Dilemma

Walking by the riverside, Imagining dark eyes, Tiny fish in Blue Ocean, Crocodiles struggling to feed, Hippos in the deep, Waiting for the night to come. Emmanuel Monychol

Young Calypso suddenly appeared In her flying dress, Balancing a water jar – and singing. I tried to stop her just to say, “Hello.” The water jar dropped, water flooded the green grass Forcefully uprooting and clearing weeds back to river. Calypso’s voice rang: “Daddy! Daddy!

He has raped me.”

I saw gigantic hands Hold me by the throat. A man in uniform Manacled my hands.
Three years later
The man with gigantic hands died; he left a letter, Urging me to promise him A grandchild. 

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Pre-Naivasha Days Emmanuel Monychol

We used to fight flies and heat In the bullet ridden grass thatched huts, We lived in the hope of milk and honey. We tried to share the little we got with guerrilla forces Who lived in hope too and tried To survive with little or no food and water Tyre sandals for shoes and old clothes looted or donated.

The signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement united us. Yes! We were united: together, Army and ordinary Citizens. We decorated our bodies with ostrich feathers; We danced and smiled, we laughed and celebrated Together, we ate, together we drank, Together we poured libations to bless the spirits Of the fallen heroes buried or abandoned. The Guerrilla Generals-turned-Politicians Cruised the V-8 vehicles in our new dustbowl They swim amidst ill-hooked wealth, Cool Juba heat with the air conditioners Chilling out of the newly furnished Bungalows and palaces. We fight flies and fan off the airless heat in congested Tin roofed shelters without ceiling boards And ventilated window - after Naivasha Days.

In the Plantation Oyet Sisto Ocen
I still recall its sweetness when he gave it to us. Uncle Tom found us playing in the banana plantations. We were searching for nsenene, the grasshopper which appeared seasonally when it rained in our village. We searched for them on the ground and in the folds of the banana leaves. The first time we tasted it was when aunt brought it back from Kampala, “Nakato and Kato come and get some sweets,” she’d cried. We were plucking the legs and wings off nsenene in the backyard of our grass-thatched hut. The sweets were different colours. I unwrapped the white vuvera, polythene paper, from one and threw it in my mouth. I felt the sticky honey sweetness fill my mouth and I swallowed.
We ran past Joe’s house to reach Katumba’s house so that he could taste the nsenene. Kato was panting. We wanted to tell Katumba the news quickly and run back home. Mummy didn’t want us playing with Katumba. She said he had bad manners; he liked playing with his male part in front of us.
“Katumba, our aunt came from Kampala,” Kato told him, from the cool shade where he was seated. He was plucking the wings and the legs of nsenene. The wind was blowing the bananas leaves lightly, swaying them from side to side. “She brought for us some sweet.” Katumba dropped the saucepan he was holding. Kato broke the sweet, which looked like a small stone, into two halves with his teeth and gave one to Katumba, “Eat.”
They had been good friends in spite of mummy’s restriction. Katumba threw his half into his mouth. Then he opened his mouth, his lips moulded, formed to look like a hallway. He was missing two lower teeth which left a path for us to see his tongue rotating. It made us laugh.
“It’s sweet, like ripe banana,” said Katumba laughing.
“Yes, Aunt Janet said it makes children’s teeth grow,” said Kato.
When Katumba heard this he started rubbing a small remnant of the sweet on his pink gums which
made us laugh more. We ran through the long trail of the banana plantation which connected our home with that of Katumba’s. It was owned by Mr. Mukasa the old man. He planted oranges and pawpaw trees at the side of his plantation. We always stole from his trees when we emptied our fruit trees. Mummy didn’t encourage stealing so we only did it when she was away.
When we reached home, we found aunt was telling mummy about the city. She told mummy that Uncle Tom’s business had made him one of the richest men in the city. He had so much money he could buy the whole village and its contents.
That morning aunt brought out the metal she brought from the city. It was for piercing ears. Aunt insisted for our ears to be pierced so that we did not fall prey to child sacrifices. But daddy was against the piercing of the boys’ ears, he said it made them look like rouges. So aunt and mummy pierced my ears and not Kato’s. It was painful, but aunt said when it heals, I would put on glittering earrings which would dangle to my shoulders which would make me look beautiful.
When Katumba and Joe came home, we sneaked into Mr. Mukasa’s plantation to steal some pawpaw. After getting the pawpaw, we ran to our backyard, where no one would see us. The plantation was situated by the road which ran from our village to the school we attended – it was the same road that aunt used to come from Kampala. In our playground, we would sit for hours competing with each other to see who could throw stones the furthest. Sometimes we would fight over something small. We would then reconvene in the same place. In the playground we would

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dream of becoming somebody big in future. Kato dreamt of becoming president, Joe dreamt of becoming a driver, Katumba, the head teacher of our school. I too, dreamt of teaching in our school, I wanted to be a class mistress and wear transparent spectacles like Miss John our class teacher.
Uncle Tom came down that road. He waved, beckoning us to come over. We ran in his direction. We were already imagining what he might give us. When we reached his car, he pulled the sweets from the black vuvera and gave it to us. We were very happy and we began eating the sweets immediately. He drove off and we ran after his car. He lowered his panel and gave something to the men who were playing cards in the shade. He left them cheering, ‘mukulu, mukulu, big man, big man.’ We kept on running after him until he disappeared down the village where we couldn’t see him. We stood there watching the dust raised by his car. Katumba said the smell produced by the car was very nice and he felt like eating it with bread.
When we were coming back from school the next day, we followed the marks left by Uncle Tom’s car tyres. Katumba and I were on the right side, while Joe was on the left. Kato didn’t come to school that day, he was not feeling well. Mummy decided to leave him at home and went to tend the garden. We missed his company on our way back. But we kept on playing as usual. Reaching our backyard, Katumba saw something red mixed in with the sand.
“It’s blood,” he said.
“No, that is Mr. Mukasa’s pawpaw,” said Joe and we laughed.
“My mum has cooked chicken today,” I said.
In that same spot, our lovely playing ground, whenever mummy wanted to prepare chicken soup,
she slaughtered the chicken there. She was skilled at it. She stepped on the chicken’s wings with her feet then on the legs of the chicken with the other, holding the knife with her right hand and the head of the chicken with her left. She sliced the neck of the chicken with one stroke. Then she let the chicken fly headless and it flapped about repeatedly, blood jetting from its neck. Kato and I would stand there watching the chicken struggle until it stopped and mummy would submerge it in hot water and pluck its feathers.
When we returned to the compound we found people had gathered. Every space in the compound was occupied. Men sat in silence with their heads bent. Most women were inside, tears flowed from their eyes. One voice came from inside the house. It was a familiar voice to me. I squeezed through the bodies and rushed to the door, I wanted to see mummy and ask her why people were everywhere in our compound. But the doorway was congested; I could not access the house. Aunt came and carried me from the door and went with me to the edge of the compound, she was crying. I put my fingers into my mouth and could not ask her what had happened. I imagined mummy and daddy were no more and decided I would find Uncle Tom and beg him to take Kato and me with him to the city, for I could not stay without mummy and daddy in this village. In the distance I saw Mr. Mukasa coming to join the crowd. His face looked like he was either laughing or crying, I couldn’t tell which. He was stooped over with one hand on his waist, while the other held his walking stick. It was the posture Kato liked imitating when we played.
“It is Kato,” aunt said amidst tears. I looked into her eyes to make her tell me what had happened to Kato, but she bent down her head and I felt warm tears on my arms.
“Where is Kato?” I asked aunt.
“His head has gone.”
The head, I spoke to myself. What has happen to his head? And why should he accept his head to go and
leave him. What is aunt saying now, she should be clear. “Kato’s head has gone”. What does this mean?
Then I heard aunt whispering amidst the crying; “I wished your father had agreed.” She sobbed. My eyes were filled with tears, but I didn’t know why I was crying. Perhaps I was crying because

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aunt was crying? What she told me shouldn’t have made me cry. If Kato’s head had gone, it would come back. It would find Kato and fix itself, we would still run in that long trail of the banana plantations, we would meet Joe and Katumba, probably we would still plan to go and steal the pawpaw from Mr. Mukasa’s plantation and eat in our backyard.
When I opened my eyes, tears fell down. I saw that Joe and Katumba were still standing along the road near our compound; they had not gone home since we came from school. Aunt continued crying .
“I knew your dad was wrong, he should have allowed the piercing.”
She explained that when she was in Kampala; she saw many posters warning parents to protect their children from the witches who hunt children for sacrifices. The witches believed when a human is sacrificed, a big sum of money would be acquired to boost their business. I became confused with what aunt was talking about, that’s when she finally told me - Kato had been killed. My brain shut down after hearing that. I was seeing everybody as a distant mist. I tried to slide down from aunt, I wanted to roll down and cry, but she held me tight.
For two days, mummy and I didn’t say a word to each other. I wanted to say something to break the silence which had descended on us like unexpected rains. I wanted to tell her that Uncle Tom had been giving us sweets whenever he came from Kampala, but I didn’t know how to say it. I wanted to confess to her about the time we followed the marks from Uncle Tom’s car tyres when we were coming from school. However, no matter my desire to speak to her, I couldn’t break the silence between us.
When I looked at her, I thought of the way she had slaughtered the chicken over Christmas. How when she had cut its neck, it still flew high in the air. How Kato and I laughed at it while blood was jetting from its severed neck. I was almost laughing at that image again. But when I thought that that same knife may have been used to slice through Kato’s neck, something came like strange wind and blocked my throat. I was breathless. Invisible hands were squeezing my throat so that tears could flow from my eyes and roll onto my cheeks. When I cried, mummy screamed like she was mad.
One day Joe and Katumba came to see me. Since Kato’s head went, I hadn’t played with them. I stayed with mummy most of the time watching her flowing tears as she cried silently. Only when aunt was around would she talk in a low voice.
“Daddy said it was Uncle Tom who did it,” said Joe.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“He might have given Kato some sweet for buying his head,” said Katumba.
“Dad said police got him several times doing the same thing, but always he gets away. He told me
not to respond when a stranger calls me.”
“But Uncle Tom is not a stranger.”
“He is. He does not live in this village anymore, he only comes to hunt for small penises like yours
to be taken to the witch.”
“That is why he is rich?”
“Yes, he deals in children’s head and penises.”
I thought about what the two boys said. God knows what they were talking about. I was seated
listening to them. I pictured mummy’s face since the death of Kato, how she would bend over a bunch of matoke for hours before she could pick one and peel.
“What if he gives us sweets again like last time, should we take them?”
“Ha, you joke, your big head with the missing teeth will go and make money for somebody. Even that penis you always play with, perhaps with all the testicles.” Katumba laughed.

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Their words were unbearable. At the age of six, Katumba did not know when he was being insensitive. His words drove me away I couldn’t stay with them anymore. I went to the plantation and sat near a cluster of banana trees, where we had all played since we were three with Kato. We had imagined why bananas gave birth from their roots, why it does not germinate and why the tree is cut down once it bears fruit. I sat there wondering whether I would see Kato again, if the money his head would make would come to mummy as well. Hearing Katumba and Joe faintly, I started singing a song, which I have never known before. And the song didn’t come to my tongue in sound; it remained in my heart, song of a missing beloved brother! When I came back, I found the two boys were still talking.
“Nakato, don’t cry, dad will bring some sweets today. I will give you some.” “I no longer eat sweet Joe,” I said.
“Uncle Tom will be caught and killed,” said Katumba.
“I don’t care, that will not bring back Kato.”
The two boys remained silent. The wind stopped blowing the banana leaves. My heart was a public drum, beating loudly with longing. One nsenene leapt up before it went down again. I remembered that day Katumba was plucking off the head of nsenenes with ease before putting them in the saucepan. Could Kato have turned into nsenene in Uncle Tom’s hands and then his head plucked off with ease or he could have changed into that chicken that we enjoyed on Christmas Day? In this plantation, do children sometimes change into chicken or nsenene?
“But why don’t they stop him?” asked Joe.
I heard Katumba laughing before he said, “They will stop him one day if they get him.”
“When is that one day, tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but one day.”
My worry was mummy, she could cry the whole day. Daddy travelled to the city almost every day
and I didn’t know why he was going so often. Could he still be looking for Kato? I didn’t know. I wish dad could bring Kato back. I wish the lobe of earth that I threw without looking into the pit could bring back his head and bind it back to his neck. If dad’s frequent going to the city was with the hope of finding him again, that would be good news for me, even Joe and Katumba would celebrate with me. But when dad spoke faintly to mummy in low voice, my hope vanished. When I heard a sob in mummy’s voice, I cried. When I heard dad telling mummy that Uncle Tom was caught with a sack and blood in his car and that was not enough evidence, I didn’t know what to think. I coiled there on my lonely bed. The space left by Kato’s death was very big, we had been together in the womb as twins - this new space was unbearable.
Mummy told daddy to leave everything. But dad insisted he would still go back. He would pay the money which the policemen said would act like a stone – anchoring Kato’s file so that it is not ‘blown by the wind’ as they investigated the case. He would give the money for bringing Uncle Tom back to the prison, since the time he was captured, he left to urinate and didn’t come back. He would want to see the witch doctor who confessed that he dealt with Uncle Tom, but was rubbished by the police as being insane.
I wanted to open my eyes and see, but the night was so dark. It was blinding. The night was long. I could hear the conversation of Katumba and Joe coming to my ears faintly. They kept me awake in bed. When morning approached, mummy’s face was heavy. I had to look for the company of Katumba and Joe. Much as their words made me uncomfortable, at least they gave me company. Although Joe was only two years older than Katumba, he spoke much more maturely.
When I was with Joe and Katumba, I forgot my problems a bit. Katumba advised us to go and get some pawpaw from Mr. Mukasa’s plantation. We sneaked in. Mr. Mukasa was busy inside his hut; he only greeted us with the white smoke on top of his hut. Katumba picked one ripe pawpaw. We

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moved farther into the middle of the plantation where the banana leaves wouldn’t give way to sunlight. It was very dark, but we loved it. We were getting accustomed to darkness in our village. When we cleared ground, we uncovered the banana leaves which were softened by moisture and covering the place. We sat down, Katumba cut the pawpaw. We ate while giggling. Joe stood up, we saw his leg going down into the earth, he pulled it out and he told us to run. Though I didn’t know why, I started running after him because I always believed in Joe. Katumba remained, laughing at us.
“Why are you running?” he said.
I stopped and looked at him. “Come we go, let’s leave this place, it’s so dark.” Joe didn’t talk, he was just running ahead. I saw Katumba kneeling down near the place where Joe’s leg had sunk.
“There might be ripe bananas inside.”
He started scooping the soil with his hands and throwing it behind him. I went back and stood near him watching. Joe stood the furthest away from us. Katumba continued until he saw a sack, that confirmed his thinking. Mr. Mukasa had buried bananas there. When he scrubbed all the soil from the sack, he removed it at once, expecting to see the yellow bananas. He jumped abruptly to his feet. Looking at me, I saw his eyes open wide, his eyeballs dilating.
Joe came near me. We moved toward Katumba together to see what he was seeing. Without a word, we began running. We ran, when we stopped somewhere to catch some breath, Katumba said, “His head is alive.”
“I...I don’t know,” said Joe.
“It is true Joe; he was looking at me when I removed the sack.”
“Go...go and...and you call, let him out and we’ll go home.” He started running again. Katumba
followed Joe and me. It was horrible, more than anything I have ever seen. I didn’t expect to see Kato’s head. Truly Kato was alive. His eyes were open. He was seeing, I whispered. He was clearly seeing, only that he can’t talk. His voice cannot be heard, now. Kato was seeing, but his voice. I kept on saying things which I didn’t know to myself as we ran toward Mr. Mukasa’s hut; we needed somebody to help us.
The last thing we saw was the big silver cross which fell from the sack.
“That cross he is putting on, we can also put on,” huffed Joe as we were running.
“Yes, we can all put on.” I said, not knowing exactly what I was saying.
“I hope he cried, before he was killed,” said Joe.
“Maybe.”
“If someone had heard they could have helped him.”
“Kato’s voice was small, no one could hear. And this place is very dark, we are in the plantation,
no one will ever see this.”
Katumba was running very fast ahead of us, we saw him entering inside Mr. Mukasa’s house. We
rushed after him; when we reached the door he was coming out of the room. He told us he had seen blood in the bottle in Mr. Mukasa’s house. Before we could ask him, he started running again. We followed him before I branched and ran straight home.
When I reached home, dad was sitting at the door. I didn’t know what I told him. But I heard him saying, “I will go and pick it.” I didn’t know which one he meant, the head or the bottle. I couldn’t imagine dad holding Kato’s head.
I rolled in my bed and closed my eyes tight so I would not see Kato’s head in my mind. When I imagined Mr. Mukasa and Uncle Tom squeezing blood from Kato’s head, I bit the blanket. I wanted to climb on top of the hut and throw myself down. I lay on the bed waiting to see what dad would bring. And I kept on whispering, Dad will fix back Kato’s head and we shall be together again.

The Gem and Your Dreams Gloria Kembabazi Muhatane
You have probably noted your dreams down in a well decorated pad, in careful handwriting, one that you use only when it is something very important. You use a pen that was given to you as a gift or one that’s unique from all the other pens. You feel that if you use rare materials to write your dreams down, the faster they will be realized. You tear the paper out of the notebook, fold it and keep it under your pillow, where no one but you and God - who will help you achieve those dreams - can see.
Sometimes, you get the paper out, and reading through it, you wonder, ‘How will I ever achieve these dreams?’ You are a man, and one of your dreams is to find the right woman who you will spend the rest of your life with. At some point in your life, you feel Karen is the right woman for you. But you know Karen will want to be with a successful man. A successful man is one who can make more money than his wife can spend.
Y ou wonder how you are going to keep Karen. Y ou remember you lie d to her , told her that you had so much money, that your father was a minister, your mum a doctor and that your siblings lived in the United States - but you live with your auntie, have no siblings and you never knew your parents. The other items on the list are, building a mansion, buying a car - a 2000 model Nolan to be specific - running a few businesses and not having to work for anyone again in your life. All in all, your dreams need money to be obtained. How on earth will you find that money before Karen runs away with another man who is able to indulge her every whim?
You think of talking about your future plans with Karen. Maybe if she knows your ambitions, she might after all stay and support you. You call Karen on your katorchi phone and set a date with her, now, you’re all geared up to talk to her about both your futures.
Your aunt’s place is in Buwate, Najjera, though she is usually up-country on official duty. It’s a two roomed self-contained house with a kitchen and living room, garlanded with different species of flowers placed inside cracked plastic buckets, running round the house near its green sadolin colored wall. Plants with tendrils emanate from the broken concrete on the verandah and cling onto the wall accompanied by ivy. On the inside, the floor is maroon in color with a few cracks peeping through. The living room is completely free of dust. There’s a large wooden chair that seats three and two others that seat one. Their cushions are maroon and white, complementing the floor. A wooden yellowish table set stands in the middle of the room covered with hand knitted cloths, an empty flower vase sits on the main table. Pictures are stuck on the walls with tape which has been worn out by air over time.
You leave home dressed in the black trendy skinnies a buddy gave you and the red collared ill- fitting t-shirt you are fond of, which bears the words: I AM A BIG MAN. It’s a good luck t-shirt even though it sustained an injury through a nail hanging on the wall in your room. You cover it up with a jacket, pick something under your pillow and place it in the jacket pocket. You fit your feet into the sandals you always leave by the doorstep, pluck the key from the inside and make sure you lock the house on your way out.
Twenty minutes pass while you’re in a taxi and you find yourself at a cheap bar in Kiwatule. The bar - which has room for only ten people at any given time - holds an old black and white Panasonic TV that serves as the only entertainment. Judging from the bar’s shelves, the drinks are as good as done. The light source is a blue bulb; its soft glow is responsible for the slim cosiness of the bar. To

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your surprise, Karen is already there, sipping on a Sprite. She perceives an image of you, gets up to massage your body with a passionate cuddle that you’ve missed. You both get ensconced in the chairs. You waste no time in trying to achieve the main goal of the meeting.
‘Hey baby, I have been meaning to talk to you about something’. You look down at the table and wonder how you are going to start.
‘Hey, you’re frightening me, is it something that could destroy us?’ She is filled with consternation, her face is all crumpled. How are you going to make a clean breast of whatever you perjured before and at the same time tell her about your dreams?
‘No, no, it’s nothing to worry about. Everything is Ok.’ You look at the relieved face of the beautiful woman seated across the table and suddenly you wondered how you’ll be able to confess what a broke-ass you are?! But you have to say something, to cover up what you started.
‘Honey, I have been meaning to tell you that you are the first of my dreams to be achieved.
You are glad something came out right, and you hope it will be taken right.
‘Are you sure about that Sam?’ She smiles that smile you always see whenever you close your eyes
and think of her. ‘Prove it!’ she says. You’re glad she actually asked you to prove it. Even more glad that you carried along with you the paper on which your dreams are written.
‘Here, read here’. You show her the paper, folding it such a way that all your other dreams are covered and she’ll only see the first one you wrote which is: To find the woman of my dreams. You even show her the date you wrote it which was almost a year ago.
‘I now believe you, sugar’, she smiles again and lifts her hands from her jeans wrapped thighs to rub her arms, making a cross on her chest; the way she does when she wants you to hold her. You move with your seat to be closer to her. You lift her off her chair and cuddle her. And you wish the evening would never end. But it’s late, and she has to go home. Most lovers prefer to walk rather than use a boda-boda, especially when the distance is a short. You walk with your hand entwined in hers. You tell each other sweet nothings and before you know it, you have reached her doorstep. You peck her on the neck and say goodnight.
You head back home but this time you use a boda-boda. The distance being longer. When you arrive home the first thing you do is bang heavily on the door with your knuckles, as if it bears the fault for the lies you told Karen. In some way, you convince yourself that tomorrow you will find a way to start bringing those other dreams to fruition. The night is fairly peaceful.
The next day, it’s a Friday. In the afternoon you set out to meet your buddy, Nicko. Nicko is a hustler; you know that he will find work for you. You board a taxi to Kisasi and you arrive at Nicko’s in under ten minutes. He stays with his dad on the first floor of the famous five storey Yellow Apartments, separated from the murram road by a large fence. The apartments have maintained their vivid color, despite the ever settling dust shuffled about by undecided winds.
‘Hey, Nicko’. You shout out to him as soon as you walk through the gate. Nicko looks through the living room window to see who is calling him.
‘Hey Sam, my man, t’sup ma boy’. He greets you as soon as he reaches for the door. You shake hands and knock shoulders. You follow him to the living room and before you can spell out your problems or sit in one of his battered chairs he says excitedly, ‘Something has come up, you can’t miss it.’
‘What’s that man? Fill your boy in.’
You are hoping it’s a kyeyo of sorts as you squint at the environment. The apartment house is a mess; with dirty utensils under the table, you can hardly tell the original color of the paint on the walls, whether it’s cream or brown as both shades are visible. There’s a smell of something fermenting that you can’t quite recognise, it’s pinching your nose so you’re being forced to stop breathing at certain intervals. Dust is a steadfast companion to the cupboard, also to the window

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seals, the television set and all other appliances in the room. The room is stuffy, but you decide you can forgive Nicko’s grubby nature.
‘Guess who is throwing the par-ley tonight?’ Nicko teases as he picks up a toothpick from the glass table and places it in his mouth. He starts chewing it easily, as if it were palatable.
‘Dude, just tell me man. I’m not in guessing mood’. You’re only in the mood for blue collar jobs. You sit and lean back in the sofa, losing your interest in his talk.
‘I will save you the trouble,’ Nicko says as he places one foot on the table, not minding his dirty sandals. He leans forward, stares keenly at you, before he says anything, so that he will not miss the expression on your face when he makes his revelation, ‘The Nigerian billionaire is throwing a party at his mansion in Bugolobi and I managed to secure two invites’.
‘Wha...what!?’ You can’t believe your luck. You get out of the chair, your hands in the air, your eyes wide and your mouth open , but no sound comes out. Y ou’ re excited. Excited because people always talk about the rich man’s mansion and in your imagination, it’s paradise. And although you hadn’t included it on your list, it is one of your dreams to be there. You are going to dine with all the rich people in the city; feel important for the first time in your life and also squint at the billionaire’ s daughter . Y ou ha ve heard she is extraordinarily attractive though in your heart, she can never be more beautiful than Karen.
You suddenly remember you don’t have a proper outfit for the occasion.
‘Haa, man, Nicko, what am I going to wear?’ You know Nicko always has a way out.
‘Ah, don’t worry, man. You will dress up here. My old man usually keeps his suits ready to
wear’.
Nicko’s father is out of town for the weekend. He will definitely find a nice suit for you and him. Evening falls and you have got to get ready. The function starts at eight that evening, but you
would like to be there for seven.
‘We better start getting ready,’ Nicko says, ‘but please take a shower before you wear my father’s
suit’.
You have to do what Nicko says, or else he might not give you his dad’s suit. You realize though
that you’re without socks and shoes. You take the shower and you both get dressed. You are ready to go. But before you leave, Nicko notices how dirty the house is.
‘Eh, man, will you help me clean this house tomorrow, man, yo ma boy you know?’ He says, tilting his head to one side as each word pours out of his mouth.
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s cool, it’s cool.’ You know you are now a pawn on his chess board. You either say yes or start undressing. You leave the apartment, mount on one boda-boda and go to what for you is the party of your life.
You get to the gate and the askari gives you a mean look. You know the reason for his stare is because you didn’t arrive in a chauffeured, shiny black car like most of the guests. But all the same, the invite will guarantee you VIP treatment. Y ou are sho w ed ar ound paradise by a finely made -up girl, donning a knee length dark blue dress and silver stilettos. You can’t believe how outsized the estate is. About three large gardens make up the front of the house. The girl leaves you at the first entrance where you are transported by a cart to a second one. A suited usher directs you to a high, marvel-paved art gallery to join the rest. Its walls are garlanded with high-ceilinged pillars in azure, scarlet and white. Cool, white statues of West African subjects stand in the rooms’ four corners.
You immediately start admiring all the hangings on the walls. The portrait of his daughter created from multicoloured glass, one of him as a child made of wood. There is a Nigerian emblem made of shinning metal. You stare at the accolades he has collected throughout his life, which are kept behind glass cupboards. You notice the water fountain in the middle of the room which seems to be keeping the room cool.

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You continue walking around the room, looking at the same paintings and wondering if you hadn’t seen them already. You notice many people’s attention in one place and wonder what they are looking at. When you notice them leave, you go to have a look. You can’t believe what you see. A gem!
You remember having seen it featured in the national newspaper’s section, ‘The Rich Men’s Possessions’. It’s the flawless star ruby. It’s red in color, medium dark tone about 15 carats in an oval cabochon cut. Its star shimmers over the surface of the stone and is visible when illuminated at an angle with a single light source. It has a strong florescence when exposed to ultra violet rays like those in sunlight and holds its vivid color under all lighting conditions. It has also been in the family for five generations and originated from Burma, now Myanmar. You recall it was worth almost $50,000 or something in that range.
Of course you can’t even convert that money in your head, but you know it’s a whole lot of money. Then your mind drifts back to that paper you keep under your pillow and then to Karen!
Your conscience goes on a trip! All you think of is how to get the ruby from its glass case. You look around to see if anyone is watching you. You envision Nicko in one of the corners busy talking to an incredibly beautiful young lady, you decide it’s the rich man’s daughter and at that moment it doesn’t matter. You look in all directions and notice that people are departing from the gallery through various exits. You now know it’s safe and you open the case as your heart races, threatening to pierce through your chest, you pick up the ruby and fix it in the pockets of Nicko’s father’s trouser.
As you walk around the house, you remember a Nigerian movie you watched, where a young man steals a diamond ring from a jeweller’s store, not knowing it had juju. The ring caused rapid deaths, bizarre illnesses and utter impoverishment in the young man’s family, until he decided to take it back. But you know witchcraft cannot affect you unless you believe in it. You convince yourself that your prayers will be stronger than any juju the gem could possibly bear. You forget that you actually just stole something and God might not hear your prayers.
You don’t even think about who will buy that gem, when all the news stations and newspapers throughout the country have already reported on the multi-dollar gem. Your body is frail, as if you are carrying a heavy boulder on your back. You lose interest in the party. You call Nicko and tell him, ‘Man, I’m leaving, I will return your father’s suit tomorrow and will help you clean the house’. Nicko can hardly understand why you have to leave so suddenly when the party has hardly started, but what matters more to him at that moment is basking in the aura of the billionaire’s daughter.
You walk successfully past all the three exits leading outside. You walk to the gate and smile at the askaris, knowing it’s the right thing to do since it shows appreciation for their work. And before you know it, your arms are behind your back, you feel chilly metal hug your wrists! Two heavily bodied men are holding your shoulders tight on both sides and they’re not saying a single word. You kick about with your legs but there is no way you can brush them off of you. Instead, the heavy bouncer puts Nicko’s father’s coat through the shredder as he gets a better grip of you. You are dumbfounded, but you are sure it has something to do with the ruby, its juju perhaps - in fact most definitely. You are taken back to the house and embarrassed in front of the guests. You are asked who you came with and you point at Nicko.
Nicko looks behind him only to see the wall - so it is definitely him being singled out ‘What! I don’t even know that man’. Nicko denies you, his boy. The sirens come closing in and you’re scared for your life. You are pushed out of the house and dumped into the back of a double cabin vehicle like garbage. Your boy, Nicko, is only worried about his father’s suit and how he will tidy up his house alone, not whether you will rot in jail.

15

The gem and your dreams are gone. Karen is gone!
The vehicle drives off at high speed as if it were carrying cash in transit, most definitely heading to Luzira maximum prison considering it’s the nearest to the vicinity. And you’re right. The vehicle stops moving and you are picked up by your wrists which are still behind your back. The physical pain and worry about ruining Nicko’s father’s suit is nothing compared to the thought that Karen is already in another man’s embrace.
You are pushed into a three walled unpainted cubicle with a single metallic door, a wooden bench in one corner and old newspaper cuttings rest uncomfortably on the walls. The door slams behind you, you fold your mighty thieving right hand into a fist that you ram into the walls and hiss through false teeth like a puff adder, ‘I’ll get out of here, damn it.’
Depression sets in as you try to deal with reality. Denial follows. You convince yourself it will only be a matter of time, maybe a week and then you will be set free. You put off the coat and place it on the bench. You affix your hands to Nicko’s father’s trouser pockets trying to analyze your situation in your mind and bang! The gem is still in the pockets. You wonder who is fooling who! You? Them? Juju? You are excited but fearful also. ‘Does it matter anyway?’ You ask yourself. You are locked in a cell, neither you nor the gem has a sense of freedom at the moment.
You move to the door that was harshly slammed behind you and wrap both your hands on its bars still trying to deal with reality. A certain electrifying feeling runs through your whole body instantly, exerting such a force on the heavy metals bars that the door lets off a cry. You stare thunderstruck - the door completely wide open. Freedom?! ‘Who’s fooling who?’
Perhaps your dreams are not ruined after all! 

That Same Night 
Elone N. Ainebyoona
That same night,
He picked me along the way.
He charmed me with his bundles. He assured me of pleasure each day. He took me around his castles.
He asked me to stay.
That same night,
I forgot about my pimples.
I only felt gay.
I could only feel my dimples.
I looked forward to his nightly play.
That same night,
His body moved like ripples.
His hands felt softer than clay. His smooch gave me tickles.
His form warmer than an overlay.
That same night,
He began to sway.
He curved in like a sickle. He shoved me away.
He chased me like trouble. He denied me my pay,
He only gave me prickles.
That same nightI couldn’t believe the betray, I left in hustles.
I rushed for the subway.
I was all left a ramshackle,
I only had to pray.
I dreaded that one night. 

#2

Getting Somewhere Lilian A. Aujo
You are a boy of ten again. You are on the bus, and the trees seem to be going faster than the bus you are seated in. You are on the Kampala–Masaka Highway. You cannot wait to reach Kampala as it will be your first time there. The excitement darts through your body like grasshoppers jumping from grass blade to grass blade. You keep standing to catch a glimpse of the speeding trees, and then sitting down heavily onto your mother’s lap as if you are falling into a chair padded with cushions.
“But Vincent, why don’t you settle down?! You will even break my bones! Now see...” Your mother points down to the heavy lemon green sash of her gomesi. Its tassels are trailing on the bus floor, covered in red soil.
“You see how you have dirtied my musiipi? You know gomesis are very hard to clean!”
You look at her attire covered in bright greens, blues and oranges. Mzee bought it for her last Christmas. It is the newest of all her attires and that is why she has chosen to wear it for the journey to the big city.
“Sorry Mama!” You sit on her, as carefully as a butterfly perching on a flower and so that you remember to remain seated you cross your legs.
The bus stops at the roadside. A swarm of men balancing baskets of gonja race towards it, covering the bus’ windows. Your mother buys ten fingers for two hundred shillings. They are yellow and soft, but crusted brown in some places. As your mother hands you one, its aroma fills your nostrils. You open your mouth to sink your teeth into it, but the gonja disappears! You start to ask your mother about it, but stop because she is not there anymore. Yet, you are still on the bus.
You touch your chin and it is rough with a beard. You look down at your feet and they have grown so long. Your shorts are gone and you’re wearing trousers.
“Vinnie, Vinnie ...” It’s Chantal’s sweet voice. But she sounds so far off...You let her voice get carried away in the loud swish of the speeding trees...And you still have to find your mother...
You follow her through the narrow bus corridor and call out to her but she does not stop. You continue to follow her, until all the faces on the bus meld into a smooth blackness. But her bright gomesi creates a shining path for you and you keep going till you reach her and pull at it. But when she turns she is as still as stone and before you hear the villager mourners wail, “Woowe, Woowe”, you know there is not one breath left in her...
“Maama, Maama...”
“Vinnie, Vinnie! Wake up! It’s just a bad dream!”
You open your eyes. Chantal is staring down at you. “You were dreaming,” she says. Her voice soothes you. She strokes your ear and says, “Good morning, love?” She heard you whimpering like a puppy in agony. You turn away, you don’t want her to see the fear in your eyes. But she snuggles close to you and you have no choice but to kiss her. She is weak and yielding and you are no longer the scared twelve year old boy staring at your mother’s lifeless body.
The vibration of the telephone under your pillow tears you away from Chantal. Even as you pull away from her you wonder who could be calling you at six in the morning. Early morning calls usually convey very bad news. You wish the superstitious streak in you could be thwarted by reason. But your fingers tremble as you grip the cell phone. Quickly, you glance at the caller ID. It’s your father. At this time of the morning, what could be the matter?

6

“Hello, Mzee?”
“Hello Mutabaani, how is Kampala? How is work?”
“It is Ok. Is everything at home fine?”
“It would be Ok. But some things are not so good.”
Your heart pounds in your ears. “Has anyone died? Are the twins fine?” “It is nothing like that, they are all fine. No one has died.”
Your breath comes out in a low whistle and it’s only then you realised that you’ve been holding it in.
“It is just that I had to catch you before you went to work, that is why I called so early.” He sounds apologetic and you are too relieved to blame him for giving you a scare.
“So what has happened?”
“Netaaga obuyambi, mutabani.”
Your father’s voice suddenly sounds small. You immediately know it’s about money. If he is
asking you, he must have run out of options.
“Yes Mzee, what kind of help?” Damn! That only sounds like you are waiting for him to beg you for
money. You wait for him to say something, but the silence between the lines stretches on.
“Yes Mzee...” You let your voice trail off like you are waiting for him to complete your thought, but you’re really thinking he will not become less of a father just because he is about to ask you for
money. It works because he finally fills the space. “Nze mbade ngamba...”
“Yes Mzee...”
“Joel ne Genevieve, badayo kusomeero.”
It has to be about that. Your siblings are going back to school. On more than one occasion, you have ‘topped up’ their school fees. Your father does the best he can. But he is a retired primary school teacher and does not have much income.
“How much is the balance?”
“Millioni taano,” your father says.
“Five million!” the shock in your voice rings out loud in your own ears; your father hears it too. “Naanti my son, you know how things have been. The pension has still not yet come. Even if it
had, it would not have made much of a difference. And the crop has been bad since last year; this banana wilt destroyed at least three quarters of the plantations.”
You shake your head. Five ma? Where are you going to get that much money? Chantal wraps her arms round your waist and puts her soft lips on your cheek in a silent peck. You know your father is up against the wall. Ten years into retirement and his pension is still held up because the social security official said he was not one and the same person – just because his name has two different spellings.
You know the banana wilt must be as bad as the Ministry of Agriculture had announced. There was an outbreak in the country, it spread easily and was hard to contain. It has eaten up many plantations in Masaka, Mzee’s being among.
But five million! Who is going to give you that much at such short notice? You could take a loan. “When do you need the money?”
“By Friday, son. Joel and Genevieve will be reporting on Monday, and they’ll not be allowed to
register unless they have paid full tuition.”
Today is Monday. You have only four days to get the money together, a loan approval would take
more than a week. “Eeh! I wish you had told me earlier.”
“Our SACCO was supposed to lend me some money, but I just got the news that they can’t afford
to lend so much money to one person when money is so scarce.”

7

The Savings and Credit Cooperative Organisation your father is referring to, is for the matooke plantation owners in Masaka. The credit crunch again. The heavily made-up news anchor on last night’s news talked in detail on how banks and other financial institutions were lax to lend; deposits are few, so lending rates are high.
You stare at the light filtering in through the chink in the curtains. It’s mocking you. You do not see even a sliver of hope to make this problem go away.
“So Mzee, let me see what to do, I will give you a call in one hour.”
“Weebale Mutaabani!”
“Mzee, do not thank me yet, thank me when I get the money.” Even as you say it, you know there
is no hope of you getting that money in four days. You run your fingers over the black metallic rosary beads hanging from your neck. Y ou ne ver take it off. Y ou never know when the Vir gin Mary might intercede. “Hail Mary, full of grace...” you mumble under your breath. You extricate yourself from Chantal’s grasp and start to throw off the covers.
“Can’t you stay a little longer?” She purrs.
“It is six thirty, I don’t want to be late for work.” The words are thrown over your shoulders because you are already fastening your towel round your waist, heading for the bathroom.
***
“Musiiru gwe! Wayigira wa okuvuga?”
“What about you! Where did you learn how to drive?” You retort. The taxi driver looks at you like he would a stray dog and gears. The jolt of annoyance that has been bubbling in you simmers as you take in his dishevelled appearance His head looks like a millet field after a ghastly downpour, the guy obviously thinks the existence of combs is a nuisance. His beard looks rough enough to shame Chantal’s pumice stone. His shirt collar edges are frayed upwards, and there are little black holes sprinkled down its front – ash burns.
About two hundred metres away, the traffic policeman’s uniform gleams white in your view. You think of pressing on in the right lane and allowing the taxi guy to fidget in the nonexistent third one till the traffic guy pulls him over. But you change your mind as you realise the errant driver will not give up. He has the nose of his mini bus pointing diagonally at the body of your Japanese Premeau; the blasted guy will scratch you if you insist. A long winded argument will ensure on who is right or who is wrong, and the traffic guy will come up and pull both of you over to ‘negotiate’ the terms of your offence and to decide who is liable for whose car’s repairs. The digital clock on your dashboard is flashing 7:15 AM in neon green.
You step on the brake pedal long enough to let the taxi guy into your lane. The Prado behind you honks with impatience; everyone has somewhere to go this morning.
***
“Ki Vincent! You look like you didn’t sleep at all! How is Chantal?” Gerald lowers his spectacles and stares at you in mock observation. You only shake your head and smile. “She is fine! But she isn’t the reason I didn’t sleep. Problems never end...” You stare at the blue-white logo of the company. The motto in bright blue seems to step off the cream walls of your small office: GET SOMEWHERE: INSURE WITH US.
“What problems now? A single guy like you should not have problems! Leave them to us who are married and have families to think about.”
Although you are about the same age, Gerald is already married and has a five year old daughter.
8

“You know how it is; just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I don’t have responsibilities.”
“So how is Mzee?” Gerald asks. You have been friends for long and he knows how much your family means to you.
“He is fine. It is just that we need money; the twins are going for their last semester. By Friday, everything should be paid and Mzee does not have the money now. He asked me for five ma!”
“Five million! Hah! That is tight! How are you going to get that money in four days?”
You shake your head from side to side – you wish your mother was still alive, she always had a way of taking care of things – “I don’t know! Borrowing here and there I guess! Maybe you can lend me something...”
“My pockets are dry too! I just paid my daughter’s school fees. That ‘cheap’ nursery school is actually expensive. I wonder how much I will have paid by the time she gets to university!”
“You ask me! That five ma doesn’t even cover all their expenses! Education is so expensive, yet we earn so little.”
“I know! How many times have we thought of quitting this insurance thing for better jobs?”
You and Gerald are both graduates of social sciences. But somehow, you found jobs as sales executives at a local insurance firm.
“Maybe if the better jobs were there, we would actually quit,” you reply.
“But they’re not there! About the money, I doubt many people have much to spare. Since it’s the beginning of the school term, you should try Katumwa.”
“But he is a shark and his rates are through the roof!”
Katumwa is your colleague in accounts. To ‘get somewhere’ in life, he runs an ‘underground’ money lending business. He is not as bad as the other loan sharks around town. You have heard stories of people ‘getting’ fatal accidents because of failing to pay off their debts in time. But you have not heard anything bad about Katumwa. Then again, who knows?
“Maybe so, but he is your best bet,” Gerald says, “I don’t see any bank giving you that money at such short notice, and of course the other money lenders...”
“...I know,” you interrupt Gerald, “...they’re out of the question...they are more dangerous than a colleague, but still you never know...”
You are thinking that if you fail to pay up, Katumwa might send you to jail. But if you fail to find the money, that will be the end for the twins. A brief picture of your mother’s lifeless face flashes in front of your eyes. It is just like the last day you saw her in that coffin – the life seeped from her body, but her bright gomesi strangely vibrant and full of life. The twins were just two when she died. She might be helpless to help the twins, but you’re not.
“Too late to go to the bank now,” you repeat, as if you are thinking it for the first time. “Let me go see Katumwa, before the boss gets here.” You do not know when you started to think of Katumwa as the ‘Little Shark’. In a strange way the name comforts and fills you with dread at the same time.
“Do not forget the boss wants the field report and the returns on his desk,” Gerald adds.
“Yes, they’re almost ready,” you say as you shut the door to the small office you share with Gerald. As you go through the brightly lit corridor to Little Shark’s office, you touch the flash disk in your pocket – at least you have most of the work there, and another copy of it on your laptop at home.
You rap softly at his door, his office is at the end of the corridor. The joke round office is that Little Shark always has his ears peeled to a knock that needs ‘economic redemption’.
“Come in!” His shrill voice cuts through the door.
As you turn the silver door handle your grip slips because your hands are so clammy with sweat. You wipe your hands on the flanks of your trousers, and furtively look through the corridor hopping to God that no one has seen you feeling your buttocks at the threshold of Little Shark’s

9

door. You finally manage to turn the door handle with both hands. You walk in with the mind that the door is a minute trap door that will only reveal itself once you pay up.
“Good morning Katumwa, I need your help!”
“Vincent! First things first, you never come to see me! You only remember me in hard times, ehh?”
You look at his short forearms supporting his burly face. How can such a small man have so much power? As if he is following your train of thought, Little Shark smiles and says, “How much do you need?”
“Five million.”
“That is Ok. When do you want it? You know the usual rate, right?”
“As soon as yesterday; ten percent, isn’t it?”
“My friend, if I lent at that rate, I would never get anywhere. You know the economy is tight, my
rate is fourteen percent. Some other guys in the business are charging fifteen percent every month.” “Over a hundred thousand a month? Katumwa, you will kill me!” Before your eyes, the light in his
office dims. Manically, he raps his chubby fingers over the calculator keys.
“Let’s see...that is just about right; five hundred and twenty-five thousand shillings in three
months. ”
“In three months! That is so much...”
“...We can talk six months if you want...”
“Out of the question! So you can milk me for twice the amount?”
Not in the least bit offended, Little Shark chuckles, “It’s the times my friend, and this is business.” You shake your head and touch your neck. The black beads of your rosary feel like a chokehold,
“Fine. I’ll take it.”
He springs off his desk with a quickness that surprises you. For the first time you notice the steel
safe mounted in the wall in the corner of the room. His chubby fingers deftly turn the knob for the combination. It’s like he knew you were coming. He takes out five bundles of fifty thousand notes. He walks over to the counting machine and runs it. It’s all there. He bands it and wraps it in hard khaki paper and tapes the edges. He hands you a grey box package.
“Good doing business with you,” Little Shark says.
You nod, thinking about the ride to the bank. As you reach the door, he is already bending over his notebook. You turn back to see what he is writing.
“There is a receipt for you of course,” he says as he opens a drawer on his left. He pulls out a receipt book and writes out one for you.
***
“The money is in your account, Mzee.” You are on phone with your father. It is three o’clock and you are exiting the bank.
“Eeh! Weebale nnyo mutabaani! Thank you very much son,” he repeats in English. “It is good to have a son who is somewhere, at least your brother and sister will not drop out, they will get somewhere too one day, not so mutabaani?”
“Yes Mzee, they will get somewhere too.”
As you hang up the phone, you wonder where that somewhere will be.

10