George, Jail, and the Rich Uncle

Both phone and internet time in Malawi are bought on what are called Airtel cards. For 500 Kwacha of Airtel, you can talk for 1-2 minutes during the day or 4-5 minutes at night. Most people buy airtime on an as-needed basis, and there are many Airtel booths scattered throughout the city. Typically, a person with a stack of different denominations of Airtel cards will be seated along a roadside at a red plastic picnic table with a red Airtel umbrella shading it. Some ambitious salesmen will walk around town looking for a line of people, at a bank ATM or at the post office. Even out in the villages, airtime can be purchased at tiny roadside stands.

We were on our way home from Church on Sunday afternoon when we realized we needed some airtime and started looking for the nearest booth. George and I spotted her about the same time, seated at an Airtel table positioned next to the curb on our left. Most parking lots around Zomba are badly eroded with steep, crumbling shoulders that tear at the underside of our little car, and during rainy season are full of deep, muddy ruts. We dreaded the thought of pulling into the rugged lot behind her, so we pulled over to the curb, engine running, and quickly rolled down the passenger window. In about the time it takes to roll the window down, she was there holding out the 4-500s we had asked for as we pulled to a stop. We handed her the money, and pulled away from the curb. The whole transaction took place in less than a minute.

As we pulled away, we noticed a police traffic stop about 200 meters down the road. This was no big deal because on any given day, there will be 5-6 such stops in and around Zomba. Some officers are friendlier than others, but we are usually motioned through as we smile and lift a hand to wave. These stops usually snag minibus drivers who are over capacity. Typically, when we have been stopped, the officer asks us where we are going and looks closely at our American driver’s license. Then, they walk around to look at our car’s registration and insurance documents taped (where they should be) on our left front window, and we are waved on.

But today was not a typical day. As we moved toward the two blue uniformed women officers, they started walking toward the center of the road to block our passage. When we rolled to a stop, one circled left to examine our legal documents and the other right to talk with George. As he rolled down the window, George, being the cheerful man he is, smiled and said, “Good afternoon, officer.” Without even a hint of a smile, she examined his license, then lowered herself to be eye to eye with George and asked, “Where are you staying?” “We live in Zomba,” said George. “No, what is your address?” George and I have learned to give information to strangers on an as-needed basis, so he gave her our post office box number.

Still holding his license, she walked around to meet the other officer in front of our car. After the two officers discussed our plight in Chichewa, glancing at us occasionally, the first officer returned to us “You stopped by the side of the road to buy Airtel. You can see how narrow the roads are in Zomba?” she said motioning with her hand. “You have broken Malawi law,” she persisted. “I am sorry, officer. I didn’t know, and it will not happen again.” George pleaded. “It is your responsibility to know Malawi law. You will come with me,” she said as she wrote out a ticket.

The interesting thing about that was, she had no vehicle, and the police station was probably 3 km away. Thinking fast, “Would you like for me to drive you to the police station?” George suggested. She thought that was good, hopped in the back seat, and proceeded to direct us.

When we arrived, she escorted us from the street, across a dirt lot, and to a series of attached dingy, white brick offices, all of which had outside entrances. Two steps up and we were in her small office with a single desk, two chairs, and a few aged three ring binders on a shelf. On the wall behind her was a tattered sign that read, “New British Traffic Signs.” By the way, British rule ended in 1964. She ordered us to sit down, then filled out another form, which both she and George signed. The fine was 3,000 Kwacha, about $9.

George started to pay her, but she pointed two doors down. We entered the office of two better dressed, and evidently higher ranked, officers. “Are you having a good day? How is your stay in Malawi?” they smiled. We replied that we were enjoying Malawi, paid the fine, got our receipt, and walked out a little wiser.

As we crossed the parking lot, we happened to meet up with a man we did not know personally and had seen only once outside the shop of a man in his early 30s that shall at this time remain nameless. This gentleman in the police lot pumped George’s hand enthusiastically saying, “Do you remember me? I saw you outside that shop yesterday. I am that boy’s uncle.” Just then another gentleman walked up and introduced himself as another uncle. “We are on our way to see the boy, who is here in jail. He is charged with receiving stolen goods. We know this can’t possibly be true,” they said. Then an astonishing thing happened in what had already been an extraordinary day. Smiling broadly, the first uncle said to George,”We are so happy to see you here because we are come to get the boy out of jail and want you to come along. You will help us post bail.” George and I glanced at each other then gauged the distance between us and our car door. "Well,” said George, "We wish you the best and hope all goes well. Have a good day.”

As we pulled away, George and I wondered, “What just happened?” George and I recently read an article by David Maranz that has helped us understand how Africans relate to money. It is titled, African Friends and Money Matters. Now that we have had time to process it a bit, I think I can explain. We have learned that African and Western view of money are worlds apart.

Here is what happened from a Western perspective:

1. We only had a business relationship with the young man and barely met his uncles.

2. Our obligation to the young man ended when we paid him for satisfactorily completing his work.

3. We were under no obligation to get the young man out of jail.

Here is what happened from an African perspective:

1. George and I are Americans, and obviously, this means wealthy.

2. People with wealth are considered a resource, especially if you know them by name.

3. The young man in jail obviously had a greater financial need than we did.

4. Because he had a greater need, then we should feel obligated to share our resources with him.

5. If we are unwilling to share our resources, then we should be considered selfish and greedy.

Although we read many books about Africa before we came to live here, books about “what went wrong with Africa” and “why Africa, with all of its wealth, is still struggling”; and although we knew we could be perceived as obligated to meet needs, we were not prepared for the social pressure this puts on us in our day to day lives. We have experienced it over and over, both in the churches and in the marketplace.

There are needs, deep needs, everywhere. What is our obligation? Is it to give to everyone who asks, from the beggar to the pastor? We have been asked to build medical clinics, schools, and churches, to roof schools, hire pastors, develop a training center in Mozambique, and many, many more requests. If we had attempted to answer every request from the time we arrived two months ago, we would have long since emptied our pockets and gone home.

Obviously we cannot meet every need or request, even if we had the will to do it. We are resolute. Our obligation is not to be the rich uncle, distributing broadly, so others will think us charitable. Our obligation is primarily to the One who called us here and to those He called us to. Our primary calling is to lift the burden of those we have come to serve, those who have the lowest status, the women in the rural villages. If we do that well, regardless of anyone’s opinion of us, we will have accomplished the purpose for which we were sent.