Moses Isegawa: Snakepit

He became obsessed with eternal life and Judgement Day. He noticed the abundance of marabou storks in the city. They seemed to be watching, waiting, stalking. It was as if they were waiting for his wife’s carcass, and the flesh on his bones. There were several garbage dumps in the city where they congregated in the hundreds, in all sizes, the biggest large as a goat, the smallest not bigger than a rabbit. They looked like mourners frozen in their grief, or rather like very hungry people caught in the game of waiting for the next morsel. They infuriated him when they hovered above the city, coasting on thermal columns thrusting from the ground, almost without moving their wings at all, as though everything beneath them was theirs, ready for the taking. Every week he directed his chauffeur to take him to a different dump. He would take out his automatic rifle and fire, blowing off bills, ripping gizzards, crowning the garbage heaps with twisted carcasses of bleeding storks. Alerted by the shooting, the military police arrived on several occasions.

“Twisted,” they said, going away. “Doesn’t he have better things to do? A ministry to run?”

He would go away thinking that he had done something, but the next time the birds seemed to have multiplied by ten, as though out in numbers to mock their tormentor. He would feel his skin creeping with terror. At such moments he would remember his wife’s question: “Are the bombers still busy at work?” Busy at work, as though delivering groceries? The power of that innuendo, that indirect criticism of his and his government’s inability to take care of the problem, said without the least malice or animosity, could not be erased with the blood of a million storks, and would depress him.

THE TRIAL TRUNDLED ON to an uncertain end. The nearer the end drew, the more outrageously Victoria was instructed to behave. Nowadays she came to court escorted by ten Bureau agents dressed as court pages and behaving as such. On the penultimate day she came dressed like a Catholic nun, with a big glittering rosary dangling from her neck. A group of staunch Catholics took offence. They were dismissed because court rules were, everybody was allowed to dress any way they wanted, as long as it was not in miniskirts. Victoria’s habit had fallen way below the knees and thus within the stipulation of the law. Outside court, one hundred indifferent people who had been collected off the streets, put on a lorry and dumped there, were chanting her innocence. They urged the judge to dismiss the case and stop wasting the taxpayers’ money.

ON JUDGEMENT DAY Bat woke up very early. He had slept very badly and the previous night’s whisky had left him with a big headache. He took a shower and prepared to pick up the day’s gauntlet. He had moved to the city, and now lived in a quiet suburb in another government villa. As he sat on the bed fully dressed, it struck him that he was alone, unfussed over, unwatched, and that it was going to be a terrible day. It felt almost as terrible as the day of the funeral. He could hear his sister moving about in another room. His nephew emerged first, wearing a blue cotton suit with red shoes. His sister followed and, seeing that he was not in the mood to talk, busied herself with other things. He went into the garage and sat in the car waiting for the Kalandas and the Professor. He had the urge to drive away and leave everything behind, and return a day or two later to hear what had transpired. His friends arrived ten long minutes later. They exchanged greetings and in two cars they drove to court. The morning mist did not lift the mood either. Bat kept turning on the wipers, then off, then on, then off again. His sister watched him from the corner of her eye, wordlessly. They found Babit’s family already at the court-house.

Victoria came dressed as a princess with ten pages in tow. She looked sombre though and did not leer at those she was meant to torment. The proceedings were long-winded, as though the judge had finally decided to assert his authority. Dressed in his black robes and the ridiculous curly white wig, he looked like a kettle with a white tea-cosy. The evidence, everybody heard, was circumstantial, and thus not enough to convict. Victoria walked free. The killers were slapped on the wrist. Victoria and her team jubilated. The pages lifted her in the air, and she waved her way out of court. Bat wanted to lunge at her, too angry for words, but Kalanda restrained him. Outside, the princess talked to journalists from the government paper.

“Justice has been done. Long live law and order and the spirit of reconciliation it fosters. Long live the government of Marshal Amin,” she said, beaming.

Tearful faces raised curses at her. Angry fists were directed at her. The strange thing about losing, even if it was in such a farcical case as this, was that everyone looked embarrassed, as though it was their fault, as though they had not done enough. They found it hard to look each other in the eye. There were words of consolation, which did little to soothe the burning sense of outrage surging in their breasts. Bat’s father-in-law advised him not to take the failure personally, and to avoid being destroyed by the poison of bitterness. They all parted silently, as if to contest the defeat at some later date.

BAT BURIED HIMSELF in work. The loss of the case seemed to mark the end of an episode, and now he wanted to look ahead. He wished to see his brother, and hear his voice, and know how he was surviving, but he kept out of his way. It was a week after the verdict that he sent a one-word message: “Bastards.” It had made him laugh; yes, bastards indeed. By now he knew that his brother would not attempt to kill Victoria. It pleased him that he had obeyed him. Maybe he was not beyond salvation, and there were some lights of reason still burning in his head. He still wanted him to yoke his bombing activities to a political agenda, but he knew that the boy was a guerrilla, who fought his own wars, his own way. Now and then, a car bomb went off somewhere. It amazed him how Tayari had eluded his pursuers. How many cars had he blown up by now? How many army shops? That he knew this person, and had known him all his life, also amazed him.

Bat was aware that Victoria could have betrayed him and his entire family to General Bazooka because of Tayari’s activities. She wasn’t crazy, after all. If she was, then it was selective madness. Demented love, more like it. Obsession. Destroying lives. He didn’t want to see her again. And if it meant not seeing his daughter, so be it.

VICTORIA’S FIFTEEN MINUTES of fame ended as dramatically as they had begun. As soon as the trial ended, General Bazooka asked her to make her own security arrangements. Many Bureau agents were angry with her for misusing and tarnishing the Bureau’s name in a bid to clear herself of murder. Others hated her because the General had made them worship her and wear ridiculous costumes, beads and cowrie shells. Those who had carried her in and out of court were furious because they had been made to participate in a farce instead of going out to look for the bombers, who were still putting many of their colleagues in hospital or out of business. What did General Bazooka and his slut think? That they were slaves or shit-eating morons? Others were annoyed by the flagrant nepotism and favouritism practised by the big shots, and the great leeway the generals enjoyed. Southern agents, stool pigeons in offices, hospitals, schools, who had joined out of fear or for personal security, cursed her for spitting on royalty and for stirring local resentment. They dreaded the possible rise of monarchist terrorists who might kill them and their families in the name of the king. They were aware that many monarchists were ready to die and kill for the restoration of the kingdoms. Afraid of what might happen to them after the fall of Amin, some of them thought of capturing Victoria and handing her over to the monarchists as a sacrifice to them.