There is a saying, "Whenever a criminal commits a crime, he is sure to shiver. For he will close his eyes and think about Inspector Vinod, who with his stupendous knowledge of world history is surely on his trail."

“Please lend me your ears,” the speaker said. A little girl from the audience lent him her nose. He held the nose up in his one hand, with his other a rose and smelt it deeply. “Ah finally I can smell. The fresh burst of nature. Shakespeare, Shakespeare, today your sonnets make sense to me.” The speaker cried uncontrollably with joy.

“The End,” said Inspector Vinod. He was misty eyed too. He enjoyed reading to children. This tale was a particular favorite and never failed to move him. He wondered as to whether it had the same effect on the children too. With a large smile on his face he turned towards the thirty or so young minds of the Bamako Primary School (We also have air conditioning) that stared at him without blinking. They seemed unmoved.

“This,” asked one child pointing at Inspector Vinod, “is the prize?” He kicked a pebble moodily and cursed under his breath. He cursed in French as most people in Mali would, but it didn’t matter. Inspector Vinod understood. He was a Master of French. Rumor had it that he could offer a light to another person and say Bon Appetit three times in rapid succession even before the first puff of the cigarette. Though the child cursed softly, softer than the trees that whispered with the unnecessarily gentle breeze that blew on most hot days in Bamako, Inspector Vinod could easily fathom the child’s disappointment.

He walked up to the child and offered him a toffee. “What’s your name, child?” he enquired.

The child could have said, “Katikiro Kaya Kavuma”. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “That’s none of your business.” He couldn’t see Inspector Vinod’s eyes behind those dark sunglasses, but he could sense intuitively that they were full of grave sadness, the kind that would make Romeo remove the dagger from his stomach and say, “Ah. Life is not so bad. Other people have it worse.”

Katikiro felt bad for a second. He didn’t mean to be rude to a visitor to his country. But he had been looking forward to the prize for one entire year. Had he had studied ceaselessly for six months to meet a strange man with a giant moustache who couldn’t even tell a tale full of dragons and hobbits like in that movie? He had worked so hard. He also had to display quick on the spot thinking to win the contest. The government had posed the question to all students of Mali: How does the big bang theory sufficiently explain the origins of the universe?” Katikiro was the only one to answer correctly. He wrote down: It is very difficult to say.

This was an answer that would have made Stephen Hawking proud. The President of Mali was beyond himself with joy and had announced a surprise prize.

That was six months ago. Inspector Vinod was delighted to receive a request from the Government of Mali. Dear Inspector, the letter had said. One of our children has correctly deduced the beginnings of the universe and what better way to reward him than a face to face meeting with the World Famous Inspector with a Stupendous Knowledge of World History? The letter had gone on to offer the President’s Best Wishes on important looking stationery.

“Talk about rhetorical questions,“ Inspector Vinod had addressed the President without using a telephone. Of course he would go to Mali! He always had time for children. He agreed to visit the school in six months and informed President Bush that he wouldn’t be available for the function where George would unveil some new and improved world map that he always kept talking about. He, Inspector Vinod, would be in Bamako, Mali at that time.

Had it all been in vain? As far as the Inspector could see, Katikiro was not one bit happy to see him. He looked at the child and wondered as to how he could better his mood. The child saw Inspector Vinod looking sadder than he had ever seen anybody look.

He felt bad and walked up to Inspector Vinod. “Katikiro. My name is Katikiro.”

“Katikiro, what a lovely name. Katikiro, did you enjoy looking at the giraffes yesterday?” asked Inspector Vinod.

“Yes! But how did you know?” Katikiro was amazed. His father was a giraffe keeper at the local reserve (as a result Katikiro was automatically exempted from Show and Tell) but there was no way that Inspector Vinod would have known. There was after all, Katikiro reasoned, something special about this man.

“I am a magician,” said Inspector Vinod. He hated lying to a child but sometimes one lie was better than a hundred truths.

The truth was that Katikiro was a dirty child who hadn’t bathed in the morning. Inspector Vinod noticed that Katikiro had the exact same droppings on his hair and feet. Using his expert knowledge of flora and fauna, Inspector Vinod had eliminated the droppings as belonging to pigeons, sparrows and indeed every bird known to the Animal Planet Channel. To get these droppings in this peculiar manner from an animal, Katikiro would have had to walked under the animal. Katikiro’s well formed bone structure indicated that he was a lad who wasn’t accustomed to walking under elephants. Inspector Vinod’s detective instincts had screamed out, “Giraffe!!!” and he had followed them.

“Really, you are a magician? Then why did you say earlier that you were an Inspector with a Stupendous Knowledge of World History?”

“All detectives are magicians, are they not?”

“Make this stone disappear,” Katikiro demanded.

“Only if it kills somebody.”

Inspector Vinod chuckled loudly at his very subtle joke. Then he saw Katikiro’s puzzled face and was conscious of how close he was to losing him again.

“What do you want to do this afternoon?” he asked changing the topic.

“I want to go to the Hippodrome. My father told me that they have hippopotamuses race each other in twenty five meter swimming pools. The winning hippo gets to ride a motorcycle in the Well Of Death.”

Are disappointments a part of this child’s destiny, Inspector Vinod wondered. He didn’t know the dictionary meaning of the word Hippodrome but knew enough to know that it definitely didn’t involve a combination of hippos and motorcycles. He tried to remember the last time he had heard the word and grimaced.

Another painful memory.

A long, long time ago, in a coming of age conversation , Inspector Vinod’s father had spoken to him of hippodromes. “Mark my words, “ he said as the car jostled viciously in a Bombay pothole, “This nation is going to the gutter. The day is not far off when we will have dogs racing each other at the Hippodrome.”

But that was long ago. It didn’t matter what hippodromes actually were. The important thing was that the child should be happy. He owed that much to Katikiro. Inspector Vinod walked away. He dialed the President. After an animated conversation where he visibly lost his temper on no fewer than one occasion, he walked back to Katikiro.

“Alright,” he said in a determined manner. “Tomorrow morning, you will see hippos race at the Hippodrome. But first, you must go home, take a bath and get sufficient rest for the long day tomorrow.”

Katikiro was delighted. He leapt up and hugged Inspector Vinod at shoulder height.

“Can my friend, Djeniko come too?” he asked pointing to a girl who looked away shyly.

“All of you can come,” said Inspector Vinod in the manner of an aristocrat who has flung his last piece of bread towards a hungry crowd. There was loud cheering. An elephant trumpeted in the distance. Inspector Vinod heard drums in the marketplace play to rhythms of one, two and three. The mellifluous tunes of Babacour Traoure floated over the airwaves of Radio Bamakan. It was a wonderful moment. The last amount of resentment coagulated into a small bubble and evaporated into the hot Mali air.

“Now, where is your school bus?” Inspector Vinod asked. It had been a long day.

“Our driver is always late,” complained Katikiro. “We go home late and some days it gets so dark we cant play football. But he is a nice man. He always gives us plenty of chocolates.”

Inspector Vinod looked stern. These children of today! Didn’t they ever read the newspapers? Muhammad Ali, the strongest man of all time had weak teeth from eating too much chocolate. This fact had been covered on a daily basis in the newspaper that Inspector Vinod read for the last ten years. If that wasn’t a clarion call to stop having too much chocolate, then Inspector Vinod didn’t know what was.

“The bus,” he said, “is only for traveling. It is not a candy store. Hippos don’t race in front of boys who eat too much chocolate.”

“That’s a lie,” said Katikiro.

“I admi…” Inspector Vinod had begun to say when a very loud voice obliterated all that was present in his immediate surroundings.

“Come on Inspector, were you never a child?” asked a big man in military uniform. He was very tall (Katikiro could have walked under him) and had big arms, big legs and in a manner calculated to offend Inspector Vinod’s aesthetic sense, he carried around beady eyes and yellow teeth on his face. Streams of sweat flowed down his skin and momentarily quenched the thirst of the dry parched earth on which he strode.

“Were you never a child?” the man repeated.

“Only between the ages of one and fourteen” Inspector Vinod answered cryptically.

“Johan Bohatha,” the man stretched his hand out. As Inspector Vinod shook it, he was conscious of the fact that Johan had the biggest hands that he ever seen. He was not a man to be trifled with. The school had acted wisely in employing this man as the school bus driver. Here was a man that could take care of the children to and from home. The children too felt his overpowering presence (that bordered on omnipresence) and seemed to listen to him. One gesture of his little finger was all that it took to get them into the bus.

“The pleasure,” Inspector Vinod said, “is mine.” You have a noble occupation Johan. Ferrying the candles of the future to the temples of knowledge and causing them to glow brighter.”

“All in a days work,” Johan guffawed loudly even though Inspector Vinod hadn’t said anything funny. He wiped some sweat off his face with his fatigues.

“Do you serve in the army, Johan?” Inspector Vinod queried.

“Retired, Inspector, retired.” Johan nearly beat his chest with his fist. “And proud of it.”

“Rightly so. Volleyed and Thundered, Stormed at with Shot and Shell, Boldly they rode and well,” Inspector Vinod quoted.

“Ride well I did,” Johan’s eyes glistened over as he reminisced. “Those were the days. Battles were bloody and the leaders remembered to thank you.” He pulled out a letter from his pocket. Inspector Vinod thought to himself that the letter resembled a woman who dyed her hair regularly, but forgot to get a face lift. It looked young and old at the same time. It was addressed to Johan from Modibo Keita, the first President of Mali.

“Congratulations,” said Inspector Vinod. “You received this award in the summer of 1960?” he queried pointing to the date in the upper right hand corner.

“Yes, that was a peculiar year,” Johan replied. “I remember receiving this letter in July at a ceremony. It was actually cold then and I had to zip up my jacket during the ceremony.”

Suddenly.

“Did you see that?” shouted Inspector Vinod. “A zebra, a zebra! It darted into the bus.”

“Impossible Inspector,” said Johan. “We have a saying: Zebras do not roam the streets of Bamako. Besides look at the children. Not one of them has reacted.”

“It was a very small zebra,” said Inspector Vinod. “And very quick. It entered the driver’s compartment.”

Inspector Vinod saw that there was little time to waste in idle conversation. “There’s no telling with these zebras,“ he said. “Johan, wait outside and be ready to catch the harmless looking animal, should it run out.”

The children were now visibly excited. “Are you driving us home today?” one of them queried, while another threw a piece of chalk at Inspector Vinod.

Inspector Vinod slammed the doors to the driver’s compartment shut. He rolled up his sleeves. After a few minutes, he stepped out of the bus in a pristine, magnificent, but all the same a zebra less state.

“Zebra got your tongue Inspector?” Johan laughed loudly.

Inspector Vinod walked up to Johan.

“How old is this bus Johan?” he asked.

“Why its little less than two months old,” answered Johan. It hadn’t seemed possible, but he was actually sweating more.

“Johan Bohatha, you are a low and despicable man. I am going to call the police right now and have them place you under arrest.”

Johan laughed uneasily. “Believe me, believe me I had nothing to do with the zebra’s disappearance.”

“You will be placed in the hands of the law and punished severely for participating actively in the child slavery trade!” thundered Inspector Vinod. You were going to sell these children to cocoa farm owners. You are no military man. In fact, I doubt if you are even a man.”

Johan Bohatha’s eyes grew red and bloodshot as though he were drunk. He charged-one huge mass of muscle and anger-towards Inspector Vinod.

Johan knew that he could kill Inspector Vinod easily. All it would take was one blow. Inspector Vinod realized it too. As Johan lifted his arms to deliver The Final Blow, Inspector Vinod held his peace. Then he realized that there was no other alternative. He removed his sunglasses and stared into Johan’s eyes.

The children in the bus who had never seen a wild elephant being tamed saw something close to it now.

Johan froze in midair for two whole minutes. He was powerless to do anything else. In the Inspector’s eyes Johan saw sights that he had never even seen in his wildest nightmares. He saw a hundred policemen at every block, each one handing out a hundred tickets for blocks at an end. He saw a thousand sunrises and no sunsets. He saw elephants with flippers and giraffes walking on two legs supported with crutches. And everyone spoke in English! It was all too much. He broke down and his chin hit the dusty earth. Inspector Vinod put his sunglasses back on and called the police.

“I confess!” he cried out. “I confess!” I was eventually going to trade these children for money. I joined the school under false military credentials. But how did you know?”

How did Inspector Vinod know?

Because of his Stupendous Knowledge of World History.

Consider the facts, he said.
“
1. Cocoa prices are at a ten year low. Farmers in the Ivory Coast have stopped paying children and in fact have started beating them if they try to return home.

2. Many of the laborers that work on these farms are from Mali. The Malian consul in the Ivory Coast has had to rescue boys who had worked five years or more without payment.

3. Given this scenario, my antennae were already up, so to speak. Then I meet Johan who seems like a good sort of fellow. Till he shows me a letter from the Government of Mali. That letter was dated, July 1960.”

All the children looked at Inspector Vinod with blank faces. “Don’t they teach you history?” asked Inspector Vinod. The children seemed unsure. “When did Mali gain independence from the French?” Inspector Vinod asked. At this stage, he was moving his arms about wildly.

“June 1960?” answered Katikiro.

“Think,” answered Inspector Vinod as he knelt down and placed his hands on the boy‘s shoulders. “Think!”.

Katikiro’s friend Djeniko raised her hand. Inspector Vinod looked at her. “Speak up young one.”

Djeniko spoke in a halting manner that is characteristic of children reciting what they learn from rote. “In June 1960, the republic that gained independence was the Sudanese republic. This republic was comprised of Senegal and Mali. Two months later in August, Senegal seceded from The Sudanese Republic, which was then renamed the Republic of Mali.”

“So you see, there was no Mali in July of 1960. There was only the Sudanese Republic. I saw at once that the letter was forged.”

“Go on Inspector,” requested the President who had arrived a little while ago at the scene with the police commissioner.

“I knew that Johan was lying. But maybe he was making up the letter to impress me. I had to be sure. I had to invent a plausible reason to gain access to the compartment without arousing Johan’s suspicion. I said that I had seen a zebra dart into the bus.”

Nobody said anything.Inspector Vinod continued, “Inside the bus I saw the mileage on the odometer. Twelve thousand kilometers! Don’t you think that it is a bit too much for a bus that ferries only in Bamako and is only three months old? I did. This extraordinary mileage after the fake letter. I was beginning to get very suspicious and looked around more. Underneath the driver’s seat I also found this.” He held up a receipt. “It is a receipt from a petrol pump. See the address.”

Everyone strained their necks to look at the small lettering. The lucky ones snapped back to a normal posture only after reading the words, “Aboiso.”

Inspector Vinod went on, “I knew that this man had been driving up to the Ivory Coast regularly. Who knows as to how many children he has already sold there? Or whether he went up there to negotiate with different farm owners? That is for you to find out.”

“And find out we will,” said the President. “Inspector Vinod, thank you for saving these innocent children. Can I invite you over for dinner this evening?”

Inspector Vinod shook his head side to side. “I am sorry President. That is a most gracious offer, but I am compelled to refuse. These children need someone to drive them home.”

“All right, then lets meet for brunch tomorrow? Its this new fad,” said the president. “You don’t eat breakfast and then eat during lunchtime.”

“I know all about brunch. I would be delighted to take you up on your offer,” said Inspector Vinod.

As the President drove away, Katikiro came up to Inspector Vinod. His eyes were wide open with admiration. “You are going to eat with the President?”

“You can join too,” said Inspector Vinod. “And so can your friend Djeniko. We will dine with the President after going to the Hippodrome.”

“Inspector Vinod,” said Katikiro, “You are the best gift that I could ever have gotten.”

Inspector Vinod smiled. His grin stretched beyond the confines of his expansive moustache.

“Do they really have hippopotamuses at the Hippodrome?” Katikiro queried.

“They do now,” said Inspector Vinod.

He got into the bus. He moved aside the copy of Info-Matin lying on the seat. The bus had a stick shift mechanism. He pressed the clutch confidently. The children were visibly sleepy now, otherwise he would have told them of the adventure where he switched to fourth gear from first without skipping a beat. But that was another story. For another day.

He looked out of the window. He didn’t want to see any more criminals. All he wanted to see was a zebra. In the world of crime, you got used to seeing things in black and white.

CIA World Factbook- Mali

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