NOTED
NOTED.
Lawson Chiwara
The generator had been running since sunset.
Its hum filled the bar the way fatigue fills a body—quiet, constant, unavoidable.
A man stood by the wall, phone plugged in, eyes fixed on the battery icon like it owed him something. At home, the power had gone again. At work, silence was expensive. This socket was neutral ground.
Behind the counter, Rudo wiped the same glass for the third time.
Then boots.
Not rushed.
Not loud.
Certain.
She didn’t flinch. She straightened.
Apron first.
Then the smile.
> “Officer, madii?”
The words came out smooth, respectful. Not a greeting—an offering.
The officer didn’t answer. He scanned the room instead. Bottles. Faces. The door. The windows. The exits. Routine.
> “Licence iripi?”
Rudo turned to the wall automatically.
The frame was there.
The paper inside it had stopped mattering six days ago.
January.
She felt it first in her throat.
The owner wasn’t around.
He never was when things went wrong.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
> “Ahh, officer… boss vakati vachauya Monday. Pane zvatingaite here nhasi?”
Her eyes lifted briefly—just long enough to register as hope—then dropped.
A practiced movement. Learned, not chosen.
> “Tirikungoshanda chete. Hapana trouble pano.”
Her fingers brushed the counter, close enough to be accidental. Always accidental.
The officer stepped back.
Not because of rules.
Because tonight wasn’t about favours.
Tonight needed numbers.
He exhaled, already done thinking.
> “Munhu wese arimo—simukai.”
The room stiffened.
The man by the wall unplugged his phone slowly, like speed might make him guilty.
> “But officer, ini handisi kutonwa—”
The officer didn’t look at him.
He never does.
One man muttered, “Ko hatina kutombonwa?”
Another laughed once. Sharp. Nervous.
They lined up anyway.
Rudo stayed behind the counter, suddenly promoted to witness.
As the last man stepped out, the officer paused.
> “Next time, udza boss vako atambe nema licence.”
She nodded.
> “Ndazvinzwa, officer.”
The door shut.
The truck engine started.
The generator kept humming.
Rudo reached up and straightened the licence frame.
A useless habit.
---
The station smelled like damp paper and old sweat.
They sat on a bench that had forgotten comfort—backs straight, eyes forward, dignity folded and put away for later.
A constable walked in with a clipboard.
> “Zita?”
The man answered.
> “Mhosva—public drinking.”
He frowned.
> “But handina—”
The pen clicked.
> “Kana usingade kusaina, munorara until Monday.”
The word Monday wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
He thought of his children already asleep.
Of the thirty dollars in his wife’s purse meant for cooking oil and bread.
The paper slid toward him.
> “Signa apa. Tiri kukubatsira.”
He signed.
Fast.
Careful.
Like a lie you don’t want to read twice.
Later—much later—he noticed the fine.
USD 15.
He said nothing.
---
Monday arrived clean and unforgiving.
The courtroom in Makoni smelled of polish and impatience. Plastic chairs. Faded files. Names mispronounced on purpose.
The magistrate didn’t look up.
> “Public drinking?”
The man stepped forward.
> “Yes, Your Worship.”
The words landed wrong in his mouth.
The charge sheet spoke for him.
He had already confessed.
The magistrate nodded once.
> “Fine paid?”
> “Yes.”
> “Next.”
That was it.
No bar.
No expired licence.
No explanation.
Just a receipt that said $15 and a weekend that had cost $30.
---
Later, on a cracked screen somewhere, his words travelled further than he had.
Respectful. Careful. Polite.
I am sharing this with humility…
In a bright office far from Makoni, a finger hovered, then clicked.
> Your concerns have been noted.
He read it twice.
Then locked his phone.
The screen went dark at 14%.
---
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