My First Time Getting Pulled Over in Malawi

Written by Joni Roberts

Traveler, storyteller, and public health advocate

There are moments abroad that catch you off guard — not because they’re dramatic, but because they reveal how much tension you’ve been carrying without realizing it. This was one of those moments.

I’ll never forget the first time a Malawian police officer pulled me over—mostly because it happened in a way I had never experienced before. In Malawi, police don’t patrol in cars and pull you over with flashing lights. Instead, they stand at set checkpoints, stopping cars as they pass and waving them to the side of the road.

Before moving here, I had never encountered this kind of system, and honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d experienced traffic stops internationally before, but always as a passenger—and usually, they came with a familiar rhythm: a quick conversation, a small bribe, and we’d be on our way. I even remember joking in Ghana that I needed to keep small bills on hand because that’s what officers often asked for.

But in Malawi, it was different. During our embassy security briefing, they warned us heavily against offering or accepting any kind of bribe. It wasn’t just discouraged—it was strictly forbidden. That added another layer of uncertainty for me as a new driver here. I wanted to make sure I handled every interaction exactly the right way.

The weekend before my first big solo drive, I reached out to a colleague at the NGO where I’m volunteering and conducting research. I wanted to understand the protocol—especially since I’d be driving a company vehicle.

She reassured me that checkpoint stops are usually simple. Officers check the vehicle registration, which is displayed on a sticker on the passenger side of the windshield. Sometimes they issue a fine, which you can either pay on the spot or take to the nearest station. “If you’re ever unsure,” she added, “just call someone from the office. We’ll come help.”

That made me feel better.

And then, of course, I got stopped the very next day.

The officer checked my registration sticker, then asked whether I was with the organization. I confirmed, and he asked for my license. I handed him both my U.S. license and my international permit.

“You are using this one?” he asked, holding up the permit.

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded. “Okay. Your left rear brake light is out. Be sure to get it fixed.”

And just like that, he waved me on.

Simple. Straightforward. Almost shockingly uneventful.

The next day, I was stopped again—same spot, just a few meters from my house. This time he glanced at my sticker and sent me on my way without another question.

The contrast with U.S. traffic stops hit me hard.

Here, I keep my purse on the passenger-side floor to reduce the risk of someone snatching it through the window in traffic. When the officer asked for my license, I reached down for my bag without a second thought. I felt safe doing so.

In the U.S., I could never do that.

I’d be too anxious, too aware of every movement, too afraid of being misunderstood. Too aware of the long, painful history of police brutality against Black people. Even routine interactions become moments of calculation—Is it safe to reach? Should I keep my hands visible? Did I say the right thing?

In Malawi, this everyday interaction felt… normal. Human. Unthreatening.

I didn’t realize how much tension I carried until I felt it lifted.

That moment stayed with me. Because safety — real or perceived — shapes how we move through the world. And sometimes, it’s in these everyday encounters that the deepest contrasts appear.