The thin man washed his face in a large bowl of cool water and slowly dressed in his native garb.

He wrapped himself in a long and colorful blanket, put on several bracelets and rough sandals with old worn out tire tread souls under a single light bulb that illuminated he and his wife’s small bedroom.

His well pressed uniform waited for him in a narrow closet in his office. He would change into it when he arrived at work at 8:30, if all went well.

His wife of twenty years made breakfast as he dressed. she wore a colorful house dress and matching head wrap. She had a pleasant face and demeanor. They chatted as long married couples chat over their meager meal.

He finished quickly and placed the small bowl on the concrete counter in their kitchen and kissed his wife good-bye. “Be careful my dear,” she said in French as he climbed on his old L’aviner bicycle.

It wasn’t a long ride to work but it was a steep climb up a very busy and narrow road with many dangers lurking along the way and a steep drop down into town.

Piles of trash on the side of the road and wild dogs were just a few of the dangers awaiting him on his way to work. Trucks with bad breaks, inattentive and or badly trained drivers were some of the others.

As he climbed higher he could look back down from his perch on his bicycle at his small, white, cinder block house below him. He was proud of what he had accomplished in life so far.

It was a forty minute ride up into the mountains to his office if all went well. He grabbed onto any handholds he might find, like window frames of bumpers on the cars, buses, large trucks or small vans that would help pull him up the steeper sections of the mountain roads. If he couldn’t find a handhold he would have to walk parts of the route.

The trip made him feel young again and close to “his people.” If it rained, which it did nearlky everyday of the rainey season, his ride could be cold and miserable.

He always carried a large trash bag in his pocket just in case. It was a cheap and efficient way to deal with the weather. No one suspected this thin, middle aged man on his old bicycle was the Chief of the Kigali police. But he was one of the lucky ones, he owned a bicycle.

Others had only walking as a mode of transportation if they couldn’t afford a bus ride to work or other journeys. The roads were usually covered in throngs of men, women and children doing just that. It seemed at times that all of humanity was walking on this country.

Interestingly many young men and women wore clothing donated from all over the world. It wasn’t unusual to see young men wearing shirts or sweatshirts with American or European team names or emblems splashed on their backs or chests in this country so far from America or Europe.

The road was dry and dusty now that the rains had moved north for the time being. For how long was anyone’s guess.

He had received this bicycle from his father many years ago as a gift when his father decided reluctantly that he was too old to continue to ride it any longer. He was sixty-nine when he came to that hard decision.

He had never learned owned a car or learned to drive. His son, now the Chief of Police was the first in his person in his family to have gone to college. The long ride to work was always exciting and filled with potential injury or worse. He found that stimulating and kept him on his toes, mentally.

He climbed slowly up the road filled with switch backs and up almost a thousand feet in altitude on the mountain sides from his comfortable house. The ride gave him time to think as he climbed higher. The journey was like his life had been.

He had started at the bottom in the post office and after working there for sometime, he took another civil service test. He passed the second test as he had passed the first.

He then became a low level police officer. The work was filled with opportunities and pitfalls. Someone was always looking for him to make a mistake so they might take his position. Many men took bribes as a matter of course. It was the way things were back then. He refused to succumb to that behavior and often paid the price for being an honest man in a dishonest bureaucracy. After twenty years he had become the Chief of Police.

Dogs chased him as he thought about his life and went too fast. Sometimes the rough roads made him keep his speed down. Then, near the end of his journey, he saw that final stretch of smoother road and sped off down the long downward slope to his office.

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.

Todd dialed the international number for the Kigali Police Department. He sat drumming his fingers on his desk as the phone rang. He wasn’t known for his patience at home or at work. It rang twice to his surprise. It was 1:00am in New York.

“This is Shyaka Smith, how may I help you?” This is Todd Jacobs, in the New York office of the FBI. I have a matter of some importance regarding a flight coming into Kigali from here in New York. I need help from you to set up a surveillance team for us back here in the states.”

“Perhaps you should talk to the local Police Chief in Kigali. I will transfer your call over to that office.” “Thanks for your help.”

After a few clicks and hums, the phone started to ring. It was now nearly 1:30 am New York time, 8:30am Rwandan time. The phone rang and was quickly answered by a man.

This is Gasabo Station. “Joseph Tankengi here,” the man answered in perfect English. “Hello sir, this is Todd Jacobson in the United States with the FBI. I need to talk to someone in charge. “That would be Chief Mugabo. He has just arrived. I will connect you to his office.” “Thanks sir.”

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So, you have met the Kigali Chief of Police.

I think we are off to a great start here.

Things are only going to get more interesting.

More tomorrow.