Mugabo Brown, a thin man, poured cold water into a large bowl and washed his face. He dressed in his native clothing. It consisted of a brightly colored long wrap, several bracelets and roughly made, leather sandals.

He dressed under a single light bulb that illuminated his and his wife’s small bedroom. His well pressed uniform waited for him in the narrow closet in his office at work. He would change into his suit when he arrived at work at eight-thirty, if all went well.

His wife of twenty years had made breakfast for him as he dressed like every morning of their good marriage. She wore a colorful house dress and matching head wrap. She had a pleasant face and demeanor. They treated each other kindly and with respect. Not all married couples in arranged marriages could say the same. They were very fortunate in that regard.

They chatted over their meager meal as long married couples do. Their son was now at university and life had been good to them. Not easy, but good in the long run. He finished his meal quickly and placed the bowel onto the small counter next to the newly purchased compact refrigerator.

He kissed his wife tenderly and turned to leave. “Be careful my dear,” she said in French as he climbed onto his old L’avinr bicycle. “I will my dear, he replied with a wide smile filled with perfect, white teeth.

It wasn’t a long ride to work as the crow flew, but it was an arduous climb up nearly one thousand feet of Rwandan mountain side on sometimes very narrow and seemingly, always busy roads. There was always danger lurking nearby. There were the ruts and holes in the road left from the hard rains months ago, wild dogs to contend with and any number of new obstacles tossed in his path each day from old refrigerators to heaps of trash.

As he climbed higher, in the beginning of his trip, he could look down and see his small, white and pink cinder block home, sitting among many others that looked just like it. After some time he could only see the rooftops of the many homes below him from his lofty perch on the side of the steep mountain.

He was proud of what he had accomplished in his life so far and it wasn’t over yet, or so he hoped. “The future is always an unknown,” he remembered. It was a forty minute ride to work if all went well.

He grabbed at small handholds on window frames, mirrors and high bumpers on large trucks or small buses to help him up the steeper sections of the road and when they were within reach. It made him feel young again and close to his people.

If it rained, which it did nearly everyday in the rainy season, his ride could be miserable either from the wet storms or the thick mud that often slowed him down. Lightening was often seen and thunder roared up above the mountaintops and around him. He sometimes worried about being struck by that powerful, natural force. But he was lucky ones. He was fortunate to own a bicycle. Others only had walking as a mode of transportation if they couldn’t afford a motorcycle taxi or a bus.

The roads were dry now since the rains had moved north. Now the chocking, red, dust, was everywhere, stirred up by the many large vehicles roaring up and down the roads. He had received his bicycle from his father many years ago when his father gave up riding it. He was seventy.

He climbed slowly up the road filled with switch backs and passed hundreds of people along the way dressed in colorful outfits of several cultures. That diversity had once almost destroyed the country but those dangerous times were now behind him forever, hopefully. Those times were costly in several ways.

The steep ride gave him time to think as he climbed while keeping a careful watch around him. The journey up the mountain was like his life. He had started at the bottom in the post office and after several years he had taken another Civil Service test and passed it. He had taken a chance and changed his future. His pay increased some after the promotion. His wife was pleased that he had listened to her and taken the test.

The work was filled with opportunities, peril, and pitfalls, of course. Someone was always waiting in line for him to make a mistake and to take his place. Many took bribes to line their pockets and to make their lives more comfortable. He refused and often paid a high price for being an honest man in a field filled with dishonest men or so it seemed to him.

Many thought that he couldn’t be trusted, interestingly. He had been tempted but he remembered his wife and how proud she was of him. He refused to lower himself to their level. After twenty-five years he had become the boss.

When he reached his office he brought his bicycle in with him. If he didn’t the chances were good that it would be stolen.

“Good morning sir.” “Good morning Joseph. How are you today?” Joseph sat at his low desk with the light blinking on his phone. “I am still here and god has given me another day sir.” “Exactly Joseph, let’s make the best of it, shall we?” “Yes sir. You have an important phone call from the United States of America waiting for you. The man on the line is named Todd Jacobs.”

It was two weeks before Chad and Suzan’s wedding. Chad had pulled up the page on his computer with the phone numbers of the three different police offices in Kigali. He picked the one in the part of town with the largest population. It was the Gasabo Station.

It seemed to make sense to him. He needed lots of resources to make the team’s plan work. He had to stay late in the office to reach the police department early in the morning Kigali time. After a few clicks and hums, the phone had begun to ring.

Joseph pushed the button on the phone as the Chief of Police walked into his office and sat at his desk. He would wash his face again and change into his western suit after the phone call.

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Good morning. It’s 5:35 here in Southern California.

I couldn’t sleep knowing I had promised you a new piece of “Joe in Africa.”

So, here it is, served up with a little twist of surprise, perhaps.