Moses Isegawa - Snakepit

“For that you will have to be a little bit more patient,” Bat said, grinning. He was relieved that the men made light of the situation. Nothing worse than a heavy, wet reception.

“Where are the drinks?” Kalanda shouted. “Bring the drinks and the fattest pig. My prodigal brother is back.”

“We were scared boneless, man,” the Professor confessed. “I said to myself, If they can squeeze his balls like that, they can push ours in our ears any time, any place with impunity.”

“I was already thinking of emigrating to Australia or America,” Kalanda confided. “We searched for you all over the bloody place. Nobody talked. We bribed and bribed and bribed; the dog-fuckers kept taking the money and revealing nothing.”

“The language, the language, please,” Mrs. Kalanda protested.

“Our brother is back from the dead. I am sure he has heard fouler language on the other side,” her husband retorted.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Bat said awkwardly.

“Oh, please. It is always bad. They are like anacondas; just smelling their halitosis gives you ulcers. You are lucky they didn’t shave your pubic hair with broken bottles,” the Professor cut in.

“Boys, boys, boys,” Mrs. Kalanda cried ineffectually.

“You have given us hope and happiness, you bugger. Let us drink to your return from the morgue,” the Professor said, looking around as if he expected opposition to his toast.

“When did you last see a woman?” Kalanda teased. His wife looked embarrassed.

“I had my faithful chamber-pot.”

“You always hear stories of prisoners bribing guards,” Mrs. Kalanda mused.

“To fuck them or to bring them rutting dogs?” her husband bellowed.

“Jesus Christ, what is the matter with you?” she said rather hotly.

“We were just talking about bribery, fucking dogs, and. .” Kalanda said, rubbing his chin as if he did not remember any more.

“I only had God to bribe, but the bastard was not at all interested. I knew that He could turn me into an insect and let me walk out, even crawl onto the boots of a soldier, but He refused. I even thought about Dr. Ali. Anything. I wanted to turn into a turd, get flushed and rejoin the living in the sewers of life, but I could not digest myself.”

The men laughed, but Mrs. Kalanda feebly protested, “The children, boys, the children.”

“They are living in Uganda. They had better get used to turds,” her husband said with paternal licence.

Beer flowed in an effort to wash away months of anxiety, despair, bleakness. The afternoon was slowly sinking into the mellow shades of colour, which then dissolved into evening and night. Everybody agreed that it was the most beautiful afternoon they had had in half a year or longer.

“How does it feel to be back?” the Professor asked blandly, betraying growing intoxication. He had never been one to hold alcohol well.

“Feels like fuck. I don’t have a job to wake up to, no home, no guards. I am a bit afraid of soldiers now. I am a bit afraid of you. I am a bit afraid of myself. It is great, isn’t it?” he elaborated, smiling, and then burst into drunken laughter.

“I could do with joblessness for a while,” the Professor confessed. “I need a break. If only I could afford it.”

“You should have thought about that before choosing to become a teacher,” Bat joked. “You should have gone into banking like the Honourable Right Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Kalanda.”

“It is not what it used to be.”

“Says every gangster,” Bat laughed. “It might not be a bad idea to clean out your bank and take us all on a holiday.”

“You don’t want us to end up like the Bossmans, do you? Your liberator killed them for liberating him of millions of dollars. Everybody in town knows it. I think the Bossmans stretched the concept of greed just a little bit too far,” Kalanda said.

“Is that huge white man dead? Man, did he have a huge voice,” Bat cried, remembering the many times the late Big Bossman came to the ministry to complain about power failure at his premises. “Man, could he bitch! It is hard to believe that his fellow Englishman took care of him and walked away scot-free.”

“Oh, yes, he did. Ten million dollars is a lot of money,” Kalanda said, shaking his head in wonder. “The surprising thing is that Ashes is still Amin’s favourite. I wonder what he told his boss.”

“You have to be terribly stupid to steal from a man like Ashes. Ten million!” the Professor whistled.

“But he was stealing from a thief, a killer,” Mrs. Kalanda insisted.

“All the same, all the same,” the Professor said, thinking what a man of modest tastes could do with so much money.

“Anyway, for cleaning out our bank you need a bunch of false passports and two T3000 tanks,” Kalanda advised.

“I would drive the tanks myself,” the Professor said, making driving motions with his hands.

“The children, boys, the children,” Mrs. Kalanda interjected.

“What is this with the children all the time? Every time we open our mouths to talk, out come the children,” Kalanda shouted, exhibiting the aggression that came when he got really drunk.

“Bat, you should have cleaned out that mother-shagging ministry,” the Professor said almost dreamily.

“His head would be hanging on a spear in his boss’ office,” Kalanda said. Bat laughed.

“Did they can you for nothing?”

“They did not like my haircut,” Bat replied evasively. “But I can’t complain. I have met people. Including the killer of the Megaphone, as we called the Big Bossman at the office.”

“Did he like your haircut?” Coming from Mrs. Kalanda, it sounded very funny.

“He didn’t say and neither did I care. He is a man of few words.”

“Maybe he had a toothache or indigestion,” Kalanda volunteered.

“Any news from your former boss?” the Professor asked.

“Not that I know of. Whether that is due to toothache or indigestion, I can’t say.”

“Plans, any plans?” Mrs. Kalanda asked, trying to rejoin the conversation.

“A man has just escaped the claws of death and you are asking him what he wants to do? Would you know what you wanted to do if you were in his shoes?” her husband asked rather angrily.

“Yes, I would. I wouldn’t want to go back, for sure. Let them not patronize you,” she said, laying a hand on Bat’s knee.

“We went to Mabira looking for you,” the Professor announced solemnly.

“Christ! It must be unspeakable,” Bat cut in, wondering whether they needed to know all the details. Was it really necessary?

“There are no words for it,” the Professor said, shaking his head. “Just the thought that your friend could be there!”

“With a stiff dick,” said Bat, laughing to forestall the Professor’s maudlin outpourings, which alcohol always brought on. He was in his forties, but he already had grey hair. At such times he looked like a sad old man. He kept relighting his pipe, tamping, puffing. Bat knew that soon the Professor would be talking about his sickly wife, going back to the days when she was healthy, full of life. It was not the kind of story he wanted to hear now.

“Do you know the number of times we have all passed by the Parliament these last months? And the bastard was there watching us!” Mrs. Kalanda finally said.

“That sounds better. Bastard sounds perfect coming from your lips. I can see him in there,” her husband said drunkenly.

“Welcome to Uganda. I will drink to Mrs. Kalanda’s first bastard this evening,” Bat said excitedly.

“You are all making a meal of it as if I have never used these words before,” Mrs. Kalanda said defensively.

“Not often enough, dear wife. You should swear and curse a little bit more. There is so much to swear at in this country,” Kalanda said, slapping her thigh.