The Uncertainty of the Times

The soldiers watched me drive out. That day’s delivery had been horrible. They all were jittery. That is the only word I can use. The questions, my God! Why had they asked so many? They all knew I had been ordered to deliver the flour and beans to them without fail if I knew what was good for me and the people of my village. Had they expected it to be less than the usual order? Had they thought it was poisoned? Hell to them all. Where did you get this particular order? Is it of the quality we always get? Why can’t you make eye contact? Where is your husband? The insufferable bastards had asked way too many questions, some of them deeply troubling. How ungrateful! I was busting my back trying to fulfil my promise to their commander-in-chief, Milton Obote. God knows why my father decided to support the bastard. During this war of tribes, no less. For God’s sake, we are Baganda. Damn them all to hell!

All this was going through my head as my army escort drove me back to the roadblock where I had left my vehicle. I had managed to keep up a conversation with him about nothing in particular. Asking about his health, pretending to care about him and the regime or something along those lines. I couldn’t bring myself to remember or to show discomfort. Anything could have gotten you killed during those uncertain times in those parts. The barracks would certainly find someone else to make the food deliveries. No one would miss me. They all hated me for doing this. These soldiers had made sure of it.

We reached the roadblock, and as expected, the soldier pumped the fear of the unknown in me. This was getting old. Really old! You must report anything fishy your neighbours engage in. You must always be loyal to Milton Obote if you don’t covet death like your father did. You must not tell anyone what you’ve seen in the barracks, or we’ll find you and kill you. You must do this; you must not do that. Blah blah blah! On and on he went. How insufferable! And of course I was expected to put on this face of utter fear every time those loons gave me the speech. Yes! I called it the speech. So repetitive. So alike, although I was never escorted or picked up by the same soldier twice. Guess the commander trained the loons really well. I wouldn’t disappoint this one either. All I’d got to do was get tears in my eyes and grovel like a whimpering kitten. Worked every time. It was either that, or he wouldn’t let me out of this vehicle unscathed. I learnt that earlier on during the first two deliveries. I had put on a fearful face and demeanour that first time. In truth, I had felt terrified, and it wasn’t hard to pull off. The second time, I wore an indifferent face because I was resigned to my role. The soldier had slapped me. Bashed my head repeatedly on the dashboard until I could barely see, then drugged me out of the vehicle and ordered the soldiers at the roadblock to give me twenty strokes. The bastard!

It worked as expected again. The grovelling and the tears in my eyes. I drove away from the barracks towards my hometown of Kakooge. But not to rest. I needed to start gathering more flour and beans for the next delivery in two weeks.

The army was hated, so I was hated too by my neighbours because of my association. They didn’t know that I already knew what they were all up to. The rebels were hiding out in some of their homes. A war was on the horizon, and I had no doubt our home would be the centre of it. My neighbours were all farmers, and they provided me with the maize that I used to make the flour I had to deliver to the army every two weeks. They all had to do it in turns so that we had a steady supply throughout the year. We had done this for the past two years. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to extract the appropriate amount from the homesteads. They all kept portions for the rebels. Curse them all to hell. The soldier was right after all. We all coveted death so passionately.

I turned a corner and entered the homestead of Mr Kyakuwa. He was the village leader and a royal pain in my ass. There was no doubt he advised the rest and got them to accept the various offers from the rebels. Curse all the Basoga and their ancestors! Although he wasn’t trustworthy by any standard, I had to vent for a while, and I needed a target. 

The kids were playing in the courtyard as they always were, but I immediately noticed something was amiss. Robina, God bless her sweet soul, was the youngest of the thirteen daughters of this homestead and my absolute worshipper. Don’t know what the girl saw in me, but dear God, she did love me. She was my little spy. She had gotten me out of one too many conflicts with her father with her little warnings of her father’s atrocities or lack thereof. That day, Robina kept her distance. The girl couldn’t keep her hands off me when she saw me, but she continued the dodgeball game the girls were engaging in. In rural Luwero, we called the game kwepena. She didn’t spare me a glance as I advanced towards the house. That was odd. Was her father hiding out and watching her? But she would defy him for me without a doubt and run to me. Always had. So why was she so focused on that silly game? I had to find out.

I changed my direction and headed straight for the kids. Intent on figuring this out. Robina suddenly stopped mid-action, shook her head and looked in the general direction of the house. Yes! Something was terribly wrong, and whatever it was, it was in the house, and it terrified her. She went back to playing immediately afterwards, as if she had not delivered her warning. She had, in her own childish way, told me not to go into the house. I knew this, but I have this stubborn streak in my DNA that I am sure was one of the reasons that caused my father’s death. You tell me this way is cursed, and you have my interest piqued. My body started walking towards the house before my mind caught up to my next course of action. Consequences be damned.

The homestead had a total of ten huts built in a circle around the mud house. The mud house was enormous by our village standards. It had a total of five rooms and was constructed using a blueprint that Mr Kyakuwa had stolen from a wealthy Rwandese national years prior to moving to our village. The people believed he was planning on bringing his relatives here to settle on the large amount of land he had acquired. The people believed he was aiding the rebels because the leader, the one they called Museveni, was originally from his home country. He settled in our land, totally foreign to him, at least in the beginning, to escape a tribal war in his home country. People said it was reaching a tipping point now. A genocide was imminent there, but who would win it? None of the people here knew.

The front door was shut but not locked. Thank God! I wasn’t in the mood to start calling out to Mr Kyakuwa or any of his wives. They had all heard my car engine when I parked. So they were the ones being rude by not coming out to greet me. Right? This thing with the army had gained me some sort of power and autonomy in my village; the only good thing that came out of the accursed dealings.

I deduced, too late, that I should have heeded Robina’s advice. There, in the sitting room area of the mud house, sat over twenty armed men. They were wearing army uniforms, but I knew instantly that those were not Milton Obote’s soldiers. There was a different kind of danger in the air. Was it hatred? Was it anger? Furious, unresolved rage? I couldn’t put a finger on it, but I wanted to run as far from these freedom fighters as I could. I shut the door on those gruesome eyes and turned to flee. 

Bum! I crashed into a sturdy object. Just my luck! Hands grabbed me and threw me. I plummeted through the open door and landed headfirst on the floor. Air was cut off from my lungs. Pain. Absolute pain. My whole body felt so much pain that I was sure something was broken inside. I stayed still. Preparing my signature damsel-in-distress act. I started to whimper, my face to the floor. It was a poor decision, of course, because the mud house’s floor was covered in cow dung, which my people believe makes it harder and more durable. Although it was dried and there was a papyrus carpet sort of material on the floor, I couldn’t stand the stench of cow dung. But today, I must.

“What have you done?” I heard Mr Kyakuwa say in a terrified voice unbecoming of the village’s celebrated villain and respected leader.

“She saw my men. If she is as you say, then we have to kill her. We can’t let her go and tell what she has seen to the soldiers.” One of the men barked. The authority in that voice had me shaking, and I slightly wet my pants, but I didn’t stir even once.

“The war plans are complete. We will win the war, Museveni. But we won’t kill innocents. This is what you promised when my people agreed to give you shelter,” Mr Kyakuwa parried.

“She isn’t innocent; she is the enemy. She feeds the very men who have committed various atrocities against your people.”

“We hate her. Yes, we do hate her. Knowing these people killed her father right in front of her, and she still serves them. However, we know they must have given her no choice. Some of us admire her courage and bravery. Looking at the man who killed your father every two weeks is not a simple act. Feeding him with the best of the harvests so that you keep him from killing other fathers is something even the best of us would loathe to the grave. She does what she has to survive. She is part of my people, Museveni, and I will allow no harm to come to her.”

“You are a fool, Kyakuwa.”

“A fool that has secured your victory.”

“Indeed,” the man, Museveni, said with humour in his voice. Or was it mockery? I could not tell. Focusing on him was hard when the reality of what Mr Kyakuwa had said was still reeling in my head. They knew. All along, my village people knew that my father had been slaughtered in front of me before his body was tied to the pickup truck and pulled through the dirt behind to shame him. 

I lost my train of thought again because I had to listen to what Museveni was saying. “Let’s use her to send the message, then. We’ve been looking for someone whom the heartless soldiers wouldn’t murder on sight to take our message. I think she has surpassed all other candidates. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Silence. A silence so loud I felt each passing second in my bones. Finally, I heard Mr Kyakuwa’s voice. At first, clipped and low, but rising as he went on.

“Fine. That is agreeable to me, but she has to consent to it first. Christine, will the soldiers kill you if you tell them something from the rebels?”

It took me a while to register that he had been talking to me. I felt a boot connecting with my stomach. I screamed in pain. The pain was unbearable. I heard raised voices but couldn’t focus enough to figure out what they were saying.  I felt a hand supporting me and helping me into a sitting position. It was Mr Kyakuwa’s fourth wife. When had she entered the room? She gave me a cup and ordered me to drink. It was the herb we all called Kibwankulatta in the village. A powerful antibiotic herb with no taste. Just its scent was all you could detect. I knew it was going to get to work attacking any kind of internal damage I had sustained, and suddenly, I felt better. That herb was magic. I emptied the contents quickly and handed over the cup, for Mr Kyakuwa was squatting right in front of me. Quiet, studying me as if to assess my condition. When he was satisfied with whatever he had been looking for, he nodded and asked,

“How are you feeling, Christine?”

“I am alright, ssebo,” I replied.

“These men won’t hurt you again. You have no need to fear,” he said. I swallowed bile. Did he really expect me to believe that? But he wasn’t done yet. “They have a message they would like for you to take to the barracks. You have to deliver it to the commander himself.” I nodded to indicate that I understood what he was saying. This allowed him to proceed, or it gave him the courage to do so, or he would have continued regardless. Whatever the reason, he continued, “Will the soldiers kill you after you deliver this message? The people think that you have earned some trust from the soldiers; is that so?”

“The soldiers trust no man,” I managed to choke out.

“Exactly. That’s why we think they chose you to be the one delivering their food.” That again. They knew way more than I thought. I think he saw the confusion on my face because he said, “Kalema, one of your land squatters witnessed everything before he escaped. We’ve been protecting him ever since. He has joined the rebel army as well.”

Oh! That’s that, I guess. “As well?” I asked in more confusion.

“Some of the men and boys from the village joined the rebels, including two of your brothers. The rebels will attack the barracks here in two days and move onwards to the capital.” Why was he telling me all this? Why were the rebels so quiet? “I don’t want you to die, Christine. So, tell me if the soldiers will kill you if you deliver the message. If so, we won’t send you. The rebels will send one of their soldiers who has pledged his life to this cause.”

“What kind of message is it?” The words escaped before I could tame my mouth.

“It’s a warning. Museveni wishes to inform them that we are going to attack. Disorganise their structure and instil fear or some outlandish plan like that.”

“You said my brothers joined this man’s cause?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll do it. I’ll serve in this small way towards the cause my brothers deem worthy,” I said. Because of the damn stubborn streak, I had to brazenly add, “but only if you promise those two idiots are never put on the frontline, and you will make Kasirye Gwanga, the oldest, a captain. My brothers are sure idiots, but I don’t want them to die for this foreigner’s cause.” I wanted to bash my head on the wall. Internally, I was expecting another boot to the stomach, but on the outside, I kept my eyes level with Mr Museveni.

“Done,” the rebel, Museveni, said with finality. Mr Kyakuwa didn’t turn his eyes from mine. He was doing his searching thing again. My stubborn streak wasn’t leaving me anytime soon, so I squared my shoulders and prepared for a staring contest. He nodded after a while and stood up. Facing away from me, he said,

“Mr Museveni will tell you the words that you will deliver to the commander. Be warned: the rebels have a spy in the barracks. If you don’t repeat word for word or if you divert from the plan in any way, the rebels will kill you if you survive the soldiers.”

With that, he left the room. This would be the last time I saw Mr Kyakuwa. I felt it in my bones and at my core. I had so many questions to ask him about the man I was going to bind myself and my fate to, but he was gone, and that man was rising and walking towards me. He headed towards the door, and I followed like a good soldier.

The trip to the barracks was not long. All too soon, the intimidating structure was before me. The soldiers at the roadblock were surprised to see me again so soon. It didn’t take long to usher me through when I told them my brilliantly concocted story of absolute loyalty to the regime. It seemed I had intercepted one of the rebels’ messengers. Once the messenger delivered a message from the rebels, he was given the order to kill the commander. In the village, I had murdered the messenger and dumped his body in a ditch. I gave them the location of Mr Kyakuwa’s home. They would find no body, of course, but it would be their death. The rebels were eagerly waiting. The little joys of revenge. I left with a smile on the inside, knowing some of the people who had helped kill and then shame my father, even in death, were going to be finally killed too.

The commander, one of the darkest men I’d ever seen, smiled as I was led into his office. He ordered his subordinate to wait outside. He had knives in his belt, and I wanted to stick one of them into his stomach. They were all kept on display there. Over ten knives. I wondered how many people had lost their lives to those beasts. Would he use one on me today? I spun my story again because he insisted on hearing it from my mouth. He smiled again after my narration. Then he asked for the message. I was aware of his eyes following my every movement.

I composed myself and repeated the words that could potentially end my life. “Museveni says he has an army of whose vastness you have never dreamed. His men are trained in a way that would shame your amateur selves. Run or die, you idiot.”

He gazed at me in astonishment. During the few seconds it took me to give him the message, I retrieved my hidden knife, which I had carried every day since I came to this accursed barracks. My brothers had taught me how to throw a knife hard enough and quickly enough for it to embed itself in its target before they could blink. We practised it every day I returned home from my duties, and although I failed to carry out our mission of revenge every time I delivered the food, they had never lost hope in me; they kept up my training. The message had been the perfect distraction. The knife buckle was sticking out of the commander’s throat. Blood was gushing out. Oh, how I wanted to stand there and watch him bleed out like he and his men had done to my father, but time was of the essence.

Before courage would abandon me and prompt me to scream, I opened and closed the door behind me. I calmly informed the soldier standing at the door that the commander had instructed him to escort me back to the roadblock where I had left my car. He didn’t question the order; he rushed off to do the commander’s bidding. He walked quickly so he could return to his designated station more quickly. What a gift! The speed was good. I directed all of my energy towards catching up to him. As expected from his training, when we arrived at the roadblock, he gave me the speech. This time, when I turned to face him, the fear wasn’t false. I was ushered into my car without any hiccup. I sped off. I was free – free of that place. Liberated from the spectre of my father’s death for not exacting revenge. I had my life ahead of me now. I had escaped after my act, but as I drove away from the scene of the crime, I was certain that I had been the catalyst for a conflict and had delivered the decisive blow.

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Joan Namunina is a Ugandan writer who writes across fiction, nonfiction, and children’s literature, drawing inspiration from actual human experiences and blending them into intersections of culture, memory, and imagination. Her work engages themes of identity, resilience, and human connection. She is active in literary and technology communities in her locale and continues to explore new forms of storytelling that bridge traditional and contemporary narratives. 

Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.