Moses Isegawa - Snakepit

In the same vein, he had no respect for intellectuals; he had no respect for people paid to split hairs. That Bat was still alive was a miracle to him. How many times had he wanted to kill him? But each time his advisor, who believed that Bat was special, restrained him. Special, when he was a rabid dog? Talking to Robert Ashes? Rabid Dog had to be put down, if only to save the herd. As for the ministry, there was bound to be somebody else to run it. Rabid Dog had to go, Bazooka decided. He has made too much money too quickly, whereas it took me ages to get some decent cash in my pocket. I fought for this government; he didn’t. Where would this government be without me? Down in the sewers. It is not fair. Why does the government still need men like him?

The cars started climbing to the crest of the hill. He could see the top of his wife’s house beckoning, bragging, resisting the encroaching veils of the night because it stood at the very top. From the front, one could see the city sprawled out at one’s feet in a huge semicircle. From the back, distance-flattened forest and marshland took over up to the horizon. The hill was decked out in tall trees, fields, and grassy compounds. The owners of the houses along the way had been bought out or forced to move. These houses were now occupied by his bodyguards or very trusted friends. This was the place he loved most in the city. He loved hills in general. He never forgot that he had been born in a swamp and that Rabid Dog had been born in the embrace of a hill.

He emerged from the limo and swept the compound with his eyes. He loved the massive structure of the house, the huge windows, the large roof. He loved the brick-red walls and the brown tiles. The gigantic trees filled him with a vision of power greater than his. A thousand years old, they made him feel young, at the beginning of his life. At first, he had wanted to cut all the trees and use them for firewood, but his wife had told him that they were gods, visions of eternity. Now he loved them like extensions of himself.

Guests, faces upturned, teeth flashing, pressed forward to welcome him. It was as if they expected him to dish out miracles and turn drums of water into casks of gold. Among them he saw people who expected bigger things from him. These held back, waiting for his eye of recognition, his benediction. He shook hands, slapped backs, shared jokes. He walked among the dozens, feeling his robe touched, his body caressed, his spirit enlarging to embrace them all. Music was in the air. There was a drifting scent of beer and roast goat which made him feel rapaciously hungry. For the first time that week he felt happy, in his element.

His wife, tall, dark, erect, met him at the door. They exchanged greetings as if they had spent the whole week together. This meant that things were going well. She did not like his soldiers but had learned to put up with them, and they were extra-careful when she was in the vicinity. She had grown up around soldiers and her opinion of them was not high. For the same reason, she had refused a chauffeur-cum-bodyguard. She kept out of the limelight and only accompanied him to very special functions. She did her level best to keep family away from the madness of power. They had reached a mature understanding never to stand in each other’s way. They said goodbye as if for the last time and welcomed each other back as if they had not been apart. She never pried into his business, preferring not to know what he got up to with his friends. From early on she had made it clear that she would not tolerate drunken excess. Her house was a home, not a bar. He had felt disappointed because he had wanted to enjoy some of the wildness with her, as a way of showing how high they had climbed; but she would have none of it. He had begged, cajoled, commanded. In vain. Being his first wife, the one who had seen him through poverty, the one he could talk to, the one he fully trusted, the mother of his favourite children, he let her have her way.

He had given her a big shop in Kampala where she sold clothes to rich officers’ wives. Sometimes she dealt in foreign currency, selling dollars from a gunnysack with a girth like a rhino, hidden in the house.

She led him into the bedroom. He sat on the bed bouncing, suddenly playful. She sat on a chair leaning forward. They held hands in greeting, and he felt erotic pangs, because their love-making always began with holding hands. He sat back looking at her, admiring her, listening to her talk. For a moment he drifted back to the day he met her. In her plain dress, her bathroom sandals, her gap-toothed smile. The children interrupted the moment.

His eldest son, ten, tall, lean, brought him a glass of his favourite liquor. He drank the glass and accepted the boy’s manly greetings. His daughter, twelve, fat, brownish, brought him a glass of millet beer, giggles and greetings. He always wondered where the gene that made her fat and light-skinned had come from. His wife’s side obviously. Somebody, a grandfather probably, must have fooled around with southerners. He accepted both offerings calmly. His second son, eight, tall, dark, brought him a set of mud soldiers he had made and baked. He laughed and patted the boy on the back. He was in such a good mood that he looked at his wife and children tenderly. They were his world, he felt, what would remain after the madness of power had passed. He took out his wallet and gave each of his children a hundred-dollar bill, remembering that it was a fortune when he was growing up.

“Sweets, buy yourselves sweets,” he said proudly, spreading his arms like somebody shooing away chickens.

“Spoil them, go on and spoil them.”

“Yes, I will, because they are mine. And then finally I will recruit them into the army. You too, woman, I can assure you,” he said, smiling at his wife.

“That will be the day, that will be the day,” she said, bursting into laughter at the idea of wearing a uniform.

General Bazooka finally went outside to join the guests. There were groups sitting around pots of beer with sucking pipes in their mouths, and others drinking liquor from bottles. He visited each group, tasted the drinks, munched the roast goat and talked. He picked up a woman, went to the dance floor and opened the dance. Disco music was playing, heavy beats conducive to bumping and grinding. He jumped about and wiggled, preparing to go and hold court.

At the back of the house, under the shadow of a mighty oak, a table and two chairs had been set out. A bottle of liquor and two glasses stood on the table near a notepad and a battery of golden Parker pens, which were never used, as the General kept every agreement in his head. Two soldiers stood on guard out of earshot.

The General installed himself on his throne, listened to the thumping of the music on the other side of the house, smelled the night air and rubbed his hands together. He always looked forward to these sessions because they enabled him to stretch his imagination and play various roles and present different images to different people.

The first person he called was an old schoolmate. They had been friends many years ago. They had washed cars, mowed grass, stolen mangoes and picked pockets together. The General used to envy the boy his stable home. He was one of the southerners he liked. The man was now a veterinary officer in the mountains of eastern Uganda. His son had got caught smuggling coffee across the lake. Robert Ashes’ men had shot four of his comrades and beaten him badly on the way to custody. It was not the most pleasant set of circumstances for a reunion.

“How are you?” the General said neutrally.

“I am all right, sah,” the man said timidly.

“Where have you been hiding all these years?” the General inquired, feeling curiosity welling up inside him.