Jar of misfortune

By Mulumba Ivan Matthias                                                        Download pdf, epub, mobi

 
No street light burned. No bulbs on the buildings. Car headlights lit the narrow streets. The buildings, mostly wooden and rusty iron sheet structures, were maize mills and welding workshops fronting filthy trenches.
Tenywa observed them, silently taking in every detail.
“What a neighbourhood!” he said to himself. He stood on top of Ovino mall, a mammoth development with banking halls, motels, restaurants, shops, stores. From there, he could see the whole of Kisenyi, the few lights glowing in the darkness and the rush of people returning home.
He checked his watch. It was eight thirty, two hours since his brother called. But he still hadn’t shown up. Tenywa was tired of waiting. He was accustomed to returning to his room before seven. With no job, there was nothing to keep him in town after sunset.
He had called his brother several times. Each time, he had got the same answer. “Give me ten minutes.” Forty minutes had passed since the last time.
Tenywa needed the money. All he had left was a thousand shillings. It couldn't cater for his supper, or transport to return to town the next day for a job interview.
On the road below, a pick-up truck loaded with sacks of maize was stuck in a pothole. Traffic had stopped flowing. The drivers caught in the deadlock honked over and over.
The pick-up's tires screeched, dust rose in the air, but it did not get out.
Other drivers screamed at the driver.
“Is it your first time to drive?” one yelled.
“Can’t you reverse?” another said. “If the car has failed to move ahead move it backwards. Use your brain.”
Bystanders, who were now covered in dust, also vented their fury on him.
“The car won’t move but you keep at it until everyone is covered in dust,” an elderly man, walking past the pickup with a black polythene, said.
“Keep trying, fool, until there are no tyres left,” another man said.
One of the people jumped into his Pajero, and reversed to the pick-up. He attached a chain to tow the pick-up. The stuck driver did not object.
The Pajero revved. The chain splintered and it dashed forward. It missed a boda-boda rider by a whisker. The rider hurled insults at the Pajero but did not stop. The pick-up truck barely moved.
“Get a bigger car,” someone suggested. A Fuso lorry drove in, but like the Pajero, it failed.
“The car is heavy,” someone said. “Offload it first. Is that so hard to figure out? Pig!” Laughter broke out.
Tenywa turned away from the pick-up. He walked around the building to relieve the pain that had built-up in his legs. He went past a sports betting room. The gambling youth called it a stock market.
Benches littered the inside of the room, facing different directions. A 42-inch flat screen TV sat on the wall. It totally mismatched the décor and furniture. There were six people inside, their eyes glued to a noticeboard with football fixtures. The cashier, a small lady with a cleanly shaved head, dosed behind the counter.
“Not a good day I guess,” Tenywa mumbled, and continued. He switched on the radio on his phone. Paulo Kafero’s song, Kampala mu Kooti, was playing on an FM station. He did not like it. He changed the station. The next one had a talk show. He changed again, and again, but most had talk shows. The few with music played the kind not to his liking.
He switched off the radio and studied the mall. The shops, the banking halls, and the parking yard, were all asleep. It was hard to believe that during day people filled the place. He looked at the adjacent towers. They stared back as if yearning for a human soul to stroll through them. Tenywa returned to the balcony.
Traffic flowed again. The pick-up had gotten out of the pothole. Five men were reloading it. Tenywa studied the people walking in front of the mall, hoping to see his brother. It was in vain. A shade of disappointment crossed his face. He leaned on the balcony and studied the activity on the road, the traders closing shops. Some were quiet as if the day’s losses had taken all power of speech out of them. Others talked endlessly about football, business, and the car that had just gotten out of the pothole. Tenywa listened intently. It took away the loneliness and made the wait less tiring.
His brother, Stephen, arrived thirty minutes later.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “A client told me to wait for him but he did not show up.” Tenywa did not say a word. Stephen reached into the back pocket of his trousers for a wallet, and pulled out a ten thousand shillings note.
“You had asked for twenty thousand but I could only get ten. I might get more tomorrow. If I do, I will give you a call.”
Tenywa took the money and they left Ovino mall together. He walked at a slower pace. He was disappointed and enraged at being made to wait for so long and not getting what he had hoped for. Wary of pick pockets, he moved his wallet from the back pocket to the side pocket. They walked to the new taxi park.
Tenywa remembered that he needed to buy movies. They relieved stress and loneliness. He changed direction as soon as he reached Namirembe road and headed for Zai plaza. He did not tell his brother good night.
When he got there, a guard blocked the entrance.
“It is closed,” the guard said.
“I won't take long,” Tenywa said. “I’m just picking one movie from that shop and then I will be on my way.’ Tenywa pointed at a shop, the only one still open. The guard looked at it. The shop attendants were wrapping up.
“Unless you give me five hundred shillings,” the guard said, “you are not entering the building.”
“I’m not going to take long.” Tenywa said. “I will take less than five minutes. You can’t charge me for that.” The guard just wore a plastic smile.
Three women came down the stairs on their way out of the building. The guard turned to greet them. Tenywa saw an opportunity. He tried to enter but the guard reached for an old AK 47.
“Since you’ve decided to use force,’ he said, with a smirk on his face, “you will not enter the building tonight.”
“I’m just going to pick one movie,” Tenywa said. “Nothing else.”
“This is not the only place where movies are sold,’ the guard said. “Is it?”
Tenywa's face was trembling. He gritted his teeth and knotted his palms into fists. The guard was young, not more than twenty five. He was small too. If they fought, he would definitely lose.
Who did he think he was? The owner of the building? How dare he stop him? A guard! How dare he?
“He will shoot you,” one of the women told Tenywa. “You should calm down. They are just movies. They are not worth your life.”
Tenywa glanced at the movie shop, then at the guard. For a while, he just stood there, torn between walking away and forcing his way in.
He eventually backed down and left.
“Go and buy movies elsewhere,” the guard yelled at him.
Tenywa turned and glared, struggling to restrain himself. He jeered and stomped away, following the same route he had enthusiastically climbed uphill. Twice, boda-bodas almost knocked him. He cursed the riders. He walked to the stage in the old taxi park where taxis to Lubaga road park.
Only one taxi was available. There were more passengers than it could carry. They fought to enter as soon as its door slid open. Sex and age did not mater. Women, men, young or old, they all fought.
Tenywa kept his distance. Engaging in another fight would spark an exchange of blows given the situation he had just walked away from. He wanted to calm down and give his mind some peace.
Three people entered the front seats instead of two. The driver told one of them to get out but she refused. She pretended not to have heard him. She wore such a serious look, the driver eventually gave up and looked away from her.
At the back, there were more than sixteen passengers, all brimming with joy after surviving another hour of waiting. The driver pleaded. He wanted some of them to step out. But his pleas simply bypassed their ears.
“Take all of us,” a woman told him. “It won’t be the first time you will be taking excess. We will pay you.” The conductor, still outside, looked at the driver to see what he would say. The driver was confused.
“There are traffic policemen on the road,” he said.
“We will pass through Kisenyi,” a passenger suggested. “There are usually no policemen there.”
“There is a lot of traffic jam there,’ the driver went on. “We might spend an hour on the road.”
“So you are turning down an opportunity to earn more money,’ another passenger said. “You must have made a fortune during day.”
The driver succumbed.
Closing the door was not easy when the conductor got in. The driver had to get out of the taxi and close the door, making sure that he did not harm anyone. He returned to his seat and started the taxi. Tenywa watched it groan way, with twenty one passengers instead of fourteen.
Twenty minutes passed before another taxi came. The struggle to enter it was similar to the one before. Once again, Tenywa watched from a distance. The passengers filled it and it left. This one took fourteen passengers.
Four taxis came to the stage at the same time. Two of them loaded passengers and left. Still, people fought to enter. Tenywa boarded the third. This time, there was no fighting.
The ride back home was rough. The driver seemed to have signed a death wish. He accelerated unnecessarily, even over potholes , and he drove mostly on the wrong side. Twice, he narrowly collided with other cars as he overtook. Tenywa regretted boarding, but he could not get out. If he did, he would have to pay the fare for the entire trip.
The taxi slowed down at Pride Theatre junction before branching onto Lubaga road. It surged forward, at a more terrible speed than before, pushing the passengers forward. Some hit their heads on the roof. Others gripped the head rests and their seats, to avoid crashing into each other.
“You are not driving cattle,” a passenger yelled.
“You shouldn’t put our lives in danger, for money,” said another.
Tenywa was silent. The encounter with the guard at Zai plaza still haunted him. He knew that conductors and taxi drivers were abusive. If he turned his anger on them, he would get more than he bargained for. Besides, he was seated next to the conductor.
The driver did not say a word. He didn’t slow down either. He just accelerated.
There was mild traffic near Kabaka Anjagala round about. The taxi slowed down, almost coming to a halt. The driver honked several times to force other cars to move.
“I have to make two trips,” he said impatiently. “I must recover the fine the traffic officer made us pay.’ He honked again, this time at length. He did not stop until the cars in front, moved. He dashed forward, past the roundabout, and started the climb on Kabaka Anjagala road, towards Bulange.
The passengers were stunned.
“Where are you taking us?” a woman in one of the front seats demanded.
“What demons have taken over you?” another asked.
“Did you first drink before coming to work?” It was a man this time. “You shouldn’t drink and drive.”
Tenywa did not breathe a word.
“This trip is for Lubaga road,’ the conductor reminded the driver. “Not Bulange.”
“God,” the driver said and hit the steering wheel with his palms. “It had skipped my mind.” He jeered and looked around for an access road. He turned the taxi around at the first access he saw, and returned to the roundabout.
Once again, there was mild traffic. Unlike before, he did not honk. He waited until the road cleared, and then the demons returned. He stepped on the accelerator until the passengers were forced to hold on to their seats.
When time came for passengers to get off, he got agitated. He stopped the taxi, grumbling.
“Hurry,” he said heatedly. “Other passengers also have to get home.”
A man and woman took their time to get off.
“That’s why I hate having female passengers,” the driver said angrily and hit the steering wheel with his fists. “They waste time, take forever to get off. This is a business. Don’t mess it up.” The door closed and the taxi sped away.
When Tenywa’s turn came to get off, he hurried out. The conductor pushed the door to close as soon as Tenywa’s feet touched the ground, and then the taxi dashed off.
“And I thought mine had been the worst day,” Tenywa said, shaking his head, and he crossed to the opposite side of the road to begin the climb to his room.
His heart sank when he got there. The compound was the only one without power.
“Not again,” he groaned. The land lady had assured him that the power problem had been solved.
“That woman!” he said. “All she knows is to ask for rent, never to pay the electricity bills. I have to cook, iron clothes, and watch … aahh.” He kicked a stone in the walk way and walked to his room. He unlocked the padlocks, entered, and locked the door.
Guided by the torch on his phone, he walked to the corner where he kept a lamp. He shook it. There wasn’t a single drop of paraffin. He put it down and picked the paraffin bottle. It was also empty.
He stood there for a while, trying to figure out what to do. The nearest petrol station was a kilometre away. There wasn’t enough strength left in him to walk to it. There was little he could do in the darkness. Even bathing was out of the question. The bathrooms were messy most of the time. Who knows what he would step in if he dared to go there now?
He took off his shoes and sat on the bed. He stayed there for a while, as if trying to squeeze an answer from the semi darkness.
He stood up, stripped to the briefs, and got into his bed.
I will bathe in the morning, he mused. One night won’t kill me. He forgot the supper he had intended to have, closed his eyes and summoned sleep, hoping that the next day would be better.
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Mulumba Ivan Matthias is a Ugandan author living in Kampala, Uganda. He is a valuation surveyor by trade. He is the author of a collection of poems, Poetry In Motion, published in 2012. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in print anthologies, and online in The Kalahari Review, Readers’ Café Africa, Africa book club and Munyori Literary Journal, among others. He writes a blog, http://mimulumba.wordpress.com/