By Daniel Kakuru
I attended a boys’ school in Western Uganda where student leaders had absolute and unquestionable powers. Whether there were or no teachers-on-duty, it was the responsibility of these guys, our leaders, usually wearing the bodies of wrestlers, to correct our wrongs and dish out punishments the way MUBS girls dish out their genitals.
Have you been caught loitering around the compound like a butterfly with no sense of direction? Go and kneel in front of the Head Prefect’s Office; there he will find you and show you stars. Did your name appear on the class monitor’s daily list of shouters? Man, you’re screwed; the leaders-on-duty will have you for their next meal and you know what else that means: they will tear you to pieces and share you amongst themselves the way Acholi MPs are sharing poor taxpayers’ money, thanks to Hon. Jacob Oulanyah’s dissolution. Are you whispering – or even smiling at nothing in particular – during the sacred late night hours christened ‘Grand Silence’? What shalt I say to you?
One day, the Head Prefect in a neighboring boys’ school woke up and indefinitely suspended three students for whatever reason we never got to know about. When this news spilled over to our own school, it opened the fabled Pandora’s Box. Pandemonium broke out. Things changed, but for worse. Our student leaders held something identical to a crisis meeting and agreed that they too held authority over life and death, and that they ought to start exercising it. And I kid you not, they did.
The days that followed, our school became a military training camp or worse. Teachers only came to school to teach. And for the banter at mealtime in the staffroom. All cases of (in)discipline were referred (sometimes by teachers) to the office of the Head Prefect. A summon to that office carried the weight of a death sentence. You only went there to be lynched by the people who were your friends until the day you willfully voted them into power. To put it more plainly, the school administrators had legalised mob justice – as long as the perpetrators were student leaders.
Before I forget to tell you, students learnt to refer to the Head Prefect’s office as Namugongo in memory of the Uganda Martyrs who were incinerated at a place with a similar name by Kabaka Mwanga of Buganda.
A spoiled boy who had had enough of being castigated by these student leaders reported the matter to his parents and they reacted the way Hon. Kyagulanyi did at SMACK last month. Have you read the Bible verse that talks of our forefathers having eaten sour grapes, but the taste having to be braved by us? That is exactly what happened next.
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Ugandans on Twitter hate Mr. Samson Kasumba, the NBS TV news anchor because his opinions are not exactly clever – at least according to their expectations. And what do they say to him whenever he tweets his thoughts? You’re a disgrace to the elites of Uganda. You’re old enough to father your employer, Mr. Kin Kariisa. Old age does not always come with more intelligence; even fools grow old. So they say to him.
Whenever I see people insulting him for whatever he posts on his personal Twitter space, I do not say a word. All I do is scroll downwards, a smirk playing on my face. Because I, unlike everyone else, find his tweets far from illogical.
A few weeks back, ghastly photos of Mr. Kakwenza Rukirabashaija’s tortured body were being shared on all social media platforms. Grotesque pictures they were. A sign of our times. A pictorial trip into and around the hearts of the movers and the shakers of our darned country. In light of this, Mr. Kasumba posted on his Twitter account: If your husband is a wife beater, it is your responsibility as his wife to devise a survival strategy and ensure you don’t get beaten up all the time. He was frankly acknowledging the fact that ours is a government that will continue to violently crack down on its citizens as always whenever they cross certain lines in pursuit of the elusive freedom of expression. For, hasn’t our dear president always shoved it down our throats that he is a grand master of violence?
For this tweet, he was affronted. He was called things: reproductive organs; faecal matter; deadwood. You might have been forgiven for thinking he was a powerful military officer presiding over the goings-on in the life of Mr. Kakwenza. But what crime had he committed? Spewing the garbage on his innocent mind.
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You have (or haven’t you?) watched Peaky Blinders, the popular British gangster drama TV series. If you haven’t, you should befriend me; I have connections. (🤪)
In the final episode of the first season, Thomas Shelby who heads the Peaky Blinders and his ally Billy Kimber have discretely fallen out and fighting is inevitable. They face off on the streets of Birmingham for battle in broad daylight. The Peaky Blinders are outnumbered, but Billy Kimber’s gang are outgunned; for there’s a machine gun in the hands of Freddie Thorne who, on returning from jail, is fighting for the Peaky Blinders. Before anyone draws their weapons, Ada Shelby (sister to Thomas Shelby) carts her baby and positions it in the divide between the two camps who’re on the verge of opening fire on each other. If you’re to fight, shoot this baby and I first, she bawls with tears welling up in her eyes. She asks them to think about their wives; about their children; about their siblings and relations who are at home waiting for them to return from this senseless fight of egos.
Her words are a rude awakening to the men, most of whom have just recently returned from fighting another war in France on behalf of selfish politicians. As they tuck their weapons away, three bullets are shot in one breath. The volatile Billy Kimber plants a bullet into the chest of Thomas Shelby. Poor Danny Whizz-Bang takes Thomas’ second bullet and lies lifeless. A bullet forces its way into Billy Kimber’s skull and slices it open, spilling its contents. He falls like a sack of sweet potatoes from Mwiizi in Rwampara. His feet dance the jig of death. The fight is over. Two men are down, one from each flank.
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These days, I think a lot about Mr. Male Mabiriizi. Is everything okay with him in Kitalya? Has he had his meals? What sort of place is he sleeping in? Is he being bullied (or, God forbid) sodomised by senior prisoners? Most importantly, where are the faceless social media creatures that hid behind their keyboards and cheered him on as he made a clown of himself, insulting judicial officers? Why would an ambitious lawyer want to be an adversary to the judiciary? Of the millions of money, he’s supposed to pay in fines, court processes and the fruitless bail applications, how much have they pooled together?
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It is common sense and not cowardice that a mouse flees from a cat’s presence. There’s no point in waging a war you stand no chance of winning. When the odds are stacked against you, you must learn to take calculated risks. Even if you don’t give a rat’s arse about your predicament, think of the ones close to you; the ones who loved you when there were ncaaca on your feet; when you wore mucus the way you wear spectacles today. Big Sean lied to you: one man can’t change the world. Some wars are better not waged. There is no line, but you must learn to assume it’s there and avoid crossing it.
The writer is a worthless MugOfPorridge. His articles have appeared sporadically in print and online. He drinks and smokes and hopes to die by suicide.
