Moses Isegawa - Snakepit

“The law will take care of her. That is how we do it. Babit was not a violent person. Nobody is going to die in her name.”

Tayari threw his hands in the air with frustration. If he could, he would have thrown his brother on the ground and punched his face or made him eat wet sand. “The law! There is no law in this country, except the gun. The bigger the better. Soldiers have the licence to kill. I take that licence in my hands and I want to use it.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“After letting you down, I want to do you right and let you know beforehand. It is the reason why I did not attack her secretly.”

“Look here, brother. I want you to find the killers and put them in the hands of the police. They will lead the investigators to her, and the law will take its course.”

“I don’t understand you, big brother. Maybe I never have. But I respect you. You are educated, but you have balls. Coming back after Cambridge made me respect you. Coming back after detention made me fear you. Any other person would have stayed in London and fucked Uganda. It is the only reason why I am going to do as you say.”

“I trust that you will keep your word. Take care.”

“You too. Oh, by the way, were you not happy when you heard that my piece had taken care of the General’s wife?”

“It doesn’t help me now, does it? Babit is gone. Go and find her killers.”

“I won’t let you down.”

With that he slipped away in the darkness. Bat did not even hear his footfalls. It was as if he had flown away. Should I have sanctioned Victoria’s death? Wouldn’t some of Babit’s people have been happy to get the news of her killer’s demise? I don’t expect Tayari to understand my position. For him justice excuses everything, the way Victoria believes that love excuses everything. They are both on the run. One hunting the other, the other hunted by the security forces, Bat thought. That two women’s lives had been destroyed because of him saddened him, the kind of sadness his brother could not understand because in his world there were no half-measures. Victoria, the love extremist, had now discovered that too much love killed, that it was a drug that needed dilution if the user was not to be killed by the poison of its concentration.

He looked at the house in the distance, reduced to a bunch of lights dimly penetrating the foliage. He had no wish to go back there. He had no wish to face the people, and the weight of the memories, and the night. He had no wish to smell the cooking, hear the voices, sense their sympathies. He wanted to walk into the lake and repose in its ageless bosom. Many had found eternal rest there. The more he considered it, the more attractive the prospect became. What more do I want to achieve? I have seen it all, at least as much as I can stomach, he said to himself aloud. As the temptation mounted, crashing in his chest, swelling in his head, making his ears sing, he heard somebody calling him. It was the Professor.

“We have missed you, you bastard. Let us go home. People are waiting for you.”

THE SEARCH FOR VICTORIA was short but very dangerous. Tayari and his friends had to be very careful not to land in the hands of their enemies. Having committed the crime, Victoria had curtailed her movements. Reality had kicked in, destroying the euphoric inebriation of the deed. She had already paid the killers, butchers from a nearby town. She had got in contact with them through a friend at the Ministry of Works, for, having lost favour with the Bureau, she could not get anybody from there to do the job. The men had named their price and had promised to deliver. In style. On two separate occasions they had joked that people were animals, that when you got used to slitting the throats of cows, like they did daily, you could easily do a person. They had even asked if she wanted proof. A hand or fingers or something more intimate. The head on a plate would have served as a bonus as well as a warning; a bonus for its biblical dimension: Herod’s daughter receiving the head of John the Baptist; a warning to keep her quiet if things went wrong. She had assured them that nobody could penetrate the protective wall she had around her: the might of General Bazooka. But they still felt that a warning was in order. One never knew. .

The friend at the Ministry of Works had already told her how it happened, and how the police were hot on her heels. It was the same friend who had told the gardener to tell the cook not to turn up. He had warned her not to mention him if things ran out of hand.

Alone, Victoria felt the world contracting. Luckily for her, the butchers did not know where she lived. It slowly sank in that it would take a miracle for Bat to take her back. She still loved him deeply and wanted to be with him, but the way was now blocked by Babit’s death. For the first time since the murder she thought of her daughter: what would become of her? In her terror she tried to reach for the only rock of certainty in her life: General Bazooka. She tried to call, but the phone was engaged. She wanted to go to his house and report the deed and ask for advice, but she was afraid of landing in police hands. She knew what the General would tell her: he would congratulate her and advise her to savour the moment, but she wanted to hear it all the same. It struck her again that if she failed to locate him, or if he turned her away, she was all by herself.

Two days later somebody knocked on her door at eight in the morning. Her heart leapt with fear. He knocked again, loudly, like the knocking of soldiers. “Fungua mlango,” he barked in gruff Swahili. She threw the door open and saw a man standing in her doorway. He was dressed in the gear of a Safari Rally driver, with advertising stickers on his clothes. When she recognized him, her fears grew. Behind him was a rally car festooned with dark windows and big advertising stickers. It looked like there were people inside. Perhaps it was Bat with military policemen or guys from the Public Safety Unit. The thought of falling into their hands chilled her. They would take the chance to vent their hatred of the Bureau on her. Not too long ago there had been a gun battle between the two groups.

“We are going for a ride,” Tayari said in a stern voice.

“I can’t leave my child here by herself,” she replied in a shaky voice.

“Do you want to bring her along? The clock is ticking. I hope you won’t reach for a gun or do anything stupid.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“Every Bureau member is entitled to a pistol, but can always get an AK-57 rifle.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You obviously prefer knives. My first love is dynamite. It is cleaner and more dramatic,” he said, smiling maliciously.

“You can’t kill me. I am the mother of Bat’s daughter.”

“Just hurry up, will you?”

They left the child with a neighbour. Victoria sat in front with him. He was a little surprised by her lack of resistance: she could have shouted and alerted neighbours, and maybe somebody would have called soldiers from the barracks. The car roared and then sped away. They were headed for the north. His plan was to follow the main road to Kakooge, Katuugo and, if necessary, continue to Nakasongola. If by then she had not told him the truth, then he would resort to other means. He would have preferred to use weathered back roads to bruise their backsides in the potholes, but the possibility of hitting livestock, cyclists or schoolchildren kept him away.

She sat in the car, beautiful, gloomy, her breasts heavy on her chest. He felt a small pang of regret. This might be her last journey, their last meeting. Personally, he did not care; he would do anything to get his brother out of his current state of grief. He remembered the first time he saw her. He felt outdone by his brother, who seemed to have it all: the education, the power job, the beautiful woman. But a lot had happened since. His stint as a spy had blunted his fantasies.