The Customs Officer
"She controls the border between Kenya and Tanzania. His goods are suspect. His documents are questionable. But she offers an alternative to the official process."
The border crossing at Lunga Lunga is notorious.
Bribes flow like the Umba River. Delays last for days. And in the middle of it all sits Bi Mwajuma—the senior customs officer who decides who passes and who doesn't.
My truck is full of goods for the Dar es Salaam market.
My papers are not entirely in order.
"Forty crates of electronics," she says, flipping through my manifest. "Imported from where?"
"Dubai."
"With documentation from Nairobi." She looks up. Fifty-seven years old, two-fifty of bureaucratic authority in a sweat-stained uniform. "These stamps are three days old. The regulations require fresh certification."
"I can explain—"
"You can explain to the impound lot." She sets down the papers. "Or we can discuss alternatives."
The alternatives are discussed in her office.
A small room behind the checkpoint, air conditioning struggling against the border heat. She locks the door behind us.
"I've been watching your trucks for months," she says. "Same route. Same gray-area paperwork. Same desperate young driver each time."
"I'm not desperate—"
"You're about to be." She sits on the edge of her desk. "Those goods are worth two hundred thousand shillings. The impound fees plus fines would be half that. And that's assuming the police don't get involved."
"What do you want?"
"What everyone wants at this border." She begins unbuttoning her uniform jacket. "Payment."
"I don't have cash—"
"I'm not asking for cash." The jacket falls open. Beneath, she wears a simple blouse, straining against her chest. "Cash can be traced. This can't."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to understand how borders work." She stands, moves toward me. "Passage isn't free. It's negotiated. And I'm the one who decides the terms."
She's not asking.
She's informing. The customs officer at the busiest border crossing on the coast, telling me how my goods will pass—or won't.
"This happens often?" I ask.
"When I want it to." She pulls my hand to her blouse. "Today, I want it."
I pay the toll.
She's heavy and demanding, accustomed to getting what she wants from travelers too desperate to refuse. Her body presses me against her desk while trucks wait outside, drivers wondering what's taking so long.
"The papers will be stamped," she gasps as I move inside her. "Fresh certification. No questions."
"And next time?"
"Next time you come through my border, you come through me." She wraps her thick legs around me. "That's the arrangement."
The arrangement holds.
Every month, my trucks cross at Lunga Lunga. Every month, I'm called to Bi Mwajuma's office for "inspection." The goods pass. The customs are paid. The border opens.
"You could go through Horohoro," she says one day. "Different crossing. No inspections."
"Longer route."
"Is that why you keep coming here?"
It's not the route.
It's her. The power she holds. The weight of her body. The way she takes what she wants and gives what I need in return.
"The crossing at Horohoro has a male officer," I admit. "He only takes cash."
"And I only take you." She pulls me toward the office. "Now. Your papers need reviewing."
Years pass.
My business grows. I could afford proper documentation now—certified, legal, untouchable. But I still come through Lunga Lunga. Still get called to the back office.
"You don't need me anymore," she observes. "Your papers are perfect."
"The papers were never the point."
"No." She smiles. "They weren't."
She stamps my manifest. Leads me to her office one more time.
Afisa wa forodha.
Customs officer.
Controlling passage.
Taking payment.
Opening borders.
One crossing at a time.