12. THE COURT OF TIMBUKTU

The court of Timbuktu

After waiting for a week without any news, the police came unannounced at 10 am one morning to pick me up from my hotel and I found myself in court to undergo trial.

At least here justice moves fast, not like in Italy.

I had been waiting for half an hour sitting outside the office of the attorney general who was to try me when I heard wild shouts coming from inside.

Two big guys fell out screaming and kicking and punching each other, while the head of the security guards tried to separate them.

I immediately thought that a lawyer and his dissatisfied client were arguing, but this was not the case at all, instead it was two judges in a dispute about an accused.
My friends explained to me later on that one of them had taken money from an accused to free him but the other one sent him back to jail because he did not get his share of the bribe.
I am starting to worry about myself but my friends reassure me, “don’t be afraid, they take money only from the culprits, you are innocent”.

The chief judge and the public prosecutor then spent the rest of the day reconciling the two judges. In the meantime, I, the poor defendant, sat outside waiting until the evening.

At the end of the day the chief judge let me in and told me that it was too late, I had to come back on Monday for him to make a decision on my fate.

That evening, however, he was on his way to Bamako, urgently summoned to answer for the scandal the whole city was talking about, the battle of the judges.

On Monday morning, his deputy received me, listened to my reasons, and accepted my authorization to practice acupuncture. He immediately wrote on my file with a red pen “CSS”: Classé Sans Suite closed without action. I was then declared innocent and released.

The inspector in charge of my case told me that I was very lucky not to have spent the intervening days behind bars. It seems that the imam of the big mosque, a patient of mine, put pressure on the authorities to spare me the worst.

He told the police “this man works for God alone, he is a very powerful rascal, if he sends you a curse you are all dead”. The next day I got my equipment back and my documents, but I was a prisoner in Mali for almost two weeks, without a passport and without being able to leave the country.

A strange way to receive those who come to help. I returned to the police station to present my certificate to practice acupuncture, a document that had been faxed to me from Italy just in time. The commissioner assured me, without batting an eyelid, that he himself had followed everything minute by minute for the success of my case, and had used all his influence to help me.

But was it not he himself who had sent me to court? He also added that in the event of any problem, I should not hesitate to come to him. Actually, I am not crazy!

The central problem remains: who reported me? I had read the report before coming to court, even though I refused to sign it. “Following the complaint of a person who wishes to remain anonymous …”