Moses Isegawa - Snakepit

The plane landed safely. He was whisked from the airport in a dark-windowed Boomerang. He always insisted on travelling incognito. In a dictatorship, anonymity was priceless. He liked the fact that very few Ugandans, let alone generals, knew his identity. During séances, he used masks and big robes and sat on a throne, which made him look taller than he was. During meetings with Marshal Amin, he insisted on there being very few people. During his stays his assistants did most of the work, and he always walked amidst a phalanx of bodyguards.

The Boomerang parked in front of the State House at Entebbe and ten men surrounded Dr. Ali and walked him inside the building. There was commotion, soldiers everywhere. He was here to comfort his friend, encourage him, reassure him that his time had not yet come. He knew how most people overlooked the pressure leaders were under. Pressure was the main reason why from time immemorial many leaders went mad.

Marshal Amin sprang from his chair when the astrologer walked into the room. The two men embraced. Robert Ashes and two generals looked on, ready to shake hands with the diminutive astrologer and to get down to business with him. To their surprise, Amin asked them for privacy and remained behind with his guest. He sometimes thought about imprisoning the little man; he meant so much to him. In the past a king would have crippled him and put him under permanent guard. Things were different now. However much Amin hated it, he had to let the man leave and had to wait patiently for his return. There was also the fact that he feared the astrologer’s ire: a man this gifted could curse you, mess up your omens and hasten your downfall. The only weapon available was to keep him happy and to beg him to come whenever things ran out of hand. Amin felt relieved that the man had agreed at all to come at such short notice.

“Ten white bulls are ready,” Amin said as the two men sat down.

“Do you want the omens read right now? It is three o’clock in the morning. The world is asleep,” the astrologer joked.

“I work twenty-four hours a day,” his host said irately, pining for his next dose of cocaine. He needed it, no, he deserved it. He could celebrate; his peace of mind had returned. He now believed that the rebellion would be crushed. Soon after, he would reorganize his personal army and make it ten times stronger, and give the men everything they wanted.

“Let us proceed then. Afterwards we can lie down for some sleep,” the astrologer said, yawning.

“You must be very jet-lagged, my friend.”

“Never mind. Anything for you, friend.”

Under moonlight, the ten bulls were slaughtered, Marshal Amin cutting the throats according to procedure. Dr. Ali examined each liver carefully, turning over the shiny, silky lobes. He examined the stars for a long time. The omens were favourable. Now everybody could get some sleep. In the morning he would study the sun and communicate its omens.

Astrology had been in Dr. Ali’s family for three hundred years. He was born on the small island of Pemba in the Indian Ocean to a Muslim family. He was a small dark-skinned man of mixed parentage. His ancestors had come from Arabia in AD 1001 and settled on the East African coast. They intermarried with Africans, creating the Swahili heritage. At the age of six, Dr. Ali was struck by lightning as he played outside. His parents found him an hour later, stone cold, eye whites showing. They took him to the doctor, prayed over him and waited for his death. But he survived, hovering near death for a year, hardly moving a muscle, talking in a small voice. He told his mother that he was having dreams, seeing the sun, the stars, spirits. In a family of astrologers this would have been nothing new; here, when he insisted, they thought he might have lost his head or was telling them what he had heard adults say.

After convalescing he returned to school. He surprised teachers and pupils by telling them things about themselves, a relative who fell sick, or got married, or visited. He could also tell when somebody was lying.

“It is the lightning. The electricity fried your brain. You are mad if you think you are special,” they said.

In a way, they were right. There were astrologers and soothsayers everywhere. Every other week somebody claimed to be a prophet or healer or messiah. Those who couldn’t prosper left for Zanzibar, Tanzania or the Arab states.

In the end, he decided to keep his counsel, never telling what he saw or knew about other people. After school he read books on astrology and Arabic. He was determined to go to Iran and study ancient religions. At twenty-five he got his university degree in religious studies. By then people had acknowledged his gift. People came from far and near to have their omens read. He got a job offer as head astrologer in Saudi Arabia, working exclusively for the royal family, but turned it down. He wanted freedom. He returned to the coast and settled in Zanzibar, where his fame grew even more.

By the time he made his first visit to Uganda, he was the most expensive astrologer on the continent. He was already on a retainer with President Mobutu of Zaïre, Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic, and General Gowon of Nigeria. He also had famous customers in Saudi Arabia and Europe. During their first meeting he told Amin that he would die an old man. He also described forthcoming assassination attempts to him, one of which occurred a week later, in almost exact detail. Amin became a follower. He foretold the deaths of two of Amin’s wives, also in detail. Amin had shivered. His mother had been a witch-doctor and he had his own clutch of astrologers and witches, but he had never met someone like Dr. Ali. Dr. Ali became the only man Amin truly feared. To keep him away from his generals, he raised the astrologer’s fees to one thousand dollars per consultation and ten thousand per séance. To weaken organized religions, he promoted the spread of astrology. Dr. Ali’s writings were spread everywhere, thus the nickname God. Astrology became a department at the university.

Now, three years later, the two men had become very good friends. The Marshal loved the fact that Dr. Ali hated the limelight. The air of mystique served both parties well. He also had few vices, apart from a streak of exorbitance. Every night he consumed a thousand-dollar bottle of red wine, a habit picked up from President Mobutu, whose cellar boasted the most expensive wines in the world.

“A thousand dollars worth of piss!” Amin would exclaim.

“I have drunk wines costing fifty thousand dollars per bottle,” the astrologer would counter, raising his eyebrows, turning his head slightly and smiling faintly. “I last drank that at Mobutu’s birthday.”

“Thank God whisky is not so expensive. Give me Johnnie Walker any day. And a bag of cocaine,” Amin said, laughing out loud.

“We are talking about the fine things in life, Marshal,” the astrologer said, laughing.

“Fuck them in the arse,” his host said, roaring with more laughter. He rang a bell and a soldier appeared. “Bring my friend his thousand-dollar piss. Don’t break the bottle. We are going to drink a toast.”

The phone rang. Good news. General Bazooka had crushed the core of the rebellion. He was now busy wrapping up the operation.

BY THE TIME BAT LEFT for Saudi Arabia, the rebellion in the army had been quelled. He headed a delegation charged with the business of negotiating with the Saudi government for a supply of construction equipment. Offers had been tendered by two companies, both owned by Saudi princes. It was up to Bat to decide which company should receive the contract and to close the deal. General Bazooka and a few other generals would get a cut of the commission, delivered in cash. What Bat did not realize was just how fierce the competition was between the two princes. It almost soured an otherwise fine journey.