FORGIVE ME PAST: Life is such a Dream!

For me it had been just weeks but I felt as though my soul was leaving my body. In Bwaise, I’d at one point been in ‘survival mode’ but life in prison was far worse than it. It should be called an uneven afterlife! For the two weeks I’d so far spent there, my body and mind had been perplexed like never before. Before, I used to read in books and hear rumors about the hard life in prison but this time round, I was the one experiencing it.

Animals like rats weren’t labeled as unwanted aliens: they were gracious citizens—gracious because who were we, to find shelter in their sacred dwellings! Talking about prison citizens, mosquitoes and toads were the night choir members, snakes were once-in-a-while special visitors—and I say this without exception of their sinister abilities.

Spiders were the decorators—always building majestic curtains above our heads, while houseflies and other funny winged insects, tasting the salt levels before the food was ‘ready’ for consumption by us. And then the multi-racial cockroaches! These can occupy a whole chapter because they were like brothers and sisters to us, so I will let the exclamation narrate the lot about them.

The daily routine of the prison was like a rehearsal for hell. We hardly had any sleep, since we always woke up early morning for an assembly—while naked—in the coldness, a round of canes before general cleaning, taken as labour to various farms on some days, and to newbies like me, a unique package of teasing and bulling from some of our fellow leader-prisoners. We would then spend the afternoons in our cells. As the day ended, we would have an evening assembly, another round of canes and personal hygiene.

Meals would come inbetween those activities; break, lunch and sometimes supper. Talking about meals, the sticky cream substance that stole posho’s identity was either half-cooked or burnt. It was difficult to know what the soup was, in the balanced mixture of malnourished beans and weavel—one would mistake the latter to be the soup, and the beans, the pests. This, however, didn’t kill our appetite in any way—to us it was chips and chicken. It was only on Sundays that we were served a special meal—that is, rice and beans.

My mates had many theories about the meals, but there’s one that found favor in my memory—that the prison officials were given enough money which wasn’t enough for both their beloved families and we, the nonbeloved, so the remaining few coins, after having banquets at their homes, were the ones that catered for our feeds. Anyway, that didn’t surprise me—this is Uganda, where corruption is an occupation. Allow me to stop the analysis because I’m not a spokesman: I am lawbreaker.

Back to my hopes of leaving prison in the shortest time, my mates’ experiences, expectations and philosophies opened my mind to consider the extremes. Among the friends I had made there—after a couple of days of teasing and bulling—, were those whose crimes were so trivial, and those who carried very heavy ones. What confused me was the fact that both parties were treated the same, and, both had spent almost the same time frame without trial in court!

The following were my closest mates, their offences, and the length of time they’d spent in prison without trial:

Bashir, a 23-year-old: A dark medium-sized devoted muslim, who was charged and imprisoned for getting involved in a strike—fancy that! His colleagues—as far as the ‘struggle’ was concerned—however, had already been discharged months back—God knows how—but for his case, nothing had been done and no one, from his family and friends, had come to bail him out. He’d now spent two months and a week in prison, uncertain about his future, and the granary for hope, empty.

Marko, a 31-year-old: A muscular yet down-to-earth bodaboda rider, who accidentally knocked one light of a Benz. Unable to be in position to pay for the expensive light, he was detained for what became forever, but kept hoping someone would come to his rescue. No one did, of course—at least not yet—so he had to serve the undefined time in prison. He was making three months in prison in a few days, but with his optimism, one would think he’d come the day before, and was leaving on the next.

Bobby, a 35-year-old: Among the three friends I made, Bobby was the only one with a serious crime. He had impregnated a school girl, sixteen years of age, and hence charged for defilement. Amazingly, he assured me that his relationship with the girl was known to the parents—who had already filled their bellies with a partial dowery—who, when things got worse, never stood up for him, not even mere admitting the fact that he was a known son-in-law to be. Many family members had tried bailing him out but in vain, with the reasons unknown.

What totally gave my hopes a coup de grâce was that all those offences were no where near to the evilness of mine, and yet their holders were rotting in jail! What would happen to me who was a suspect for multiple murders (including a policeman), drug abuse, and theft? I rested my expectations of a ‘better tomorrow’ and let the river flow. On the contrary, it was quite impossible with Rachael on my mind, and more to that, having given me no explanation about her pregnancy—I was being tortured psychologically.

“You really don’t look like a murderer,” stated Bashir—for the millionth time—as we were having the usual keep-up jaz while having our only bath for the next three days, on one late Sunday afternoon. He was the biggest fan of mine, and made sure that he clearly showed it through the comments of admiration of my this-and-that. To my surprise, the other two seemed to agree with him on such matters, though unopenly like he did.

“Let me repeat myself, Bash: never judge a book by its cover,” I replied in the same way I always did in many identical conversations before.

“So guys, what should we expect from the Inspector General of Police’s visit tomorrow?” Marko made a distributary off the conversation Bashir had sparked off. He was really optimistic about the IGP’s visit the following day. As to the rest of us, it didn’t mean anything. There was no clear path, at least not in our sight, that would be paved by the inspector’s visit. “This is the first time in years an IGP is visiting this police station, as per the older lions of the den” he continued with his gospel after receiving silence as the reply.

“Man, this is Uganda,” began Bobby, escorting each of his words with an appropriate gesture. “There’s nothing to expect from such a visit. Maybe our gods, the officers, might grace us with a special meal to show how well things are moving on.”

The rest of us agreed with Bobby but Marko’s faith was a metal. “I don’t know why I feel like tomorrow is our Red-letter day,” he pulled off a positive conclusion despite the last speaker’s bitter ‘truth’.

“You really love Rachael, don’t you?” Bashir was still on my case. Anyway I don’t blame him for asking such a question. It’s me who sewed Rachael name on most of my stories.

“Yes, on that matter, what will you do if by chance the IGP sets you free tomorrow?” added Marko immediately. Of course that ‘if’ was an impossibility, but it somehow caught my attention to an extent that I was absent-minded for the rest of the jaz. From that moment on, my mind was prescripting the day, laying plans that were beyond my power in reality. I failed to find the right answer for his question, but like a mustard seed, it grew into a gigantic tree called ‘debate’ in my mind that whole night.

The cold morning found me awake. I hardly had any sleep that whole night, as the rats and cockroaches gave me company. For me, the new day was already at my door even before arriving. Through out our daily morning routine, I was like a robot. I hardly felt any pain or suffering. My mind and soul had been taken by the IGP’s coming, and there I was, waiting for him to grace me with his visit. Because of the questions, I had become a believer—a man with a pocket full of faith!

As soon as the emergency siren went, I was already on my feet, ready to be led to the assembly ground. I’m not a good time keeper—I don’t even believe in the clock—but on that bright late morning, I was like a sheep, longing to obey. Within a minute or two, the assembly ground was full. Even the so-called darker sheep—the most dangerous prisoners, or those sued by powerful men, who hardly saw the sky—were brought after the rest of us had already made our lines.

Our eyes moved about, along with murmurs, hunting for the presence of the Inspector General of Police. Just like all VIPs, he had to be the last person to show up. One of the prison officers commanded us to kill the noise, which we did as soon as the league of ‘big’ men, headed by our warden, blessed us with their presence. As the rest of the prisoners clapped their hands to usher them upfront, my consciousness was stolen by the very last prisoner on the line of the darker sheep. It was Ronnie, clothed in misery!