Recently, as I sat in a rush-hour traffic jam on one of Kampala busiest roads, a 4-wheel drive vehicle with government number plates turned up alongside the one I was in.

In the back was a Cabinet minister, one of the older ones who really should be “eating:” their pensions by now. He was busy reading one of the dailies as his driver, accompanied by possibly his police bodyguard, pulled out on the wrong side of the road to overtake the stalled traffic.  

The driver was soon forced to stop by cars coming from the other side, being driven on the right side of the road.
As I stared at him, wondering what on earth made him think he could break the law so brazenly, I caught sight of a traffic policeman in his off-white uniform, not far from where we were.

He was standing there, looking as if his brief for that morning was to make like a statue, as motorists sat there in avoidable gridlock. I say avoidable because if nincompoops such as the minister’s driver were dealt with by the police as the law stipulated, Kampala’s roads would be easier to navigate.  

Soon enough, the traffic on the other side cleared and off went the driver with his VIP passenger. Unable to contain myself, I called out to the policeman, who crossed the road and came over. 

I felt I should find out what he thought his job was, and if his view of why he had been deployed that morning was different from mine. I believed, possibly erroneously, that he had been sent out to ensure motorists drove safely and sensibly, within the law. 

Laws

Me: Hello; how are you today?

Policeman: I am fine, sir.

Me: Tell me something: Are there traffic laws for ordinary people such as me, and others for ministers’ drivers?