stopped at a street and waited for the robot to turn green for me. The sign on the other side of the street had K STR NW 1300 stamped on it. Looking around, I could see a post office but no pharmacy. This didn’t worry me. In my head four blocks sounded like just around the corner.
Back home in Soweto, four blocks would mean that I started counting from my neighbour’s house, and the fourth house would be my destination. Anyway, the doorman had said that I could walk. And I didn’t want to go back to the room without condoms, lest Siri change her mind about entertaining my excited rhino horn. That’s what I thought as the robot turned green for me and I stepped out onto the rough tar. “Four blocks! No glove, no love! Four blocks! No glove, no love!” my addled brain was singing over and over again.
Passing the Hamilton Hotel, I saw some homeless people sheltering under a building ahead. Some were smoking and others drinking something. A taxi stopped in front of me, but I kept walking. “I am just going four blocks,” I told the driver, who looked Ethiopian. Ahead of me, I could see the name of the next street: L STR NW.
To my relief, just after crossing the street I saw the CVS Pharmacy on my right. I walked until I got to the Balance Gym, where I waited for a break in the traffic so that I could cross the street.
Before I could cross the road, I heard a loud police siren. It was followed by the flashing of a blue light beside me. When I looked, I saw a white sedan with the word POLICE emblazoned across it in huge letters. It had stopped just a few metres in front of me.
As I crossed the road, I noticed what looked like a homeless man playing a mouth organ outside the pharmacy. He had his hat on the ground in front of him with a few coins in it.
Entering the shop, I walked towards the till. While I was asking one of the women there where I could find the condoms, two policemen entered the shop. Maybe they are coming to buy doughnuts, I thought to myself. I knew from the movies that American policemen loved doughnuts. But, instead, the police interrupted my conversation with the lady behind the till.
“You’re not allowed to walk around dressed like that, sir,” said one of them in a bellicose voice. He had huge shoulders and a small head.
“Why not, officer?” I asked.
“It’s the law here in America, sir,” he said, looking at me like a god admonishing a sinner. “It’s the moral code. You need to dress properly, with shoes on. Plain and simple.”
His enunciation of the word sir was loaded with sarcasm. It was as if he wanted to indicate exactly how unwelcome I was in Washington D.C.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know, officer,” I said, looking at my gown and my bare feet. “All I want are condoms.”
“You are not allowed to buy anything dressed like that, sir,” the second policeman said, taking hold of the collar of my gown.
“But I just came to buy condoms, officer,” I said, trying to suppress the feeling of irritation that rose up inside me as the policemen escorted me firmly out of the pharmacy. “I didn’t know it’s not allowed.”
Outside the pharmacy the homeless man stopped playing his mouth organ as the policemen walked me a few paces from the door.
“Okay, I understand, officers,” I said as soon as they let me go. “Let’s make a deal. How about I give one of you guys ten dollars to buy me condoms? The lady said they are in aisle eleven. You can buy me the brand of your choice and keep the change. And then everyone will be happy. What do you say, officers?”
The second policeman’s eyes flashed fire and brimstone, his nostrils flared. Oh no, here comes trouble! I thought to myself when I saw him balling his hands into fists. This is America. Black people are sent to jail over nothing.
“Where are you from?” the policeman asked angrily.
“Mzansi.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Africa. South Africa,” I said.
He threw me a cold look as if it was an unpardonable sin for a South African to be in the United States.
“Are you here on holiday or business?”
“Arts.”
“Who are you visiting, and how long have you known the person you are visiting?”
“Well, I don’t know the person because she is in the American government.”
“Does your government friend have a job title and an address?”
“Well, she is here somewhere, at the state department.”
“Do you have family here in D.C.?”
“No. I’m Sowetan.”
By this time a few passers-by had stopped to enjoy the drama. One large black lady had taken a front-line position as if she wanted to hear every word that was being exchanged between us. She gave me a broad smile that I could only translate to mean that she was on my side.
“Are you here for a green card?” asked the policeman with the small head through clenched teeth.
“What’s a green card?” I asked, deliberately sounding as if I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Are you interested in staying here permanently or what?” he asked, his voice low with rage.
“Hell no! I just want to buy some condoms.”
There was laughter.
“I’m sorry, but, as I already said, we can’t allow you to buy anything dressed like that.”
“Okay, I do understand, officers, but can’t one of you help me out? I’m begging you! This American lady is waiting eagerly for me back at the hotel.”
“What’s wrong with these people?” I heard a big sister say to the small crowd that had now gathered. “Just give brother Kunta the fucking condoms. He just wanna taste some American nookie.”
There was laughter again.
“May I see your papers, please?” said the second policeman, looking at me seriously. “How did you come to this country?”
“What?”
“May I see your papers.” He spoke very slowly as if every word he said was costing him in American dollars.
“Well, I obviously don’t have my papers with me. They are at the hotel.”
“Where is your hotel?”
“Four blocks away, the Hilton.”
“What’s your name?”
“Qhawe Mcwabe.”
The policemen looked amused at how my tongue clicked when I said my name and there and then a thought struck me.
“I am Qhawe Mcwabe,” I repeated. “I’m Khambule, Mzilankatha, inkatha kayingen’endlini,
