themselves onboard. The bus to Lusaka left quite early, about five or six in the morning, and so it was obvious that the young men had missed it for wanting to enjoy the comfort of their beds a little while longer. It was a hard price to pay. I had no intentions whatsoever of joining them, for I knew that Larz was a loud-mouthed liar. However, he told stories that were so juicy it was hard and nearly impossible to resist listening to him; and, not surprisingly, as I drew nigh to the little merry group, I happened to hear him say something that sparked of the irresistible urge to listen to a juicy story.

“Mr. Makono is a wizard,” I heard him say. I knew Mr. Makono—of course everyone knew him. He was a policeman. He was also a very devoted Seventh Day Adventist who kept the law to the letter. Thence, this strange assertion, that he was a wizard, just had to be investigated. Spontaneously, my steps averted, and a split second later, I was among the little crowd that was staring in wonderment at the great story teller as he spun his tale with great skill. He interrupted his tale to acknowledge my presence—a very appropriate gesture in my community.

“How are you, Mr. Kankoyo?” he greeted.

“Fine, thanks,” I answered in a low, guilty tone. The others nodded and smiled at me, and I knew that they had forgiven me for giving in to this temptation.

“It’s nice that you could join us.”

“Yeah…” I smiled.

“Right. As I was saying, Mr. Makono is a wizard.” Larz continued.

“That’s not true!” someone challenged, his eyes sparking, “He is a devoted Christian. We go to the same church and I personally know him.”

Several nodded their heads in agreement. I smirked.

“That is what I also thought at first,” Larz continued expertly, a sly smile across his face. “I practically used to worship the man. Each time I saw him, I bowed low to the earth in respect. He, as far as I was concerned, was the best example of a Christian. ‘Now there goes a real man,’ I would say to myself, ‘a real Christian indeed.’ Therefore, when some old chap at Dimba told me that the man flies when the sun goes down, I refused hard.

“‘You must be talking about some other Makono,’ I told him.

“‘There is only one Makono in Namalundu, and you know that,’ he replied, a look of annoyance on his face.

“‘You are definitely lying! Makono is a Christian.’ I told him.

“‘Pshaw! Christian! He! That is just his cover,’ the little old man said, raving up and down in a fit of anger, ‘That good-for-nothing imbecile has killed five of my children already!”

“‘How many children do you have now?’ I asked.

“‘Sixteen,’ he replied, a mournful look appearing on his face. ‘Now there is insufficient man power to herd my thirty cattle.’

“‘How do you know that they did not just die a natural death?’ I asked him.

“‘Do I look like I was born yesterday? I saw him with my own eyes!’

“Then I says, ‘So why then did you not stop him?’

“He then says, ‘The man’s too powerful. None of my charms could work. The least I could do was protect myself.’

“‘Ha!’ I says, ‘What are you going to do when he comes again?’

“‘I’m working on something—he will be surprised…’ he chuckled wickedly, like this: ‘Ha! He! Ha! He! Hu!’

“And then I go, ‘He! He! He! I don’t believe you old man!’

“‘I don’t care,’ he retorts, ‘but if you want to prove to yourself, go and sleep on your roof tonight. At 01:00 hours exactly, when you hear the sound of a motorbike, look directly upwards. I swear you will see him.’

“‘No siree!’ yes, that’s what I said—I said, ‘No siree! I am not mad! There is no way I can sleep on the roof.’

“‘That is your own problem.’ He said. ‘You can go on believing the lie...’”

Suddenly, and without warning, his phone went off. We almost jumped at his vibrating pocket to tear out the little sucker and quickly dispose of it, but Larz beat us to it and placed it against his ear. We listened impatiently as he talked for half a minute, but to us the audience at the mercy of this contriving master of suspense, it was an hour of torture. Finally, he packed it back into his pocket with a silly grin on his face.

“Sorry, guys,” he said, his grin growing broader. “I have to leave. Papa wants me.”

“No!” we shrieked in despair. I, embarrassingly, was among those who shrieked the loudest.

“Ha! Caught you there!” he laughed raucously. “I was just joking.”

We sighed with relief.

“So where was I? Oh yes, he told me to go and sleep on the roof. I did not of course believe him. But when I went home, I decided to put the theory to the test. Yes, I decided to sleep on the roof so that I could prove the little old man wrong…”

“You actually slept on the roof?” I found myself asking, my eyes bulging out with insane curiosity.

“Yes, I did,” he said with a chuckle. “I was willing to go all the way to prove the innocence of Mr. Makono.”

“Didn’t your parents think you insane?” I asked again.

“They did not know that I slept on the roof. I sneaked out through my bedroom window, climbed up a ladder that I had carefully positioned in the darkness of night, blanket in hand, and quietly got onto the roof…”

“How does it feel like sleeping on the roof?” someone asked.

“It is amazing. Looking up at the stars and the dark night sky, you realise just how small you are, and how great God is. Anyway, so I spread out my blanket and stretched out on the roof top. A little while later, I was snoring like I was in my own bed.

“Just after 01:00hrs, I was started awake by the sound of a motorbike. My heart in my mouth, I looked directly upward, and lo and behold, there in the air, flying so low I could almost touch him, was Mr. Makono. He was seated on a long, brown broom handle, which was puffing out smoke at one end.”

“How did you know it was him?” I asked.

“I said he was flying so low I could almost touch him. He actually looked down and stared into my face. His face was covered in a mask of charcoal, and his hair, soaking red, possibly with blood. At the moment that we stared into each other’s faces, he seemed to recognize me, because panic gripped him, and he nearly fell off the little broom stick. The man has incredible great control of his stick, say! He staggered once or twice, gave me an evil red eye, so evil my soul almost departed from my body, and vanished into the dark night.”

“Was he wearing his police uniform?” a frail young man, who was shuddering, apparently from excitement, asked.

“Surprisingly, he had no clothes on.”

“No clothes?” we echoed together.

“Nope! Not a single stitch. I remained staring into the dark night long after he had gone, my heart beating so wildly it almost shattered my ribs. I quickly picked up the blanket, glided down the ladder, jumped through the window, and slid into my own bed. That night, my heart hurt, not because of fear, but because the man I had put so much respect in had turned out to be rogue.”

In this manner, Larz finished the story, and with our heads bowed ruefully, we stood in silence, contemplating what we had just heard. At that moment, I must confess, I believed the story. He had told it so vividly, and with such conviction that it was hard not to believe it. He could not have possibly have made all that up.

“So my friends,” he said, wiping away a tear from the edge of his eye, “Mr. Makono is a wizard. You can prove it for yourselves…”

“No, no, no.” we refused vehemently, and in turn, we each revealed that we were not insane enough to spend a night on the roof.

Suddenly, and as if magically, a lorry appeared and screeched to a halt beside us. The door swung open and out stepped a burly man, dressed in a police uniform and with a wild eye. He thanked the driver, placed a parcel under his arm and turned to face us.

“How are you, Mr. Makono?” Larz asked brusquely.

He grunted something of a greeting, gave the boy an evil red eye and strode swiftly away. To us the observers, his uncouth reaction was proof beyond doubt that Larz had told the truth. How else could one explain that red, evil eye?

“Anyone want a ride?” the driver shouted through the window. He had a large square face and shifty eyes, reddened by excessive alcohol intake. The young men with whom I had been standing informed him that they were in need of transport.

“Hop him.”

The boys happily hurled themselves onboard. A few seconds later, the lorry sped off with a roar, leaving a cloud of smoke and dust in its wake.

“I…was on my way to the Mini Mart,” I informed Larz, “to buy airtime.”

“Good day, Mr. Kankoyo,” he said, turning to leave, a poignant expression about his self. A shudder ran through my whole frame, and I continued my interrupted journey. I had some airtime to buy; I had to talk to my fiancée.

***
I watched the sun set quickly behind the distant hill, and as the darkness set in, I felt a strange inclination. I stared at the roof, and my heart beat faster. A strange excitement came over me. A few moments later, I was knocking on my neighbour’s door, which he opened almost immediately.

“Mr. Mali,” I said breathlessly, “Can I borrow your ladder?”

“What!” he shrieked in disbelief. He was a stout little man, Mr. Mali, almost about my height. Though he looked odd, and had an evil glare, he was generous and kind.

“A ladder, sir.”

“What do you need a ladder for this time of day?” he eyed me suspiciously.

“Want to wake up early tomorrow and quickly work on the roof. There’s something that needs to be fixed thereupon. I thought it wise to borrow it in advance instead of disturbing you early in the morning, sir.”

“Oh,” he grunted in agreement, and a smile slowly spread across his thin lips. “I thought you had run a little mad. A lot of young men in our community have gone mad. Smoking too much Dagga they are. You don’t take that stuff, huh, Luis?”

“No, sir.”

“Good boy! The ladder is behind, in the flower bed, along the wall. Return it pronto after you are done tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

A little while thereafter, I was quietly placing the ladder in place—at an angle against the wall. I looked around to ensure that no one had seen me. When I had ascertained that there was no nosy being about, I grinned mischievously to myself and quickly scurried into the house.

It was around midnight when I carefully, and as quietly as I could, sneaked out of my bedroom window. As I made my way round the back to the place where the ladder was positioned, the cold bit around my ears and stun my nose. But nothing was going to deter me. I was going to prove that Mr. Makono was innocent. As I climbed up the ladder with my blanket carefully tucked under my arm, I could already see the look of shock on Larz face when I told him that I had slept on the roof and seen nothing. I carefully trod across and found a good position where it was flat and very far away from the edge. I did not want to roll off onto the ground. I carefully spread out the blanket and lay down on it, covering myself with the other half. I gazed upward in amazement. Larz had been right. The large night sky opened up above me into an endless abyss clustered with shimmering stars. It was breathtakingly awesome and I realized just how small I was. It was the strangest sensation sleeping on the roof and gazing into the heavens. I felt as if God was staring down at me. Presently, I also felt exposed to the dastardly deeds of the flying policeman.

‘God! I must be insane,’ I thought. ‘What am I actually doing?’

For a moment, I almost changed my mind, and almost scurried off, down the ladder, through the window and into my warm bed. I reassured myself, however, that I was not insane, no. I was here for a good cause, namely, to prove Larz wrong. I was going to prove that loud-mouthed rumour monger wrong. But what if the guy was right? What if Mr. Makono really flew on a tiny broomstick by night? I shuddered at the thought.

It was not long before the warmth of the blanket gently caressed me to sleep and soon, I was snoring heavily like I was slumbering in the most comfortable bed on Earth.

I woke up in a cold sweat. My eyes bulging out into the night sky, I clasped my hands tightly together. The blanket was lying on its own several feet away. Apparently, I had tossed and kicked it off in my wallowing. I was not a clean sleeper. I shuddered so heavily that the roof rattled along with me. But I was not shuddering because I felt cold, no. I was shuddering because I had heard the long, haunting sound of a motorbike. I tried my best to lie still, but it was nearly impossible. Presently, I could hear it in the distance, becoming more and more distinct with each passing second. I furiously turned my head this way and that, but I could make out nothing in the dismal darkness of the night sky. My heart was beating with such hardness that it almost tore out of my body, and my face was sopped with sweat, some of which got into my mouth. The sound eventually grew so loud that I assumed the wretched thing was just above me, but I could still see nothing. Why, the man was flying invisible! Why hadn’t Larz informed me of this occurrence? Mr. Makono was out to get me! I could almost feel the brush of his large bony fingers against my face. I gasped like a dying animal.

“He’s here,” I heard my mother’s voice say. I could hardly believe it. She knew about the flying policeman and had not told me? I felt like screaming out, but my throat was parched dry and I only coughed out gusts of air.

“Welcome, Mr. Policeman,” I heard my father say. At that moment the sound of the motorbike ceased abruptly, and I heard the sound of heavy boots in the gravel below. I jerked heavily upward as the realization hit me.

“Hurry, sir,” I heard my mother shriek, “they have stolen my son and they are on the roof right now!”

“The roof?” came Mr. Makono’s heavy voice.

My shuddering instantly ceased and my breathing reduced to almost zero. At that moment, it suddenly occurred to me what a fool I was. How on Earth was I going to get myself out of this?

“Yes, they are on the roof, I heard them—shh. If you listen carefully you’ll hear them again.”

A short silence issued. I tried with all I was worth to lie still and silent, but I soon gave out a violent jerk. My elbows hit into the roof, sending out a resonating bang. I winced.

“Ha! I heard them,” Mr. Makono said in violent excitement, like the policeman he was. “I’m going up to get them.”

“They might be armed,” father said wearily.

“I’m armed too.” I heard the distinct sound of a cocking gun.

“What kind of gun is that?” my father asked.

“AK 47. It can kill off any bandit so quickly he would not even know that he died!” he chuckled diabolically.

“But you need a ladder.” My mother said.

“No actually. This roof is so low I can just reach it with my hands and swing myself atop.”

“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Father cried excitedly, “Is that a ladder I see yonder there?”

“What! It is! These rascals are very organized!” Mr. Makono bellowed.

“I wonder what they have done to my poor Lewis!” I could hear she was crying.

“I’m going up that ladder, and I’m going to get them down!” I heard the sound of heavy footsteps hastening towards the ladder. Panic gripped me. I did not need to think twice. There was only one thing to do. I instantly tore off my white T-shirt and tied it to the end of a long stick that I found lying nearby. I quickly crept to the edge and popped the shirt out, waving the stick furiously.

“They are surrendering!” father shouted ecstatically, “Mr. Policeman, they are surrendering!”

The footsteps stopped and receded.

“Ha! They have realized that they are no match for me and my ammunition!” the policeman shrieked. “Show yourselves, rascals!”

I slowly popped my head out. “Don’t shoot!” I screamed. “It is me—Lewis!”

“What!” mother and father echoed simultaneously.

“What!” Mr. Makono said, putting down his gun disappointedly.

“Lewis! What are you doing on the roof?” mother screamed.

“Son! Have you lost your sanity?”

“It was too hot inside the house,” I said quickly in exculpation of myself. “I wanted to catch a breeze on the roof.”

“What!” they echoed again, and I knew why—the weather was quite chilly.

“He has lost his mind,” Mr. Makono said, shaking his head dismally.

“Have you been smoking Dagga?” Father asked.

“No!”

“Get down the roof wouldja?” mother demanded. “You will hurt yourself.”

“Yes mother,” I replied in a surly manner.

“Are you sure you have not been smoking Dagga, son?” father asked again.

I said nothing, as I was busy scurrying down the ladder. A second or so latter, I was standing before my distraught parents and a very disappointed policeman who was glaring meanly at me—with an evil red eye. I was shivering wretchedly, dressed only in my shorts. I wrapped my hands around myself in an effort to keep warm. This gesture was hardly wise.

“What were you thinking!” my mother cried. “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Too hot…inside.” I blurted miserably.

“Too hot, eh?” father mocked. “Then why are you shivering like a leaf?”

“Inside…not…outside.”

“My son is mad,” mother said, breaking into tears.

“I’m not mad.”

“He’s definitely smoking dagga,” dad said persistently.

“I’m not.”

“Get back inside!” he yelled, “we will deal with you in the morning.”

He turned to Mr. Makono and said: “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, eyeing me with a fervent interest. “Can I have a word with the boy?”

“Sure,” father agreed. “Try to pump some sense into his dagga-filled head.”

Mr. Makono turned me aside by the shoulder. My parents sauntered back into the house, with my mother still blubbering.

“Are you really smoking?” Mr. Makono asked in so fatherly a voice that I nearly fell upon my knees and started confessing all my sins. I looked up into his face. The evil red eye was gone, and instead I saw a kindly, benovalent look which I never knew a policeman could possess. I shook my head.

“What were you doing on the roof then?”

I goggled at him, my heart thumping wildly. How on Earth could I tell him I had been on the roof to prove him innocent? How in my sane mind could I tell him that I had slept on the roof in order to prove to Larz that there was no flying policeman? Eventually, I said:

“It was too hot inside.”

Mr. Makono let out a long, hearty laugh. “I’m a policeman, boy. I can tell when you lie.”

This revelation gave me goose pimples. I shuddered and felt my soul pine away.

“Um…um…I….” I began, with tears welling up in my eyes. But suddenly, he lowered his head, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes, and said in a whisper:

“You were trying to see the flying boy, right?”

“Flying boy, sir?” I asked, a shocked expression on my face. “I thought it was the flying—” I stopped myself from saying the word.

“Ha, I also slept on the roof last night. I did not see him though, but I will try again tomorrow.” He said with a merry little chuckle.

I was now burning with curiosity. “Who is the flying boy, sir?”

He stooped even lower, and said, his voice so low it was barely audible: “Larz.”

I nearly fell over from disbelief and shock. I gaped widely back at him.

“Yes, the very boy you were talking to today, at the station.” He continued. “I heard it from a reliable source.”

“Who told you, sir?”

“An old man at Dimba.” He revealed. “Don’t tell anyone. Let it be our little secret.”

Suddenly I smiled. “Don’t, worry sir, your secret is safe with me.”

“That’s my boy.” He rubbed my hair affectionately.

“I have to go to bed, now.” I said, edging away, the smile on my face still fixed.

“Of course, boy.” He said, “But don’t give up too soon. You can still try again.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Now, I’m on my way too.” With that he put on his helmet, jumped onto his motorbike, cranked up the engine and sped off into the dark night. As I watched him speed away, my smile grew even broader.

“So I’ve seen him,” I said in a whisper, “the flying policeman.”

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