The Next Summer Blockbuster

1:50 pm.  I am standing on the corner, waiting for a green and white to drive by.  I have to be at the Embassy in a couple minutes.  I see a cab turn the corner, and put my hand out to wave at the sidewalk so the driver will slow down.  Suddenly, flashing blue lights and sirens... a shining black hummer speeds past Djibouti Telecom, past the Post Office, and slams to a stop in the middle of the intersection.  I pause under a tree to take a read on the situation.  Oncoming minibuses jackknife out of the way and begin to line up down the boulevard.  On my side of the street, there is another line of side-stacked minibuses and white Toyota 4x4s waiting.  There is an announcement, a tinny voice from the vehicle, whose driver is dressed in street clothes.  Then, three more shiny black hums, also with sirens blaring, come flying around behind, tossing dust in all directions.  I think it must be a chase.  I look for the culprit among the mailboxes, or through the Ministry of Ed fence.  They make the turn, streak back up the boulevard the other way, and are gone.  I notice that they are youthful Somalis, that they look confident in the manner of anyone who might drive head-on into Djiboutian midday traffic. 

The street grows comparably quiet as business resumes.  I hail a minibus - they are easy to be had.  I chat with the fellow whose manning the coins.  I make driving gestures, a siren sound, flash big eyes.  He contemplates my meaning for a minute before everyone chuckles.  Ah, Presidente.  Oh, okay.  So, I go about my way as I think back through the scene: out of the lastest action flick, maybe, or Djibouti, if you read it.  Jooji, I say, to have the vehicle stop.  I am still the only passenger.  Jooji?! They repeat, because they can't imagine that I am speaking Somali.  Russe? They ask me, if I am Russian.  Ummm..., okay.  No, americaine, I assure them.  No, no you're not, they tell me as I jump out at my stop.