MUCHUZI


This was a 100 word hard news piece, then they let me at it.

If you haven’t heard the story about the sweet and refreshing waters of kisalosalo, you haven’t been very successful in your career as a Ugandan. The wells there run deep, the creeks run and gurgle with delight and their springs have transitions from hot to cold down pat. All those marvelous descriptions concerning water that have been pushed down our eyes and sometimes even our throats can be applied to the waters of this village.

It wasn’t surprising then when last week; violent rage swept the village as a direct result of one Mukasa’s ambition. In a bid to make his coffers flow as abundantly as the waters of kisalosalo, he let poison loose on his village mates by setting up a fuel pump and burying leaky tanks under it, tanks that wasted no time in turning resident’s stomachs inside out with pain.

When approached for a comment, he said, ‘Everybody has done bad things in their lives. Call me Karma’. Well he didn’t really say that, but it’s something I’d say in his position.

Albert, the village loud mouth went door to door, screaming about how one of his wives had given birth to a child with teeth, how his two year old had gone cross-eyed overnight and how he could feel his tailbone morphing from a wee vestigial thing to a fully developed tail. First, the village people ignored him, believing his misfortune to be linked to witchcraft that some person, exasperated with him and his theatrics had punished him with.

This view was however quickly retracted when more people (infinitely more agreeable than Albert) started registering strange changes in their bodies accompanied with searing belly pain. This is when the people of Kisalosalo elected the loud mouth as their leader and went as a group to Mukasa’s home, armed with machetes and pained looks.

Demands were made. It was an either or situation. Either Mukasa uprooted the tanks that were oozing putrefaction into the fresh and sweet waters of their village or he got killed. Other suggestions were made, but that’s the one which really stuck. People started to get dangerous. Bile was hurled, screams were made, fighting stances were taken all which convinced Mukasa that stubbornness would only make him dead, not affluent and popular as he had hoped.

He went along with the spitting mob to the fuel pump and stood looking forlornly at his investment. He probably would have wept, but the fear of God which had been put into him by his village mates had directed all his dispensable body fluids to his bladder which had involuntarily released its contents earlier on when the angry mob knocked his door down.

Residents declared that they wouldn’t allow for the pump to operate if the tanks weren’t uprooted, tested and declared safe and they would fight with the new limbs that they had acquired because of the poisoning. One young lady vowed that if the horns that had sprouted on her head didn’t fall off, Mukasa would have to marry her because, and I quote, ‘Who the hell will marry a chick with horns? I don’t want no drama.’

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