The airport dog

It was disgusting to look at my suitcase with such drool from a dog’s wet snout.

By Kelly Rwamapera

[Please help make this story clearer. Suggest or ask about something unclear. Email kellyrwamapera@gmail.com or comment under the story]

The airport security screening house was about 50 steps ahead. I dragged my suitcase over the rough paver blocks of the Kigali International Airport sidewalk.

The policeman I had left behind at the start of the sidewalk was following me, signalling that he wanted to speak to me. He had probably even called me, but I couldn’t hear due to the rumbling of the suitcase I was dragging.

I waited for him as he approached and then went ahead of me. He ordered me to place my suitcase on a metallic platform at the security house veranda while he released his sniffer dog from a cage the size of a fox’s burrow.

The dog quickly approached my suitcase and sniffed around it until it did not find what it was looking for.

I can’t claim to know anything about dogs, and I cannot tell you what the sniffer dog looked like. I only remember that it left a trail of sticky drool on my suitcase.

I felt so offended, looking at my suitcase covered in drool from a dog’s wet snout or muzzle. It looked as sticky as a snail’s trail at every point it had placed its wet snout or muzzle.

It was disgusting!

The policeman told me to lift my suitcase and go. I didn’t know how to take my suitcase with the disgusting drool on it.

I asked him if there was some way to clean my suitcase of the dog’s drool. He hesitantly dragged himself into a corner behind one open door, where he bent and unbent.

He emerged with a piece of cloth as small as a face towel. His name appeared clearly on his name tag, but I will call him Officer Caniner in this story for a reason I’ll tell you later.

He was muttering some words. I don’t know what he was saying, but it seemed he was unhappy with me for detesting the dog’s drool.

The policeman bent over the suitcase, his hands moving in the dog’s manner to remove the saliva trail. He was scolding me, but I did not listen to what he was saying, and I did not say anything.

His dog snaked round and round in its small wire mesh crate as if it was uncomfortable in the small cage, seeking freedom from its bondage.

The police officer suddenly stopped cleaning my suitcase and looked at me.

He seemed to be very angry.

He was a handsome young man in his late twenties, about 5.6 feet tall. He had to slightly angle his head up if he wanted to look into my face.

His eyes were beautifully clear of the redness that most Rwandan men have, even though eyes rarely come into contact with dust due to helmets and tarmac roads.

He had vivid eyelashes and eyebrows that distinctly appeared on his lighter, plump face. His eyes looked healthy and white, probably because of the hairs that guard the eyes against dirt and dust.

Almost all people in the Sub-Sahara have brown eyes, but people in the armed forces normally have almost red eyes due to fatigue and lack of sufficient sleep.

The police officer unbent with his eyelids contracted around his eyes in rage. He pointed his short trigger finger at my suitcase and ordered me to take it and go.

I had no problem taking my suitcase; after all, he had cleaned it. Even if he hadn’t, I would have taken it and cleaned it myself.

I consider dogs to be dirty animals that can spread diseases to humans.

I even felt I needed some germ-killing substance to spray my suitcase, but the police officer was so tough at this point that remaining before him was not wise.

I proceeded into the security house and queued for check-up protocols.

I was too busy paying attention to my suitcase and the police officer on the other side of the scanner to see if he had permitted me to pass.

I was unaware that Officer Caniner was already beside me, still scolding me for showing disgust at his dog’s drool.

He stood spewing some words without my attention, but I noticed his handsomeness was receding as the severity on his young face grew second by second.

He was good to behold, clad in his dark blue combat uniform, a man of stature who only lacked a gun. He had many features that most of us Rwandans would consider typical beauty, including white teeth and longer canine teeth.

I looked at his name tag very vividly with the intention of showing him that I was noticing his name, but he didn’t care.

He had a good name, too good to appear in this story about a dog. It was a short name, unlike those of many police officers, whose names are often too long to fit on a name tag.

I don't know what my facial expressions conveyed to him, but it seemed he was not satisfied with how I was supposed to express my understanding of his superiority. He wanted to emphasise that he was too superior to clean my suitcase.

He said: "This dog sniffs at His… (Someone). Who are you to say that the dog has drool?" I didn’t answer.

I'm sorry, I can’t tell you who that Someone is because I don’t think it’s polite of me to mention His name or title in a story about a dog.

I suddenly heard him ask: "Have you heard?" I said yes. I actually don’t remember why I didn’t respond with a “Yes, sir.”

I then heard him asking for my national ID. I paid attention to him again as he said, “Give me your ID.” I quickly realised that my ID was not nearby, so I gave him my passport.

He looked at my name on the passport. I don’t know if he had known my name before, but he seemed to be pacified by it. It was as if that was all he needed to be okay.

I remember a scenario during COVID when I was intercepted by a policeman enforcing the night curfew.

I was coming from the Press House, near Amahoro Stadium. I found the policeman just after the vehicle inspection, heading to Nyabisindu.

I told him I was a journalist from the Press House as I handed my press card into his hands, emerging from the darkness.

He used his phone light to look at it and asked, rather wonderingly, “Are you Rwamapera?” I said, “Yes, sir.”

He talked about me to a colleague of his, discussing something about the Rwamapera they both knew, and then returned my card.

The same way Officer Caniner looked at my passport, reading my name as he looked at me. I did not hear whatever he was saying, but I noticed his beautiful white teeth and longer canines.

He returned my passport as I passed through the scanner and proceeded to the airport, which was hiding behind trees.

As I walked away, my mind wandered to many instances where people prioritise their love for dogs even at the expense of fellow human beings.

I remembered Esau, a notorious young man in Gomba, central Uganda, where I grew up.

Esau had a dog, a well-fed dog. It was as big as a calf. It was said that it could take down leopards.

There was a dam in his family’s vast ranch where we used to fetch water, but only after ensuring that Esau wasn’t there.

Esau would force women and girls to kneel down respectfully and greet his scary, hairy dog.

We all feared Esau, but women and girls feared him even more. He was their doom, subjecting them to something equivalent to rape.

Maybe I’ll tell you this story in the future. This is the airport dog story.

I just enjoy writing and telling stories.

Kelly Rwamapera