“Howaya, mate?” Cobus asked as the officer approached his window. Like all of Africa, Mozambique had a troubled history of colonization and slavery. Though the European overlords had long been expelled, the wounds were still raw, and Cobus was scrupulous about not projecting any sense of entitlement or authority that would put off a man with the power to incarcerate him.

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

“About seventy, mate.” Cobus knew that the speed limit was eighty kilometers per hour, and he had been cautious to leave a buffer in case he encountered any opportunistic officers like the one now leaning on his window. All that mattered to Cobus at this point was separating himself from the policeman before he decided to search the car.

“You were going one hundred.” The accusation was nothing new to Cobus. It happened all the time throughout Africa. This was the moment the typical tourist would grow indignant, implicitly daring the official to exercise his authority. Then came the fatal mistake: they would say they were in a hurry. They were important! They had places to be: a safari, a fancy lodge—anywhere but on the side of a remote stretch of road with a greedy cop. At that point, they would be offered the opportunity to pay the “on-the-spot fine,” a.k.a. bribe.

Cobus had long since learned that the currency of detention was time. As the locals said, “You may have a watch, but we have the time.” Whoever had more time would win this battle of wills.

“Huh! That’s strange. My meter said I was going seventy, but you say I was going one hundred.” Cobus paused, feigning befuddlement. “Where was that, exactly?”

“I followed you for five kilometers.”

Bullshit, Cobus thought, but he knew that this trial wouldn’t be won on the facts.

Cobus swallowed as the officer angled for a view of the back seat. Please don’t ask to look under the blanket. If he did, the officer might discover something that could land Cobus in a Mozambican prison, and Cobus had no intention of being taken alive. He began formulating how best to kill the officer with his bare hands, if it started to break that way.

The alternative was paying the on-the-spot fine to get the officer to fuck off, but Cobus knew that would only lead to word spreading of an easy mark in their territory, and more cops would come swarming, with more curious eyes. No, that wasn’t an option.

“Who’s in charge of this region?” Cobus asked with polite curiosity, cautious not to come off as threatening.

“Chief Chongo.”

Cobus lit up. “I know Chief Chongo! He’s a big man!” Big man meant Chongo was important—a man worthy of respect and fear. “Where is he?”

“He is gone.”

Probably a lie, but so was Cobus’s claim that he knew this Mr. Chongo. He was gambling that no officer would want to hassle his boss to get his back on a shakedown for a few meticals.