Fiffy with the Red, Shiny, Troublemaking Bike
The red bike war had been waged before. But those early battles were minor. For this, the fastest low-income bicycle for blocks, major conflict was about to erupt.
Perhaps the shiny red bike (or Red as it will hereby be know) was dogged by controversy since the day it was built. For as long as I’ve known that bike it’s sparked arguments, ignited fights and thrown people to the asphalt. Perhaps the original bike mechanics who assembled the bike cursed it in the factory. Or maybe, after living a healthy first life in North America, Red was secretly shipped away to Namibia, unbeknownst to its owner.
Once here in this land of sand, the Peugeot, now in its second or third decade on earth, was unpacked and refurbished in the Bicycling Empowerment Network Namibia (BEN Namibia) workshop. When I encountered it, Red had already been redistributed to Physically Active Youth (PAY), an after-school tutoring and sports program in a low-income neighbourhood of Windhoek. Designated for the organization’s cycling program, which I coached, Red’s charm was unmistakeable – she purred when you peddled, sped like a bullet and was as smooth as butter.
But you have to be wary of charm. We thought Martin had a concussion when Red bucked him off in a training session last year. The 19-year-old semi-pro cyclist will forever have the scars on his shoulder after he was sent flying over the handlebars when he hit a speed bump.
Fiffy and Sakeus will never be friends after they launched a turf war to see who could manpower Red in the biggest cycling race of 2008. Like a child caught in a custody battle, Red became the victim of threats, bluffing and a few acts of terror between the two aspiring cyclists.
All that time we blamed the boys. But after another incident last week, I’m beginning to believe controversy and this bike are forever linked.
A few weeks ago, I decided to form a small independent cycling team. They were just four boys, all 17 who loved to ride but couldn’t afford bikes and couldn’t afford to pay for their racing fees.
Fiffy, who in the end won the battle for Red, would borrow the bike until PAY started again. With the first major race on the 2009 Namibia cycling calendar looming in 10 days, he would be forced to train harder than ever before.
I delivered the newly tuned-up and polished red bicycle on a Friday morning.
That same afternoon, I got a call.
“A man with a knife came at me. He took the bike,” Fiffy said, out of breath. “Come now.”
Quickly turning towards Fiffy’s house, I stopped in at the local police station, ready to open a case about the stolen bicycle. However, after being given the run around by two female officers who ate grapes while cockroaches scurried across their desk, I was referred to a private security guard who was dropping off a wallet grabber at the same station.
“He’ll take you,” the thinner of the two women said.
Fiffy, who spoke of an attempted fight that ended with a knife being held against his neck for the bicycle, met me at the station. Together, with the security guard, we jumped into a station wagon and searched through a maze of side streets. For about half an hour, we questioned children close to where the mugging took place, trying to get information about the culprit. Eventually, we learned that his name started with an A.
But as the sun started to set in a neighbourhood well known for its violence, the security guard called our investigation to an end. That night, I declared defeat. Red was gone. The money that it cost to tune-up the bike, which was still owed, would be like flushing cash into a toilet.
But while I gave into defeat, Fiffy called the day’s end a retreat. On Saturday, he spent the entire day walking up and down the streets, asking questions, telling friends and family to be on the lookout for the red shiny bicycle. On Sunday, he found the house of the man who stole the bike from him. In a conversation with the bike thief’s sister, Fiffy learned the bike thief was now in jail, charged with stealing a car on a Saturday night spree.
A few hours later, I got another call.
“We found the bike. Come to the police station now, we’ll go get it,” Fiffy, the young detective, said.
Returning to the same police station, the officers showed equal interest in our matter. Here they were dealing with stabbers, beaters and window breakers and we just wanted our bike back. They rolled their eyes when we asked for an officer to accompany us to the house. Again, we were referred to another man. This time it was a 30-something guy who reeked of alcohol and described himself as a “community leader.”
“If I get your bike back for you, you have to buy me a couple beers,” the man said as we walked towards the marked house. Showing up to a white painted cinder-block house, we were pointed to the backyard, where a group of about 10 women were drinking beer.
And there Red was, leaning against a steel shack that doubled as a bar.
“That’s my bike,” I said, half-yelling, as all heads swung in our direction.
Quickly, our half-drunk defender said he was an off-duty police officer, and while he didn’t have his ID on him, the bike must go back to the owners. Immediately, the women smelled a boozed-up rat. Soon, the women were shouting and accusing, and our so-called off-duty officer retreated, while I stayed.
The women surrounded me, all speaking at a riotous volume.
“You can’t come here and take that bike with that man,” one said.
“Who are you anyway, a tourist?” another said and shoved my shoulder.
“Your friend is a fake, I’m calling the Anti-Corruption Commission,” warned a third, inches from my face.
“One at a time. One at a time,” I yelled after a minute or two. “That bike is mine. I have receipts from the workshop where I got it serviced. It has new tires, a new seat. It used to have white handlebars, now they’ve been wrapped with black tape because the white tape was falling off. I’m sorry, I don’t know how it came here, but that’s my bike and it belongs to a 17-year-old boy.”
The women eased. Out of no where, another man showed up.
“I just paid $200 yesterday to some guy selling the bike saying he was in a bind with a sick grandmother,” he explained. “You can take the bike, we can see it’s yours.”
I grabbed Red, walked out in a hurry and, once on the street, handed it back to Fiffy.
“Take care of it,” I said.
A few days later, Fiffy sped across the finish line of the opening big race, a few spots ahead of me.
With a rider who really cares about it, maybe, just maybe, Red is ready to calm down.
In March and April of 2009, northern western Namibia was flooded. The area saw mass evacuation as rising waters crept into people’s homes, schools and businesses.
