The
soldier stormed into the lodge thirty minutes after his wife and her
lover had checked in. He was clad in war fatigues. He brandished a
gun. He was drunk. And angry. Very angry. He wanted to kill someone.
“Where
is my wife?” he growled as he marched towards me.
I
was behind the counter at the reception. I unconsciously rose to my
feet. I knew the soldier. I knew his wife. I knew there was going to
be trouble. I was alone against the soldier. I trembled in reply.
“I
– ah – don’t know your wife.”
“Where
is my wife?” He pointed his gun at me.
“I
d-don’t know your wife.”
He
put the barrel of the gun on my nose. It was cold. It made me shiver.
His drunken eyes were red and wet with crude alcohol. The stench of
waragi
fuming
from his mouth was intoxicating.
“You
know her,” he snarled. His breathing was fast. He roared, “You
know her! You know that whore!” Then he went on in a growl. “You
know she always comes here. You know the man she’s always with.”
He roared again. “You know her! She’s here!” There were two
couples hidden in the rooms at that time. They all heard his roar.
“Where’s she?”
“I
don’t know –”
He
struck me. He hit my forehead with the butt of his gun. My skull
exploded. I fell backwards, flat onto the ground. He jumped over the
counter to get me. He straddled over me, hit me, pounded me with
metallic fists, twice, thrice. I screamed. He grabbed me by the neck
and belt and threw me over the counter. I screamed for help. He came
over to me. I lay supine on the floor, helpless. He again placed the
barrel on my now broken nose.
“Where
is my wife?”
“Aagh
– ah – afande,”
I cried. “Let me take you around – check – check all rooms.
Look – look for your wife. Let m-me – ”
“Get
up!”
I
jumped off the floor. There was a painful lump on my forehead. My
broken nose bled profusely. My shirt was drenched in blood. The
soldier locked the only entrance to the building.
“Show
me – open – open all rooms. I want that whore – I want that
whore now!”
I
staggered back to the counter. I fished out three keys from a drawer.
The lodge has five rooms. We started to search the nearest, Room 4
and Room 5. Most of our clients are adulterers. They come here to
cheat on their husbands and wives. What they want more than they want
to make love is secrecy, and we assure them of maximum secrecy. No
one who comes here ever gets caught – no one!
First,
I opened Room 4. The soldier gushed in. His gun searched for his
wife. He searched every inch of the room. He searched under the bed
and under the chairs. I wiped blood off my nose as he searched. He
didn’t get his wife in Room 4. He searched Room 5 with more vigor
and more anger. But he didn’t get his wife in Room 5.
Directly
opposite the door to Room 5 is a door that leads to a short, dark
corridor in which are four other doors. One is the bathroom that all
the residents use. The soldier kicked it open. He dashed in, his gun
searched for his wife. He didn’t get his wife in the bathroom.
Now
he was bubbling in fury. Each time he searched a room and didn’t
get his wife he got angrier, angrier and destructive. He searched
Room 1 furiously. He ripped the sheets off the bed. He hurled the
mattress off the bed. He turned the bed upside down. He smashed a
chair against a wall. He screamed in the madness of frustrations as
he searched, “She’s here! She’s here! I’ll get her – that
whore! I’ll get her!” He didn’t get his wife in Room 1.
Further
inside the corridor are the two best rooms in the hotel. Both have
sofas that our clients enjoy very much. They like doing it on the
sofa more than they like doing it on the bed. Both rooms were
occupied. I knocked on the door to Room 2. There was no reply. I
knocked again, louder.
“Bosco,”
I called to the man inside the room. It was a false name. “Bosco.
Open.” Still there was no reply.
The
soldier exploded. “She’s here! She’s here! Whore!” He kicked
the door and the whole house trembled. “That whore’s here!” He
kicked the door again. It looked weak but couldn’t break. The
soldier raged, kicked, yelled. “Open! Whore! Open!” Still, the
door didn’t open.
“Bosco,”
I called again when the soldier’s yelling had relented. “Bosco.
Don’t fear. It’s me. Open.”
“Wh-who
is that?” a terrified voice stuttered in reply.
“Don’t
fear Bosco,” I said, holding a hanky on my broken nose to stem the
bleeding. “Just open and everything will be fine.” My eyes were
on the soldier. The soldier kept a scowl on his face and his gun
pointed at the door. “Don’t fear Bosco. Open.”
“Is-is
it my – my wife?”
“No.
It’s not your wife.”
“Is-is
it ma – my friend’s ha-husband?”
“No.
It’s not your friend’s husband.”
“Open!”
the soldier shrieked. He pounded the door with the butt of his gun.
“Open! Whore! Open!”
“Wh-who
is that?”
“A
soldier looking for his wife,” I said. “Please, open. Don’t
fear him. Open. He won’t hurt you.”
After
ten minutes of sweet talks from me and threats from the soldier, the
door opened. The soldier lunged into the room. He smashed Bosco out
of the way. Bosco fell supine. He was stark naked. The soldier’s
gun searched for his wife.
There
was a naked woman on the sofa. She was too scared to notice her
nakedness. The soldier’s gun prodded her nose. The soldier glared
down at her in contempt and hatred.
“Is
that your wife?” I asked the soldier.
“No,”
he barked. “No!” he stormed out of the room. He went straight to
Room 3, the only room he hadn’t yet searched. He roared, “She’s
here! She’s here!” He brandished his gun at the door, eager to
shoot. “Tell her to open!”
I
heisted. I was afraid. I did not want to open Room 3. The soldier’s
wife was in Room 3.
“Tell
her to open! She’s there!”
I
knocked on the door. No reply. I knocked again. Still, no reply. I
stared at the bloody smudge on the door. My hands were bloody. I had
smeared the blood as I knocked. I still bled. I knocked a third time.
There was a deathly silence in the room.
“Open!”
The soldier kicked the door. Unexpectedly, it burst open. It wasn’t
locked. The soldier hesitated, then he stormed into the room. His gun
searched for his wife.
I
waited. A minute passed. Nothing happened. I heard no screams. I
heard no gunshot. I heard nothing. I followed the solider into the
room. He stood dead still, his gun aimed at the bed in disbelief.
The
bed was rumpled. There were three unused condoms on the sheets. There
was a used condom on the floor near the sofa. The soldier glared at
the used condom, at the nasty stuff that spilled out of it. There was
no one in sight in the room.
I
don’t know what got into him. I think the hitherto vain search had
disillusioned and drained him. He didn’t thoroughly search Room 3.
He only searched under the bed and did not see his wife there. He
gave up.
“She
was here,” he said in a subdued voice. “Wasn’t she?”
“I
don’t know your wife,” I said.
“I’ll
kill her,” he said, walking out. “I’ll kill that whore.” He
talked to himself as he walked out of the hotel. “Today was her
lucky day, but I’ll get her. I’ll kill her.” The echoes of his
boots followed him out of the lodge.
I
escorted him out, then returned to Room 3. I went to the sofa. Hidden
behind the sofa, squeezed between the sofa and the wall, was another
stark naked couple. They stared at me with eyes that had popped out
of their heads, like balloons about to burst.
“Has
he gone?” the soldier’s wife asked.
“Yes,”
I replied. “You too should go. I don’t want to ever see you here
again. Go.”
≈≈
Editor.
This story was first published in The Sunday Vision, in February
2001. It serves as a precursor to the masterpiece, What Happened inRoom 13, a short film that has so far attracted over 1.7 million
views on YouTube.
~~
Dilman
Dila
is
a Ugandan writer and filmmaker whose works have been recognized in
many international prizes, including the BBC International Radio
Scriptwriting Competition, the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, the
Jalada Prize for Literature, Short Story Day Africa Prize, and the
Million Writer's Awards. He started Lawino Magazine to promote
writing from Africa, with particular focus on Uganda, and to
encourage reading of African literature on mobile devices. He keeps an online diary of his life and works at www.dilmandila.com
~~
~~
Also in this Issue
Short Stories
Poems