Through the tinted window of his car he saw civilians walking, cycling, hurrying to their destinations before the curfew set in. It was good not to be afraid of violating curfew laws as these men and women were. It seemed their world never changed: the old kings might as well have been lording it over these very same people; the new kings and princes were now having their turn. At one time he had been like them, caught in a static world devoid of power, shat on up to the eyeballs. Now he was doing the dumping on, and it felt good. At one time he was a victim, swaying to the whims and will of other men; now he was the one whom victims begged for mercy, the man they respected or feared, the man who had the option of treating them with utter contempt and getting away with it.
In the same vein, he had no respect for intellectuals; he had no respect for people paid to split hairs. That Bat was still alive was a miracle to him. How many times had he wanted to kill him? But each time his advisor, who believed that Bat was special, restrained him. Special, when he was a rabid dog? Talking to Robert Ashes? Rabid Dog had to be put down, if only to save the herd. As for the ministry, there was bound to be somebody else to run it. Rabid Dog had to go, Bazooka decided. He has made too much money too quickly, whereas it took me ages to get some decent cash in my pocket. I fought for this government; he didn’t. Where would this government be without me? Down in the sewers. It is not fair. Why does the government still need men like him?
The cars started climbing to the crest of the hill. He could see the top of his wife’s house beckoning, bragging, resisting the encroaching veils of the night because it stood at the very top. From the front, one could see the city sprawled out at one’s feet in a huge semicircle. From the back, distance-flattened forest and marshland took over up to the horizon. The hill was decked out in tall trees, fields, and grassy compounds. The owners of the houses along the way had been bought out or forced to move. These houses were now occupied by his bodyguards or very trusted friends. This was the place he loved most in the city. He loved hills in general. He never forgot that he had been born in a swamp and that Rabid Dog had been born in the embrace of a hill.
He emerged from the limo and swept the compound with his eyes. He loved the massive structure of the house, the huge windows, the large roof. He loved the brick-red walls and the brown tiles. The gigantic trees filled him with a vision of power greater than his. A thousand years old, they made him feel young, at the beginning of his life. At first, he had wanted to cut all the trees and use them for firewood, but his wife had told him that they were gods, visions of eternity. Now he loved them like extensions of himself.
Guests, faces upturned, teeth flashing, pressed forward to welcome him. It was as if they expected him to dish out miracles and turn drums of water into casks of gold. Among them he saw people who expected bigger things from him. These held back, waiting for his eye of recognition, his benediction. He shook hands, slapped backs, shared jokes. He walked among the dozens, feeling his robe touched, his body caressed, his spirit enlarging to embrace them all. Music was in the air. There was a drifting scent of beer and roast goat which made him feel rapaciously hungry. For the first time that week he felt happy, in his element.
His wife, tall, dark, erect, met him at the door. They exchanged greetings as if they had spent the whole week together. This meant that things were going well. She did not like his soldiers but had learned to put up with them, and they were extra-careful when she was in the vicinity. She had grown up around soldiers and her opinion of them was not high. For the same reason, she had refused a chauffeur-cum-bodyguard. She kept out of the limelight and only accompanied him to very special functions. She did her level best to keep family away from the madness of power. They had reached a mature understanding never to stand in each other’s way. They said goodbye as if for the last time and welcomed each other back as if they had not been apart. She never pried into his business, preferring not to know what he got up to with his friends. From early on she had made it clear that she would not tolerate drunken excess. Her house was a home, not a bar. He had felt disappointed because he had wanted to enjoy some of the wildness with her, as a way of showing how high they had climbed; but she would have none of it. He had begged, cajoled, commanded. In vain. Being his first wife, the one who had seen him through poverty, the one he could talk to, the one he fully trusted, the mother of his favourite children, he let her have her way.
He had given her a big shop in Kampala where she sold clothes to rich officers’ wives. Sometimes she dealt in foreign currency, selling dollars from a gunnysack with a girth like a rhino, hidden in the house.
She led him into the bedroom. He sat on the bed bouncing, suddenly playful. She sat on a chair leaning forward. They held hands in greeting, and he felt erotic pangs, because their love-making always began with holding hands. He sat back looking at her, admiring her, listening to her talk. For a moment he drifted back to the day he met her. In her plain dress, her bathroom sandals, her gap-toothed smile. The children interrupted the moment.
His eldest son, ten, tall, lean, brought him a glass of his favourite liquor. He drank the glass and accepted the boy’s manly greetings. His daughter, twelve, fat, brownish, brought him a glass of millet beer, giggles and greetings. He always wondered where the gene that made her fat and light-skinned had come from. His wife’s side obviously. Somebody, a grandfather probably, must have fooled around with southerners. He accepted both offerings calmly. His second son, eight, tall, dark, brought him a set of mud soldiers he had made and baked. He laughed and patted the boy on the back. He was in such a good mood that he looked at his wife and children tenderly. They were his world, he felt, what would remain after the madness of power had passed. He took out his wallet and gave each of his children a hundred-dollar bill, remembering that it was a fortune when he was growing up.
“Sweets, buy yourselves sweets,” he said proudly, spreading his arms like somebody shooing away chickens.
“Spoil them, go on and spoil them.”
“Yes, I will, because they are mine. And then finally I will recruit them into the army. You too, woman, I can assure you,” he said, smiling at his wife.
“That will be the day, that will be the day,” she said, bursting into laughter at the idea of wearing a uniform.
General Bazooka finally went outside to join the guests. There were groups sitting around pots of beer with sucking pipes in their mouths, and others drinking liquor from bottles. He visited each group, tasted the drinks, munched the roast goat and talked. He picked up a woman, went to the dance floor and opened the dance. Disco music was playing, heavy beats conducive to bumping and grinding. He jumped about and wiggled, preparing to go and hold court.
At the back of the house, under the shadow of a mighty oak, a table and two chairs had been set out. A bottle of liquor and two glasses stood on the table near a notepad and a battery of golden Parker pens, which were never used, as the General kept every agreement in his head. Two soldiers stood on guard out of earshot.
The General installed himself on his throne, listened to the thumping of the music on the other side of the house, smelled the night air and rubbed his hands together. He always looked forward to these sessions because they enabled him to stretch his imagination and play various roles and present different images to different people.
The first person he called was an old schoolmate. They had been friends many years ago. They had washed cars, mowed grass, stolen mangoes and picked pockets together. The General used to envy the boy his stable home. He was one of the southerners he liked. The man was now a veterinary officer in the mountains of eastern Uganda. His son had got caught smuggling coffee across the lake. Robert Ashes’ men had shot four of his comrades and beaten him badly on the way to custody. It was not the most pleasant set of circumstances for a reunion.
“How are you?” the General said neutrally.
“I am all right, sah,” the man said timidly.
“Where have you been hiding all these years?” the Gene
ral inquired, feeling curiosity welling up inside him.
“In the east, working hard, tending to cows and pigs, sah.”
The General laughed and said, “Tending to cows and forgetting all about us.”
“I knew that you were extremely busy and I could not pluck up the courage to disturb you, sah.”
“A man needs his friends. It is a cold, mean world out there,” he said complacently, almost amusedly, knowing that he could take care of himself in said world.
“You are right, sah.”
The General looked at the man’s clothes: a bad-fitting suit, a cheap shirt, cheap shoes. The man was developing a bald patch despite being so young. He lacked the gleam of well-being on his forehead; in fact, he looked as if he had not been paid for years. The large scuffed hands that used to steal mangoes, the sunken eyes, the clothes hanging sadly on his frame, made the General wonder what the man’s wife looked like. Another sad-eyed case left behind by the revolution, he thought. He wanted to ask him where his parents were, but he decided to wait. He wanted to remind him of some of the escapades of their youth, but he did not want to bring him too close too quickly, at least not before knowing what he wanted from him.
“What can I do for you?”
“I have a very big problem, General. My son got himself in big trouble. He joined a group of bad people and they tried to ferry coffee to Kenya,” the man said, looking fixedly at the table.
“Smugglers! Smugglers!”
“I failed in my parental responsibility. I was too busy trying to make ends meet to keep track of what the boy was doing. Now he is in police custody. Who knows what the Anti-Smuggling Unit people will do to him? They might burn him as they have done others.”
“Those people are sick, I can assure you,” the General said, thinking about his days as king of the lake. He remembered seeing all those beautiful little islands from his helicopter and feeling that he owned each and every one of them. He remembered thinking that he owned all the fishes, the crocodiles, the tadpoles swimming in the lake. He remembered thinking that he owned the air everybody on the lake breathed. Now it was all gone. Stripped from him in front of his mother. He kept quiet for such a long time that the man thought he had fallen asleep. He coughed a few times in a bid to remind him of his presence.
“You are my last hope, General.”
“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, looking at the stars. The Southern Cross constellation always reminded him of his favourite islands. The water used to look that icy at times.
“I am sure that if you ordered a soldier to move, he would move without question, sah, General.”
The General kept quiet for a long time. He took a swig from his glass. Why should he help this man? Was his son the only one with the threat of death hanging over his head? “Do you realize what you are asking me to do? Do you want me to break the law? And interfere in the affairs of another ministry?”
“Sah, if my cow fell in a pit, I would call friends with ropes and try to pull it out. I would lower myself in and do what I could. In this case I just can’t.”
“Well said, cowboy,” laughed the General. Here was his chance to fuck Ashes. This he would do for fun. It was high time his men did something dramatic. It would wake them up; maybe even whet their appetite for something stiffer. “I don’t condone smuggling. It is treason. It is punishable by death. However, I make an exception. I will free the boy. Warn him never to sin again. Next time, it will be the bullet. A bazooka shell. There would be nothing left to bury, I can assure you.”
“I am in your debt, General,” the man said, kneeling down and placing his palms on the table, face upturned as if for a slap or a string of spittle. Peasants always greeted the king prostrate; kneeling was not a bad substitute for a prince.
“Get up and go and enjoy the party. You owe me nothing. I don’t have time to collect debts.”
“I will send you a bull, General. You deserve a bull, a very big bull, sah.”
Trembling with relief, the man almost fell over as he tried to rise and walk away.
The second man to be called was a tribesman. The mothers of the two men had been friends. Twice before, the General had helped this man. The problem was that he had too many troubles, too many debts. He had helped him to get a business, which had run aground. He had bought him cows on credit, but the money never got repaid, and he had to force the bank to cancel the loan at gunpoint.
“I am not worthy to be in your presence, General. Tolerating me is a sign of your magnanimity.”
“You are right. Twice I used my good offices to help you, all in vain. What do you want now?” he roared, and banged the table.
“I need help,” the man said, trembling.
“You need locking up and learning some discipline. Do you know how much a common soldier makes a month? No, you don’t. Very little. My father was a soldier. He got nothing from the service except a drinking habit. I had to organize his funeral and pay off his debts. Such a humiliation after decades of selfless service. Do you expect me to pay your drinking debts for you? The best thing I can do is to organize your funeral, I assure you.”
“I am sorry, General. I just need another chance.”
“You don’t have any sense. Now go. I don’t want to see you again.”
Next the colonel in charge of his security, his chief advisor, came. They had known each other for a long time, and he was the man behind the colonel’s promotion. The General saw more of this man than he did his own family. He liked the colonel’s advice because it was always sound, even if it was repugnant at times. He was a university graduate, the only learned man close to him. He was the one who handled the most sensitive assignments.
“What a fetid asshole!” the General complained lightheartedly as his last visitor disappeared.
“Some people are not worth anybody’s time, General,” the colonel said, smiling. He knew that the General was in a good mood. It was a good omen.
“Are you having a good time yourself ?”
“Of course. There is a lot of booze, meat and music. What more does a man want?”
“Getting down to business, Colonel. I still want to kill Bat. The quicker the better,” the General said, looking very businesslike.
“We still don’t know the whole story, General.”
“Since when does one need to know the whole fucking story in order to act? You see a traitor, you hit him. That is our way.”
“Rabid Dog knows a lot about the ministry. We need him. He is our tool. We can punish him, but killing him would be a waste. Ashes is bluffing. If we kill this man, that reptile wins. Remember he tried to threaten you with investigation. Why didn’t he do it if he knew so much? He is winding you up. Don’t fall into his cheap traps.”
“Rabid Dog is a thief. I don’t even know why we hired him in the first place, I can assure you.”
“It was because he is brilliant.”
“On whose side are you, Colonel?”
“Ours, of course.”
“Rabid Dog is the worst example of a southerner. He got everything for nothing. Nothing. He just walked in from Britain and got this wonderful job. What hardship has he ever undergone? Wiping his ass, I guess,” he said morosely, maliciously. He signalled a soldier to bring him a joint. His wife would complain about it, but he could live with that. He needed the topper.
“Give him some more time while we watch the developments, General,” the colonel said, aware that his boss would relent. It was a personal matter, after all, not treason, not smuggling, not plotting a coup. General Bazooka was not the only one; many others had grudges like this one to settle, and some settled them at the cost of national interest. After all, the Marshal was the biggest grudge-settler of them all. The colonel was at times surprised by how petty some of these top leaders were, how insecure they felt because of their lack of education. Many suspected that their underlings despised them and it hurt, because they were the rulers, exposing their inefficiency day by day. He intervened when
ever he could; sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. This time he had hope. He felt very good whenever he could get somebody off because he had studied law, although he was involved more in breaking it than upholding it.
“I won’t give him forever, I can assure you, Colonel,” the General said aggressively, the strain of holding back visible in his dilated eyes and exaggerated gestures.
“Reptile is the real trouble-causer as far as I am concerned.”
“I am auctioning him tonight. Do you hear me, Colonel? Any man who brings me his dick gets ten thousand dollars. American. Cash. Day or night. Rain or shine. Do you hear me? Ten thousand. Plus promotion. I want him that badly, I can assure you.”
“You can rely on me, General,” the colonel said stiffly, wondering where the escalation of hostilities would lead. He had told his boss time and again to ignore Reptile most of the time, not to feel unnecessarily provoked, to accept that he was part and parcel of the power structure, without much success.
“Bomb his house. Ambush him. Cut out his tongue, anything. I want to shake the hand of the man who will rid me of this scourge and give me back my peace of mind. Everywhere I look I see that snake, crawling, slithering, smearing everything with slime. Bring me its head and I will make you a cabinet minister, man of the books. This snake wants to investigate me! Who is investigating it? What does it want from me? Tell me, what does that snake want from me?”
“He is bluffing.”
“Well, he won’t bluff when he is dead. I can assure you.”
“True.” The colonel wondered how many times he got to hear the words “I can assure you” in a day. If only each assurance delivered!
Snakepit Page 11
