The roads were unusually sane and peaceful this morning. A trotro actually stopped at a zebra crossing. I suspect the traffic cameras. Overnight, we appeared to have become a nation of considerate motorists. It seems the national character can be improved by installing a pole.

A policeman can be greeted, pleaded with and reminded that we are all brothers. A camera presents a constitutional difficulty: where does one put the “something small”?

There are, however, a few matters to resolve.

We are to observe speed limits on roads where the signs are missing. Perhaps the sign has gone to the scrap dealer, where it now regulates the speed of commerce. The motorist must nevertheless know what it said before it became a saucepan.

Of course, drivers should know the general limits. But a state capable of photographing my number plate should also be capable of putting up a sign I can read.

Then there are the roads themselves. On some stretches, the camera is an unnecessary expense. The potholes have been enforcing speed limits for years, without salaries, pensions or public education campaigns. Occasionally, they confiscate a tyre.

Now consider the restriction on preaching and hawking in moving buses. Should it be enforced, who will provide the entertainment?

The itinerant preacher has long performed an unrecognised public service. Between the heat, the humidity, the smells and the suspension, passengers need something to take their minds off the journey. A vigorous account of the torments of hell can make present conditions seem almost tolerable.

The hawker follows with one bottle capable of treating every condition the journey has aggravated.

Remove both and the passenger is left alone with the road. Sleep is no substitute. Just as the eyes close, a pothole delivers the next sermon.

Still, if this morning is anything to go by, technology deserves serious attention.

There is an old Fante joke about prisoners left sitting before a cannon. Their captors were nowhere in sight, but nobody dared leave. Even when nature called, a prisoner would respectfully address the unattended weapon:

“Egya tur, mereko sanchin maaba.”

“Sir Cannon, please, I am going to urinate and return.”

And return he did, to resume his imprisonment.

Nobody knew whether the cannon would fire. Nobody wished to conduct the experiment.

Perhaps I am overthinking this. This morning, we were all behaving ourselves. Why? Not because we feared a fine. We have never been particularly afraid of a fine we could negotiate. Nor had we acquired, overnight, a new respect for the law.

We behaved because we did not know what the camera would do. And that uncertainty is a very old kind of obedience.

Egya Tur has gone digital.

Let us hope the authorities are equally attentive to the signs and the roads.

Could we install a camera for that too?

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Egya Tur: The Camera Is Watching

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