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 General 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.