2:14PM. Kitintale.
Okurut looked up from his watch and stared at the sky. The sun was particularly hot today, he thought. There hadn’t been a drop of rain in weeks and the weather people who normally gave updates after news on the television didn’t know what they were saying any more.
He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and examined it. The green and white checkered hankie was damp and grimy. It had been a long, long day, but he was finally at the end. He looked at the manila envelopes in his hands.
Three more to go, he thought. Three more and he can call it a day.
Suddenly, a large entourage of boda-bodas appeared out of nowhere, riders shouting and blaring their horns. A smartly dressed gentleman near him stopped one of them and asked what was going on.
“Besigye has been arrested!” The visibly excited boda-boda man replied, in a mix of joy and what could only be worry, while revving his engine loudly.
“Why?” the gentleman asked.
A small crowd had gathered around them as more boda-bodas came cruising around the bend, heading towards the city. Okurut drew closer. He didn’t have much time to waste, but, as a strong Besigye fan, this was interesting news.
“I don’t know, but he was supposed to be campaigning around Nakivubo! We’re going to Kiira Road Police Station now! Come! Come! We go!”
Two people, including the gentleman jumped onto the bike and they sped off, horns tooting loudly as they joined the horde of boda-boda riders.
Okurut shook his head and continued his slow walk, adjusting the collection of manila envelopes under his arm.
Focus, he told himself. Focus.
5:22PM. Railway Yard, Jinja Road.
Finally, some shade, Okurut thought. He sat down in the greenest place he could find. He idly mused how the Friday crafts market had significantly reduced the amount of green in that particular spot. At least the tree was still there.
He opened his kaveera and pulled out another smaller kaveera of water and a large donut. Sticking a straw into the water kaveera, he drank deeply and proceeded to silently eat his lunch.
His manila envelopes were gone; he had successfully made all the scheduled deliveries for the day. The last one had been particularly harrowing because the receptionist had refused to touch it because, somehow, his sweat had reached the manila. She told him to first “go and sort himself out”. He had then walked out of the building, searched until he found a street vendor who had miraculously survived KCCA’s enforcement and bought a fresh manila envelope. He then took the time to rest a little, wiping the sweat from his forehead and his armpits and waiting out by the streets while both he and the papers in the manila envelope dried a little. Thankfully, the receptionist accepted them this time, but the way she held them, you’d think her perfectly pink pedicure and well-oiled hands were in danger of being poisoned.
He rifled through his pockets and brought out a bunch of keys and a small brown wrinkled envelope, folded several times. Unfurling it carefully, he poured the contents in his hands and examined them slowly.
Two thousand three hundred shillings. He did some quick maths, sighed heavily and putting the envelope and its contents back in his pocket, stood up and walked back to the road.
No taxis for me today, he thought. Again. He was running late, but surely Carol… Maama Peace… would understand. He wasn’t sure if little Peace would understand, though. She always waited for Daddy to come home before she would allow to go to sleep. For the kind of odd reason only a child would know, Peace, his darling little Peace, loved the stories about his life growing up in Soroti; the Christmas dancing as children, the visits by rich uncles who owned cars that all the kids – him always leading – would chase into and out of the village. The long hunting trips to catch a few birds and wild animals. She clapped her hands with glee every time he told the story of the rabbit that got away.
He smiled. Another two hours and he’d be home. Peace would be waiting for her stories and Carol would have something hot for him to eat and he could take a much needed shower.
6:33PM. Bwaise.
Okurut looked at his watch again. It was getting dark and he could barely see the display. A quick press and the screen of the disco watch lit up. 6:33PM.
He decided to take a short-cut. He wasn’t too fond of it, especially at this time, but he was a little too tired to care. He just wanted to reach home and see his beautiful wife and daughter. The thought of the smile on their faces spurred him on and he started walking a little faster.
He approached the bend towards the panya that would finally lead him home, and suddenly, a car stopped slightly ahead of him. As he passed it, two men got out from the back-seat and started following him.
“Excuse me!” One of them called out.
Okurut ignored them, and kept walking, increasing his pace slightly.
“Okurut! Stop!”
He stopped and turned around.
“Jasper!” He sighed with relief as he recognized one of the men.
“Okurut. How are you my friend. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Okurut looked towards the junction, looked at his watch and nodding, walked back towards Jasper and the other man.
2:04AM. Maganjo.
Carol cleared the plates and cup from the small table infront of Okurut as he leaned back on the chair, running his tongue across his teeth, seeking out remnants of the angara fish stuck between his teeth.
“But my baby! Have I told you that your angara is the best in the whole country? The whole country, I tell you.”
Carol refused to laugh. She knew what he was doing. She was still mad at him for coming home so late. She had been incredibly scared and had gone around the neighbourhood borrowing phones from her friends in order to call him. But Okurut’s phone had been uncharacteristically off .
Okurut was always home by 7:30PM and always answered when she called. He had even saved the numbers of her closest friends in his phone just in case s