Asked why she has decided to come forward with this offer, she denies allegations that she is a prostitute looking to make a quick buck, “I am not a Malaya! I just like money a lot and I like sex! This news is an eye opener. I am not an opportunist, but rather, an entrepreneur. I saw an opening and I thought I could use it.”

A gentleman that was on the scene had this to say after her remarks, “That’s what he said!” When asked to explain in detail, he said that unlike the pastor, he did not want to get into these things. He proceeded to give a nearby onlooker a high-five and they laughed at what this reporter suspects is what is commonly referred to as a ‘private joke’.

Mama Deborah said she is using this forum as an attempt to let the good pastor know that she is keeping her door open.

The Pastor  could not be reached for comments, but a source close to him said he assumed that he may seize the opportunity to avoid the dock.

In other news, one of the other victims has withdrawn his accusation.

Reports suggest that he was informed that some high ranking members of the police task force are homosexuals as well and would leap at opportunity lest it presented itself.

Asked whether these allegations were true, an officer who spoke on condition of anonymity said, “I cannot get into that shit”.

Boda Guy:                   Ssebo, where are you going?

Me:                                  Nakawa. How much?

(I don’t like to use too many words when so few could do)

Boda Guy:                 Nakawa? Don’t worry, I will take you. And I will take you for a good price. How much do you have?

Me:                                You’re the one with a good price, how much were you looking at charging me?

Boda Guy:                 I will take you for 5k only.

I feel the need to point out at this point that my ceiling was 3k. And in these harsh Economic times I think it is a tad disrespectful to attach the word ‘only’ at the end of monetary sums. So anyway…

Me:                                How is THAT a good deal?

I honestly can’t remember raising my voice at this point, which is why I can’t understand why he would say…

Boda Guy:                Boss, let’s not quarrel. Let us negotiate then I take you, because, me I (sic) want to take you.

Me:                               Okay, I have 3k

Boda Guy:               Eeee, can’t you give me Four thousand shillings

We have started using the word thousand instead of ‘k’. We are making progress!

Me:                              I have only three thousand. If I give you four thousand I won’t be able to go home.

Boda Guy:              You can’t raise five hundred?

Me:                              Er, no. Sorry.

Boda Guy:              Okay, let’s go.

So we headed to Nakawa and then when I got to my destination I handed over the three thousand shillings.

As I tried to cross the road…

Boda Guy:              You haven’t reached? (sic)

Me:                              It’s just across the road.

Boda Guy:              You sit, let me take you.

So that was that…and I still can’t  shake off the feeling that I was taken for a ride.

In other news:

The kid accusing Pastor Kayanja of sexually molesting him was arrested yesterday and interrogated by the police.

Pastor Kayanja was hoping that he too would have a chance to probe the boy, but Martin Ssempa and Co. had this to say, “You already did!”

The room is dark, so it takes him a while to figure out where he is. He reaches around and finds it. The lamp by his bed side. That was the easy part. It takes a little longer before he can find the switch.

He flicks it and the room is bathed in light. He looks beside him and she is still there. All his panting, his gasping, she slept through it all. She is a heavy sleeper and for once, he is glad. He wouldn’t want her to see him like this.

Suddenly he realizes that he has a headache. It’s nothing serious, so he figures he will ignore it. He finds it upsetting that the nightmare that had seemed so real a short while ago is fading into the darkness from whence it came. It bothers him even more that he is still unsettled.

There is nothing more frustrating, more disturbing than the fear of the unknown.

He can’t go back to sleep. He doesn’t even try. Whatever it was that scared him, got him real good. He feels a need to make sure everyone in the house is safe. Protected from… even he doesn’t know. As the man of the house he feels it is his duty. No, his responsibility.

The door to the kids’ room is slightly ajar to let some light in. Little Sara is only two years old and the darkness gives her nightmares. Her brother Nicholas tries to put up a brave act for his father and pretends he fears nothing. Ordinarily Phil finds this endearing, but right now he thinks its pretty dumb. It’s okay to be afraid once in a while.

Perfectly normal.

Both kids are okay. Sara is clutching at her teddybear and Nicholas has his back to him. Facing the wall. If you can’t see it, then it can’t harm you seems to be the reasoning at play.

Phil decides to go downstairs and check the doors. Everything seems to be in order. It’s no use going back upstairs, his sleep has left him for another, and he’ll probably catch up with it tomorrow. He walks over to the fridge door and opens it. His hand lingers above the last can of beer as he thinks to himself, ‘can it ever be too early for a drink?”.

Something tells him, he shouldn’t. He fights it for a while. Right there, in front of the refrigerator, he is engaged in a fight with his conscience. It wins and he pours himself a glass of juice instead.

He checks the doors once more and then, satisfied, goes to the living room and switches on the television.

Somehow, the channel surfing provides him with a modicum of relief. Sets his mind at ease. For a fleeting moment.

There’s the sound of a tiny explosion and he feels a great pain shoot through his chest. He drops his glass, wincing. The pain forces him to look down and he realizes, that the front of his vest has gone red. He reaches over to touch and it feels dump. There’s no doubt in his mind that it is blood.

But why…how…who? Nothing makes sense.

He musters what little energy he has left to turn and then he sees her, holding a gun, aiming it at his head.

His lips part, letting a whisper escape with his last breath, “Sophia…why”.

There’s another shot and then darkness.

Then he wakes up with a start.

…it’s continued

There’s a bright flash. Well, it would be pretty ridiculous if it was any other kind of flash, but this thing hurts my eyes.

I don’t know where I am for a minute and then suddenly, I do.

I’m back home. My childhood home.It’s like I am a member of some audience. Watching in silence, unable to move or say anything.

 

Then I see myself.I’m bitching and whining saying I want a bicycle. This is a memory? Oh yeah, I see why. Dad’s not too crazy about me screaming my lungs sore and he hits me. Like that’s supposed to help.

I’m on the floor.

Squirming in pain.

I think I may be bleeding. Mum comes over and tries to console me. Mum did that a lot. I loved her.

She places my head on her chest and for a minute everything is okay. I’m surrounded by bliss. All my troubles have gone away. For a minute

“She got what she deserved.”  Dad says to mum. Not a trace of regret in those eyes. I want to believe this is discipline, that this is one of those spare the rod and spoil the child moments. That daddy knows best.

No, dad, what I deserved was a bicycle, I want to tell him. I can’t. I’m sobbing a lot and I can’t form any words.The deal was if I performed really well this term I’d get a bike. I performed well, so I expect him to keep his end of the bargain. Seeing as he hasn’t, there’s only one thing left to say.

“I hate you!” I manage between sobs.

He moves to hit me and then there’s another flash.

I’m in High School.

Man I hated those uniforms.This time round I’m in the Chemistry Lab. We’re doing “Practicals”.I think I remember this.

I have gotten over the loathing I had for dad after he dumped me in this place. The old man’s dead, I can’t hold a grudge. It’s wouldn’t be right. My classmate slides a note over.

“Meet me at the back of the chapel after class. We need to talk- E”

I hate that she never writes the full form of her name. There’s something wannabe-ish about the whole abbreviation thing.

Everyone’s doing it, but that doesn’t necessarily make it okay. Or cool.

Right on time, the bell rings. The teacher decides to ignore it. Figures we can rely on his droning voice for sustenance. Mark speaks up and lets him know we can’t.

He doesn’t use tact, says something like, “Go away. We’re hungry!”           

The teacher is not amused. Mark has to write an apology. Fifty times across the board. His martyrdom is not in vain. The rest of us are allowed to go and have lunch.

We’ll probably call Mark “Yesu” after this incident.

I decide to skip the meal. Something about weevils swimming in my gravy doesn’t quite do it for me. Fuck the extra nutrients.

I meet E where she said she’d be. She’s excited which can only mean one thing. She’s got some gossip.

I’m wrong, she’s trying to play matchmaker again. This time with a senior. I decline and we talk about how frustrated we are with life. It’s a topic we visit all the time, but it feels nice to know you’re not suffering alone. Misery loves company. For all her shortcomings, E is alright by me.

We keep talking and seemingly get lost in the moment. We embrace.

We’ve done this countless times. It’s not really a big deal…and yet today it feels a little different.

I draw back. My hands wrapped around her waist. We look into each other’s eyes. We connect without words. It feels like telepathy. I know what she wants, and she knows what’s on my mind.

I draw her close and our lips meet. It’s perfect.

 

Until the scream.

The school nurse saw us and snitched.

 

We are in the Headmistress’ office. Heads hung in shame, listening to him go on and on about how what we did is wrong.

Curiously, E keeps trying to hold my hand, like she’s trying to be defiant. Trying to say “Fuck it!”.

Our parents come to pick us up. I see the look on my mother’s face and that’s when I feel something. Its not regret as such…I enjoyed the kiss.

My mother is disappointed and that makes me feel awful. I have hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I have. At that moment, if it makes sense, I want to die and be swallowed whole by the ground.

There’s a flash.

 

Everything else passes by so fast.

My mother’s second wedding. I didn’t like the guy, but it made mum happy. I was all for making her happy. Even if it meant keeping quiet when I was abused by her husband. It was a small price to pay.

My first day at the university. Not at all memorable. Got wasted and ended up in bed with someone I didn’t know. The sex with her was good, but she had the aesthetic appeal of a bar of washing soap.

My first real relationship. Lasted all of a year then the cheating started. I tried to take it for a while, but it got to a point where I figured I’d had enough.

Then I’m standing over a grave. Looking at a coffin. I pick a mound of sand and a lump forms as I toss it in. I never got round to making things right with the occupant of the coffin. I begin to cry. Then it quickly evolves into wailing. I make the unrealistic wish that many before me have, that I could turn back time, that I could make it different.

                                                                                                                                   

Then its dark. There’s noise all over the place. Sounds of gunshots. Screams.

 

Then there’s silence… In the distance there’s a light. It seems far away and I begin to walk towards it.

As I get closer something feels wrong. I get a feeling in my gut that I may not be doing the right thing. Then I feel a tug at my hand.

I look down and I see myself. The young me.

“Its not yet time.” She says with an urgency about the way she delivers the words. She seems to be trying to pull me away from the light.

“Time for what?” I ask her. I mean, I ask myself. Its pretty confusing.

“Its not yet time!” She insists.

I try to shake her off, but her grip is firm.

Suddenly there’s bright flash. The kind
some overzealous writer would describe as being as ferocious as a million suns.

I realize I am lying down. Looking up. There’s a man in white standing over me. Next to him is a woman. A nurse, I can’t hear what she is saying, but her lips move to form the words, “It’s a miracle”.

The man in white nods his head.

He peers into my eyes, aided by light from a small torch. After ascertaining that I am alright, he stops and says something.

This time I hear it.

He says, “Welcome back Dorothy.”                                                                                               

It doesn’t work.

He lifts it and there’s no name. No caller ID. It says unknown. He figures he shouldn’t. He knows he ought not to. Mama said don’t talk to strangers. Maybe the caller can fill in the blanks. Shed some light on his activities nocturnal.

He answers.

“Quite the party animal, eh Michael”

He doesn’t recognize the voice. And why is he calling him Michael.

“You don’t have to say a word. I know what its like. You may want to cut down some, drive slow”

The caller goes on, punctuating the last remark with a laugh.

He wants to say something, ask a few questions, but he worries that if he opens his mouth he may hurl. He keeps it shut. Waiting.

“Pretty insane the way you two were all over each other. Like some starved animals. Were you starved Michael. Of course you were. I’ve been starved too. . . Famished.”

The voice starts to register. Slowly.

“So where did you end up? Bet you went to her place. You tend to lose the keys to your apartment when you get that way.”

It couldn’t be. It had been a while. They said he had gone away.

“You still careless, huh? Still messy?”

That he wouldn’t come back.

“Quite the sloth, eh?”

He sees the clothes strewn on the floor. His….and then another set.

The voice on the phone is a distant murmur as he realizes he is not in bed by himself.

He turns his head. It hurts. Then he sees a flash of skin.

“Did you at least consider your safety, you arse! Or was the hunger so strong?”

He looks at the cabinet next to the bed. There’s a pack of condoms. Sealed.

“I didn’t think you would, that’s why I slipped you some protection. You were too far gone to offer me so much as a thank you.”

He feels beads of sweat form. One leaves the group and glides, a solitary glide, down the side of his face.

“You ungrateful bastard. Some form of acknowledgement would have sufficed”

It can’t be. They said he was cured.

The body next to his stirs. She strokes him.

Who is she?

“I gotta compliment you on our taste though. They don’t come finer than that, do they?”

He notices a used condom on the floor. Prays it was his.

“Hey Michael, are you still there? I bet you are, you’re not going anywhere”

Michael? That name! Only one person called him that, but the people in white coats said he’d gone away. That he was free.

He shuts his eyes. Willing the call to end. The voice to go away.

“I wouldn’t expect you to believe everything you hear. You know better. I never really left.”

They lied.

“I’ve been waiting.”

He was there the whole damn time.

“Planning”

Scheming.

“She looks pretty doesn’t she. Jus’ like old times again, eh? I tag ‘em, you shag em.”

His mind was no longer his. It was like old times. No free will.

“Now get up. We have work to do. . .”

Click*

He opens his eyes. He sees the phone on the floor. It was a dream.
He feels a wave of relief.

Then he sees them. The clothes on the floor.

Fear comes rushing back. It engulfs him.

Surely it was all a dream. It wasn’t real.

There’s a stir beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of skin.

Then the phone rings. No Caller ID.