When I was arrested for not properly wearing a face mask

By Kelly Rwamapera

This is the experience of our reporter in Kigali when he was arrested for not properly wearing a face mask, a breach of the government’s directives on the prevention of the Coronavirus.

(Long read)

 

Today is Tuesday 2 February 2021.

It is about 11 am and I’m walking by Rwanda Education Board heading to the Press House that's about a kilometre ahead, opposite Amahoro Stadium.

I turn over my right shoulder to see who is hissing and a police officer clad in his blue uniform like a tarantula wasp, with the Russian AK47 calls me to a civilian coaster on the other side of the road.

He looks fatigued under the weight of the gun and a large uniform on him with a terrifying look that seems ready to strike as an exasperated scorpion.

His black shoes is shining like a morning cobra and their black shimmer darkens the beams of the golden morning rays while his red eyes are heavy in their sockets.

His right-hand is holding his gun with pride as the index finger is erected, pointing in the direction of the gun's long muzzle that slightly points to the ground about two feet in front of him.

He stares at me and directs me with his head to his left as his slow-moving hand points to the entrance into the civilian coaster.

I’m aware police arrests people in such a way accusing them of violating government directives for the prevention of Coronavirus but I was wearing my mask properly.

I want to question but my pounding heart pushes me on and on until I enter the white coaster where I find about eight young men and another police officer.

I randomly sit in a free place but the officers refuse and show me where to sit as if the place has been specifically prepared for me before they found me.

I’m a journalist in this Central African country and so like other journalists, one has to be able to be vigilant in any event, you never know the logic behind it.

I then ask the police officer where he is taking me and why and he tells me to ask the rest on the coaster who all look at me and laugh to scorn.

I insist and he tells me that I have been arrested for not properly wearing my facemask which I dismiss right away and ask for my freedom.

He responds that my explanation is going to be heard by his superiors at the stadium.

It’s very hot inside and every one of us is sweating and the officer angrily refuses us from opening the windows while we sweat in the heat inside and he doesn’t tell us why we’re not allowed to open the windows.

I keep silent as I sweat after all for the last one year, since the announcement of Coronavirus, the country is ruled on directives from above that ordinary people cannot question whatsoever.

The police officer is at his front window, angrily inspecting the people outside to notice anyone in breach of government directives like a hunting eagle inspects the jungle for prey.

The coaster stops and he alights, shuts us inside to melt in the hotness while the few people outside disappear as if they see it insecure to be in the presence of this extended arm of security.

He returns without a “catch” and we proceed.

I don’t know what happens but I always find myself in poetic language especially in a situation when I'm excited about my country, beliefs or a lovely woman.

As we approached the gate of the stadium, I remember the history of the Roman Empire and the dangerous games in their Colosseum, and lines poetry come into my mind:

The gatekeepers make ajar the grand Roman Colosseum

To let in numberless of grieved slaves and vilest offenders

To find demise at Gladiators' swords in the watch of the diadem;

Chariots take them into the valleys as feast for scavengers.

At the stadium (around 11:30 am)

The coaster parks before entrance number 18 and several police officers are standing here as well as two soldiers.

Several men and women in blue and two soldiers adorned in their combat, police cars, and an army motor are all here; they have planned for the pandemic.

I alight out and wait for what next as the rest of the people who were in the coaster ascend the stairs into the stadium.

The police officer who arrested me, whose name tag bears E Kabahizi, orders me to enter the stadium and I refuse.

He tells me that the person who has the authority to listen to my complaint is inside the stadium.

I accept to enter, with the assurance that the one inside was going to listen to me.

inside the stadium, there are about 20 people arrested and I’m directed to sit among them which I refuse, asking for the one in charge such that I explain my case to them.

They undermine my request and rather want to handcuff me, threatening that if I refuse to sit, they are going to take me to custody.

I have mentioned that every police officer I have been meeting had a name tag but this time an officer who has no name tag comes out raging like disturbed wasps, tires on my hands and handcuffs me.

The officer about 28 years old has strong sinewy hands, is about 5.80 feet tall and is about 140 pounds.

He comes with folded lips towards the teeth in rage.

I know that the reason this garrison has no name tag is that the Rwandan law does not blame wrongful acts of a law enforcement officer on an institution of law but on that individual.

If a law enforcement officer is going to do unlawful acts, they can hide their identity such that the victim cannot pursue them although the process is also next to impossible.

The raged officer young man officer drags me to a lone place where he tethers me on an iron bar with handcuffs.

I start fidgeting with removing my tablet from the bag with my free left hand to take a picture of myself with handcuffs but the police officers are keeping a keen eye on me and as soon as I get out my tablet, the anonymous officer reaches out and confiscates it.

He is sure that I have taken pictures and threatens that he is going to format my tablet if I don’t remove the password for him to see.

He returns and removes me from the iron bar, handcuffs both hands, and sits above the rest of the arrestees where my eyes rest on the green expanse of the football field encased in the stadium.

A feather in ink and handcuffs impediment 

The green grass in the stadium looks to be too good to be a ‘prisoner’ of the stadium and this inspires a poem in me, to narrate all that has happened since I was arrested.

And I beheld him the fate of man’s peace

Fatigued under the blue attire and weight

Of the metal which hunts men with ease,

Ordering me to enter the caravan of eight.

I discover that a narrative poem would take too long to arrange on a poetic metre and rhymes and might be hard for some to understand so I switch to prose style.

But my writing is obstructed by the fact that I’m not free; I’m handcuffed.

I stop writing and start reflecting on the other days when I was arrested for journalist reasons which is normal, in fact, a journalist who has never been behind bars is the most careful person in Rwanda.

This land of a thousand hills (and valleys of course), has had a long history of its people running away from authoritarian governments and I’m one of the few men and women who have tried to reverse the journeys made by our fathers and return to our land.

It was a grand dream I had since my childhood and I fulfilled it, so, even when we walk through the valleys of the shadow of death that our fathers ran away from, we have that hope that even when our children are orphaned, they would survive just like thousands of other orphans are in Rwanda.

A scam of freedom (1 pm)

My contemplation is interrupted by the police officer Dr. A Matama who calls me to his desk, passing by a speaker that shouts the message of government directives on the prevention of Coronavirus.

He orders the anonymous officer to set me free but he refuses, arguing that I should first remove the password in my tablet and delete the picture they suspect that I took of myself with handcuffs.

Dr. Matama tells me that he is going to set me free after deleting the pictures.

I remove the password, trembling with the handcuffs on me, and they find no pictures and Matama leads me out of the stadium to set me free.

At the stairs, before we departed, he has a boring conversation with me about several things I can’t even listen to as my heart is far away longing for freedom and my ears loathe his delaying words.

He mentions that I might be stopped at the gate because I don’t have a receipt of Kigali City for fines of breaking the government's directives, the Rwf10,000 (about $10).

I look at him as he says it and I can detect from his facial expression that he is just playing games and is not ready to leave me free although his plump hand shows me the way to go.

I take pictures of myself going out while I imagine how I’m going to be stopped by the security guards at the exit of the stadium as Matama has said.

Before I reach the security guards, they point to the stadium balcony, showing me that Matama is calling me to go back.

I find him down the stairs on the phone as if receiving instructions from “above” about a “journalist”.

After a long time on the phone, he tells me that it is unbecoming for me to leave the rest in the stadium and therefore shows me the way back into the stadium.

I am rearrested.

He drags me into a conversation about my work as a journalist as he delays me at the balcony while he texts a message with a small phone.

His superior calls him and he tells him that he is still writing the name of the media house I work for.

I work for Kigali Law Tidings and the name is difficult for him to pronounce as well to spell, he asks me to spell it for him as he avoids me seeing what he is texting.

I call a journalist at the Press House to lend me a jacket as I’m not sure if I will be set free today or days later or spend the night in the stadium.

The sun has probably disappeared and coldness engulfs the stadium.

I try to approach some of the people I found in the coaster, ask them if they would support me if I took my case to the police disciplinarian committee but they refuse, advising me that things are good for any Rwandan who keeps silent even in the face of injustice.

At a few minutes past 18 O’clock, Matama comes and sets us free.

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