Dawn crept in through
the hole in the roof like an old man, gray and hazy. The teacher climbed out of
bed, dressed hurriedly and tossed a suka over his shoulders. He opened the door, slipped out,
closing it softly behind him, and stood on the veranda, peering, his ears
twitching.
A gentle wind whispered.
He wrapped the suka round his waist and tiptoed in the shadows like a fox. In
the distance a dog howled, echoing through the silent morning like a wave in
the sea. A motorcycle wheezed past. He stiffened; advanced a foot forward, and listened,
his eyes roving like the hand of a clock. Then he counted, ‘One, Two, Three,’
stole across the lane and dived into a hedge. He scrunched through the hole in
the fence and peeped. The majesty of the big white house loomed like the rising
sun. Like a caterpillar, he crawled into the compound and ducked behind a
shrub, his eyes glued to the electric bulb hanging on the lamp post.
Pooo, pooo…. Farts
escaped, cracking his pants like fireworks.
“God!” He groaned,
hugging his abdomen. Then he clenched his stomach, squeezed his buttocks,
crossed his legs, and nestled his forehead on the manicured lawn.
“Allah Akbar!
Allah Akbar!” A herald echoed. The
askari would be leaving his position, the teacher thought. Carrying his bottom like it would drop any
time, he raced across the front yard to the back of the big white house and
burst into a small room. It stood five meters away from the house, in front of
a well cultivated banana plantation.
The teacher kicked off
his slippers and clicked the latch home. A waft of marigold air freshener
embraced him, running to his nostrils like water down a fall. He hit the switch
and lemon green light flooded the room. Fumbling with the front of his pants,
he crunched an old newspaper and flopped on the W.C seat.
“Ah…hmmm….hmmm,” he
grunted, closing his eyes.
He had discovered this
paradise a year ago, during a birthday party he had fluked. After consuming
endless flows of booze and food, the call of nature came. When he sought
audience, he found himself gawking at the white shower and sink. The white
cotton towels hanging on a hook had seemed like drapers on heaven’s windows.
The sparkling toilet bowl shamed the beauty of the soup dish he had imagined he
would find in a five star hotel. “How magical this is!” he had said then.
Mission accomplished, he
flushed the toilet, purring; relief flowing through him like water down a
thirsty street. He stripped off his clothes and skipped into the shower, cupping
his hands under the faucet. Pressing the hot water button, he rubbed his face
and lathered sweet scented soap onto his body; kneading and scrubbing in a
song:
Ah! Good water, flowing
from above like the laughter of the sky.
Ah! Free water, scarce
like the oil beneath the river bed.
Ah! Sweet water, luscious
like the lips of a secret lover.
Ah! Clean water, white
like the milk in the breasts of…
Bang! Bang! Bang! The
door quaked. His hands flew to his crotch like a bird to its nest. He turned
the shower off, grabbed his clothes from the floor, pulled on his pants and
shoved the soap into his pocket.
“Open!” thundered the
askari who worked at the house.
The teacher flicked the light off, goose
pimples hatching on his body like furrows in a garden.
“Open! Whoever you are,
open!” the askari said, now slapping the door.
The teacher unfolded the
suka, tied it round his head like a bandana and squinted through the key hole.
“Open! Or I’ll kick the
door down.”
He held his breath and
shut his eyes, his heart bounced like a tennis ball. After what seemed like
eternity, the banging ceased. Cocking his ears, he heard footsteps shuffling on
the cobbled surface. The coast is clear, he thought, and opened the door a
crack. The glare of the security light blinded him. He put a foot forward,
counted, “One, Two, Three,” and shot out like a bullet. He crashed into the
bewildered askari. They came tumbling down, kicking and punching like children.
“Wolololo… wolo…loo…,”
the askari yelled, writhing like a lizard.
The teacher wrenched himself from
the tangle of limbs, smashed a fist to the askari’s nose and plunged into the
banana plantation.
“Wololololo,
wolololo… thief! Thief!” continued the askari.
In a flash, the occupants
of the big white house streamed out to give chase. Doors flew open. Feet
stomped. Cries of thief, thief rent the air.
He ran stumbling into
banana trees, pursuers hot on his heels, hot air brewing like a furnace at the
back of his neck. He zig zagged blindly, his teeth gnashed, his chest pounding,
his head boiling. Looking back, he glimpsed a panga in the distance, gleaming
like a be-header’s tool, and missed a step and fell.
“There he is!” someone
screamed.
“There! There!” the pursuers
cried.
“Catch him!”
He staggered up and
scuttled round the trees like a mouse.
“Don’t let him get away!”
Tom accelerated and the fence
came into view. He summoned his might and girdled his limbs. With a cry, he
took the leap of his life, landed on a fresh banana peel and catapulted into a
ditch.
“Careful men,” he heard
the askari say. “There is a trench somewhere there.”
Fear sneaked into his
stomach, gnawing his intestines. He burrowed further into the soil like a worm
and clapped his hands over his face, muttering his last prayers.
“Here is the trench,”
said one of the men, springing over.
One by one the men
hurdled over the ditch. He heard the fading thud of the men with relish, made
the sign of the cross, and counted, “One, Two, Three,” and then clambered out.
He raced back to the front of the big white house and slithered through the
hole in the fence and got out of the big compound.
He dashed across the
lane and stooped in front of his one roomed apartment, heaving, oblivious to
the people hovering about. His room was one of eleven in a block built opposite
the fence of the big house. Old and cheap tenements. The big white house was
only four years in the vicinity; the owner having bought land and the
plantation off the indigenous former owners. He continued looking after the
plantation and built the magnificent house in front of it. The total area was
said to be four acres. The big house overlooked the teacher’s dwelling place
like a hill over a valley.
Just as he approached his door, a gate
rattled. He jumped, his skin tingling with apprehension. He turned and watched
a shadow flitting on the wall like a ghost. A shriek rent his throat, tearing
it like a nurse yanking off a bandage.
“Walalalala….,
walalala……,” the shadow screeched, scooping the shriek and tossing it to the
wind. It resonated across the fence like a war cry, warming the chilly morning.
A party of men surged
from the big house joined by other neighbours and cloistered round him like
hunters bearing for the kill.
“We’ve caught him, we’ve caught him,” they
chanted, their clubs swinging in the air like flags.
“It’s me,” the teacher
squeaked, raising up his hands in surrender.
“Teacher Tom,” they
gasped, lowering their weapons. Silence ensued as they eyed him with disbelief
and suspicion.
“From where are you
coming?” the askari asked.
“Behind sir,” Tom replied.
“… short- call.”
“Oooh,” the men
chorused, nodding.
“Wait! First wait, wait I
interrogate him,” the askari said. “If only short call, how is it that mud is
in your head, is in your body and in your legs?”
“I tripped, sir. I
tripped and fell,” he said.
“Okay… so you go to
toilet without slipper?”
“….er…yes sir … no,
no.…,” he stammered, looking in horror at his bare feet.
“Are these your
slippers?”
Tom shook his head at
the slippers dangling before his face, forgotten when he had taken flight from
the lavatory.
“Try them on,” said
askari.
“Eh?”
“Put them on.”
“It’s the truth sir,” he
cried.
“Stop wasting time
askari,” one of the men said. “The thief is getting away. Teacher Tom has told
us he fell in the loo. He will even smear us with feaces. These people’s
latrines are always full and broken so they defecate in buveera bags which throw
into the road when no one is looking.”
The hunters rippled with
laughter.
“Seriously,” the askari
said. “Thieves broke into our home and one of them hid in the outside toilet.
Didn’t you hear the alarm?”
“Er…er… What did they
steal?”
“We don’t know yet but
we captured his slippers and suka.
I think he used the suka
as a rope to climb over the fence. Do you recognize these?”
asked the askari, holding up the items.
“Nooo,” the men
chorused.
“We shall mount a door
to door operation and the man whose feet fit these shall vomit.”
“Vomit!” the men chorused
again.
“Alert us if you see any
unclear characters especially young men who roam around with no proper jobs.”
“Yes... Sir!”
The teacher watched them
go down the lane and then he entered his room. He stashed his soiled clothes
under the bed, then poured two mugs of water into a bucket. He bathed his face,
arms and legs, and then threw the dirty water into the courtyard. He retrieved
his only pair of shoes – a graduation present – only six years old.
That time mama had
beamed like a peacock in her new gomesi and papa had called him light of my
light. “Now that the harvest is here,” papa had said, “I can proudly say, that I
have a son.” The applause then had rivalled a volcanic eruption. New born
babies were told of the
graduation party where a bull and five goats were slaughtered. Villagers
flocked to papa’s home to settle disputes because his son had graduated as a
lawyer.
The years had flown by
and the house papa had expected him to build remained like a folk song on the
lips of his family members. Yosia’s son, a neighbour, had recently graduated and
had already built a tiled house for his father.
Tom drew out a needle
and skilfully closed the gaping hole in the toe of the shoes. Spitting on the
worn leather, he polished furiously till it shone like a mirage. He slipped
into the graduation suit; then it had fitted snugly, now it hung on his body
like a tablecloth.
He locked the door, and
then mumbled a prayer as he checked his reflection on the broken glass window.
He stroked his sallow cheeks, smoothed his clean shaven head and then ambled
gingerly down the brown beaten path, an envelope clasped under his arms. It was
already daylight.
“Fruits of the book are
eaten squashed,” papa had said on one of Tom’s many visits to his parents.
“Papa,” he had replied. “I
will get there, it’s only a matter of time.”
“Time? Look at you. A
whole lawyer teaching kindergarten. People no longer take my advice at the
village meetings seriously. Have you not heard that Tito’s daughter is marrying
a lawyer? The way people fill Tito’s house now… and the way he talks. If I had
invested your young sister’s dowry elsewhere, I would be harvesting instead of tasting
my own saliva!”
A rumble boomed in the
sky, the clouds were fast changing colour. A van raced past, leaving a
trail of dust hovering. He blew his nose and wiped his shoes, flinching as the
drizzle began. Lightning flashed! He broke into a jog. Umbrellas bobbed out,
gracing the murrum road like lollipops. Thunder growled. He sprinted,
clinging like a leech to the envelope under his arms. Wind howled, sending the
greens along the side into a frenzied dance.
Then it came down,
pouring with the fury of a drunken elephant. He accelerated, his heels clapping
the back of his head. A taxi screeched to a stop at his side.
“Two thousand!” the conductor yelled, sliding
the door.
Tom’s shoulders sank,
that was double the normal price and all the money he had. He would walk on the
return journey. Jostling with other commuters, he breezed in like a butterfly
and plonked next to the conductor.
“Full!” the conductor bellowed,
slamming the door shut. They sped off, flying over potholes, humps and debris.
Tom sat on the edge, jittery, swaying from side to side like a leaf, clutching
the seat for dear life. The taxi swerved this way and that way, rain water
spraying over its bonnet like an overturned fountain.
The sky illumined.
Thunder roared. Puddles turned into lakes. Rain lashed the vehicle. It
shuddered and creaked in dismay. Iron sheet roof tops sailed off their anchors,
pavements drowned, and passengers mumbled their last prayers.
“Jam!” yelled the driver,
screeching to a stop. A line of cars stretched in the distance like a clothes
line and the taxi’s speed dropped to a snail’s pace.
Tom exhaled deeply, the
music from the sky soothing him, his mind gliding to a girl he once knew. He
recalled her melodic voice dizzying him, tantalizing him, and in the evenings strolling
hand in hand with him.
Ah! Amina, whose teeth
sparkled like wine. Amina of the black gums. Amina whose smile melted
mountains. If only he could glimpse her face again. If only he could hear her
laughter. If only he would talk with her again. If only she were here.
This life of being broke and buying things in quarters would be bearable.
Some of his classmates
had passed him by in big cars as he combed the streets in search of a better
job. Some had even built houses while he still ran around for rent. After
graduation, Amina had secured a job, her uncle’s name was key enough to open
doors. Gradually, she had eased out of his life.
A bump jolted him out of
his reverie.
“Fool!” the driver
snarled, gripping the steering.
The taxi chugged forward
sandwiched between a bus and a trailer. The beasts blared.
“Show them!” the conductor yelled.
“Jesus!” a lady passenger shouted.
The driver whirled the
steering wheel this way and that way, the engine coughed and spluttered; the
tires squealed, spattering mud. The vehicle etched forward, stuttering, gently,
gently scratching the bus. Gently, gently, coughing and rocking, and
finally gave way in the middle of the intersection, paralyzing all traffic.
Horns honked. Hail
stones pelted the vehicles. Water swished and swirled in droves. Rain trickled
into the taxi through the roof, the windows, and the floor. Tom lifted his legs
on to the seat, pushed the envelope into his coat pocket and huddled like a
tree stump.
A foul breeze blew.
Greenish fluid spewed from open sewers and gushed down the submerged road. A
wave of nausea engulfed the passengers, and they held their noses with their
hands.
“We need to fuel up
before the white goons slap us with papers.”
“When the rain stops of
course,” said the conductor. “The other day a passenger insisted and boarded
off when it was raining. He drowned on the road. His body was swept off into
the swamps. The gushing water conceals the manholes on the road.”
After a long while, the
anger of the rain abated. The conductor beckoned to some youth lounging under
the veranda, and they pounced at the opportunity of making a quick buck. They pushed
the taxi about ten meters to the fuel station where it drank enough gas to come back to life. Then, it bounded off
on its journey.
Tom alighted at the taxi
stage next to the City Square, which was condoned off and swarming with
uniformed men. Fruit vendors plied their trade in stealth. The women with wares
in baskets half sitting-half standing, calling for buyers. A man held a placard
that said, ‘Ask for books here.’ A young man shoved shoes in Tom’s face
shouting, “Customer, customer.” Another woman placed a child in the middle of
the street to beg. He checked the time on his cell phone, he still had two
hours. His shoes were heavy and squelching. He sat on a bench, removed them and
shoved his socks into his pocket.
Drowsiness stole over
him. He stifled a yawn, blinked once, twice and slumped his head over his
shoulders. The face of Amina danced in his dreams. He awoke later with a
start, and saw men in yellow uniform bundling a woman into a
city council pick-up, her merchandise strewn all over the pavement, her colleagues
scurrying away.
He stretched, scraping
for his shoes with his toes, and felt nothing. Alarmed, he peered beneath the
bench. Nothing. He jumped up like a deer and barked at passers by, “My shoes!
My shoes.” They gave him a blank look. He ran his hands over his pockets. The phone
was gone too.
He turned, his eyes
bulging at the city clock like a zombie, his mind in turmoil. Cursing, he flung
the envelope away as though it were a rotten egg.
“Ah!” He jeered, grabbed
the envelope and marched across the road to a company’s office, his jaws
clenched. He halted at the door, adjusted his tie and ran his hands over his
head. He wiped his feet on the doormat and shoved his hands into his
pocket, then counted, “One…, Two…, Three…Go!” His feet stuck to the spot of
their own accord. He tried again, “One…, Two…, Three...Go!” He remained glued
to the spot, scratching his head.
Then someone said, “Come
in, it’s open.”
I’m finished, he thought
as his feet came alive and propelled him into the reception, leaving muddy
smudges on the tiled floor. He sank into the nearest seat and bowed his head,
staring at his toes.
“Excuse me sir,” a voice
said, stopping his breath. He knew that voice! “How may
we help you?”
“I have come for the
interview,” he squeaked.
“Were you contacted?” she
asked.
“Yes madam,” he said,
his head still bowed.
“What is your name sir?”
“…Teacher… Teacher… Tom.”
“Pardon?”
“…Tom…, teacher Tom
Budoto.”
He finally raised up his
head. He took in her smooth chocolate skin, her radiant smile… the baby face,
and his heart missed a beat. He started floating, floating…, six and a half
years ago when the two of them were basking in the sunshine…, laughing…,
strolling under the trees… the grass. Then her face contorted, her eyes fluttered,
she frowned and her mouth tightened.
“Excuse me,” she said, and
clicked away on her heels.
The urge to flee
descended. His eyes darted towards the exit. Too late. The high heels came back.
“Come with me,” she said
in a businesslike tone.
He staggered up and
followed, low murmurs and strange glances escorting him.
They entered a room and
several eyes appraised him from head to naked feet. They sat in a half moon
behind an oval table. High heels joined them. He stayed near the door, hanging
his head like a school boy in the head master’s office. Tears stung his eyes,
his armpits burned.
A gray haired man
gestured for him to sit, indicating a chair directly opposite. Tom flopped down
and clasped his hands, his eyes downcast.
“Mr Budoto,” the gray
haired man begun. “You are welcome to BD International. I’m Karama Kagoba,
the General Manager, and seated before you are heads of departments. Amina here
is our Administrations Manager and the Chairlady of this panel today.”
He glanced up and caught
Amina watching him from under her eyelashes. He quickly lowered his eyes and
wished the ground would open up and swallow him. He did not hear the rest
of what the old man said, the words floated over his head like wind.
Something pickled in his
nose. He pressed it but it persisted. His head tilted. He rummaged through his breast
pockets, then through the pants pockets. He felt their disapproving looks but
the water was running fast out of his nose. He searched frantically and pulled
out a sock just in time to catch the sneeze. He blew his nose and wiped his
eyes.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled,
mopping sweat off his face with the socks. The audience winced.
“Mr Budoto,” continued
the General Manager. “They have said things about you and I had to come to this
meeting, personally, to confirm.”
Tom nodded.
“They said you look
confused.”
Tom nodded again.
“And out of place.”
Another nod.
“And shoe less. Yet,
your resume is impressive. No relevant prior experience but excellent grades.
Your capabilities seem excellent, your capacity good but your outlook… I
wonder. Tell me how you can attend this job interview the way you are.”
“Thank you ladies and
gentlemen…,” Tom squeaked. Once the words were out, they gushed like water from
a broken pipe. He relayed his ordeal from the time he boarded the taxi. He
spoke in a cool manner, looking over the heads of the listeners, taking long
pauses. They ate his words. At the end of his narration, silence ensued and
some women dubbed their eyes with hankies.
The General Manager
stroked his chin, then cleared his throat and spoke. “This is a very good
story, very good. Robert what do you think?”
The man on his left
replied, “Kampala is indeed full of crooks. The other day my phone was snatched
from my ear as I made a call.”
“Hmm,” offered a lady. “My
earrings were plucked off my ears as I crossed the road.”
“My side mirrors were
screwed off at a zebra crossing,” said another.
“You are so quiet Jack.”
“Um...,” said the man
called Jack. “I know what it means to be on the street job hunting for years.
But you have courage. To attend an interview bare feet…. If it were me, I would
have returned home lamenting the bad luck.”
The interview panel
burst out laughing.
“Chairlady,” said the
General Manager. “Let us raise money for Mr Budoto to buy shoes so that those who see him should not think some
of his wires upstairs have gone missing.”
“Agreed!” the room
chorused.
Each person pulled money
out of their purses and wallets, mostly in big notes. They put it in an
envelope and passed it over to the General Manager.
“Mr Budoto,” said the
General Manager, handing Tom the envelope. “Go and buy shoes. I don’t know how
you have done it, but walking bare feet to an interview panel is a feat only a
determined and persistent man can accomplish. You will report to work here tomorrow
at eight o’clock sharp, in your new shoes. Amina will….”
“Sir,… sir… ,” Tom blubbered,
sinking to his knees.
“Get up man. Hurry up. The
rain is coming. You need to buy new shoes and come to work on time.”
Thunder rumbled in the
sky like rolling stones. Tom stumbled out of the office in a daze. Outside, the
traffic had thickened and pedestrians were rushing about like swirls of water.
The rains had come.
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Download to read on mobile devices pdf epub html
≈≈
Proscovia Akello has worked for many years in the financial industry, specialising in
SME (small and medium enterprises) and has come across many stories, some of which she has penned and await publication. She also runs an educational program for the disenfranchised youth, to challenge them embrace entrepreneurship and business as a career.
≈≈
Proscovia Akello has worked for many years in the financial industry, specialising in
SME (small and medium enterprises) and has come across many stories, some of which she has penned and await publication. She also runs an educational program for the disenfranchised youth, to challenge them embrace entrepreneurship and business as a career.
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