Wednesday in Bushenyi was a day like no other. After probably running after the so called colleague I had, probably him leaving me once in a while, passing through reeds , roads on the side of a mountain in Ntungamo, the hot spring in Kitagata and rolling stones in Ijumo Rukungiri, we would finally make it in Rukungiri town and beyond.
Now they say that Bakiga are rough, but trust me they have only seen the ones in Kampala whose roughness is diluted. The real mix is in Rukungiri and at times we would go to Kisiizi and nearby areas, Kanungu and its sisters, to look for workers money. I was the auditor, looking at peoples books, ensuring the right money was being brought for the right people. It was a fulfilling job actually. I always loved it when a man that had been deprived of his 5 thousand a month eventually got it. But these Bakiga men and women were not easy ground to plough.
Right from telling us how they never believed in us in our faces, it was never easy telling them everything was now well. We were sorry for the past but they could sure trust us, the future was beaming and they should actually buy shades, to protect their eyes from the bright light of the future.
Anyway this particular Wednesday was one with a difference. I got a revelation that I still have a lot to do in the world. We had gone to Bugangari and were coming back to have lunch and continue working in Rukungiri town. I sat next to my colleague, or better shepherd because I was like a sheep without a shepherd.
As we drove through a steep hill called Katabushera which means, POURING PORRIDGE, indeed we were going to be poured that day. Poured into the big awaiting pot called hell. But no it wasn’t yet to be. God still wanted us, because it’s not my ghost writing this, last time I checked.
The slim guy gently put in a reverse gear to go back a bit, get some acceleration at the bottom of the hill, as the road was on the side of the hill. That place is actually in the rift valley. It’s not in the middle itself but because of the escarpments, steep hills; it’s also a part of it. So here we were driving around a road on the side of the hill.
As he tried to go backwards the car skidded of the road, into the grass aside and gently down the rift valley. Actually we felt were like in bouncing castles. Slowly by slowly, gravity pulled us closer, for around 5 minutes we went down, the car never turned even one inch, we just went slowly. It was going to be the most peaceful death ever. But God was so clever that he made us fall where tree was a small bush. Probably like the one Moses saw burning, just tiny and short, and he NISSAN PATROL, heavy as they are just stopped there and we realized we were no longer on the road. All along we dint even know.
We quickly jumped out and run to the hill top. Villagers; idol as they always are rushed to see us the survivors. Woooo, “you should go and cut your hens”, they said. Cars all came and stopped and exclaimed. Soon it was a crowd and every one asked where the corpses were. Of course I was one of them. I would just smile and say here I am. They would say eh, eh.
We stayed there in disbelief and the villagers cut the place and pulled out the car. Not even a window or glass was different. The way we had come is the way we had gone. Even my ears, or eyes, nor back, no dress or sweater were harmed. You could think nothing had gone wrong.
I called my mother and asked if there had been enough Matooke in the plantation. Because there sure was going to be a burial the following day. She said, “Keep quiet, don’t even talk like that”. I just laughed and said any way we were dead. In fact I feel dead like now. She said anyway since you can talk, it means you are lying.
The villager demanded I should be left behind as I was too beautiful to go away just like that. I looked at all of them and realized even if we added their entire assets and the assets of their relatives, they wouldn’t maintain my swag, so I was very offended. No wonder some western musician said. “People should learn grade”. Clearly these haggard men, dressed in white shirts that had since turned yellow, and shoes made out of tyres, trying to want a swaggerific babe like me had failed the course unit of learning grade.
I was pissed to the bone marrow, but life had to go on any way. I was glad I was alive. I was wondering how I was going to be dead minus having kids. Clearly here is dying but dying without a child is like dying like charcoal. They kill it and burn it as a tree, only to burn it again until it is ashes.
God better know that no one deserves to go without passing on the stick to a significant other. Kindly let him spare me bambe, till I see how my off springs look like, because I might have a hunger strike in heaven. I won’t eat like for a week if I go before being a mama.