The Olympian (Interlude)

An Aside: Last year Uganda won her second gold medal in fifty years. It was quite the feat and like every other Ugandan I applaud Stephen Kiprotich for his achievement. He is not, however, the only Olympian that Uganda has given birth to. There have been others that have lifted the crested crane onto their shoulders and showed her off to the world. Among them is Davis Kamoga who won the bronze medal for the men's 400m in 1996, bested only by Roger Black, a Brit and the great Michael Johnson. By far not an easy feat. Now although the following story is by no means his story, elements of it are certainly influenced by it.

Let us not forget our heroes past.

I hope you enjoy it.

-- L.A. Lutara

The Olympian

The first thing I noticed was that Yosam, sitting on the dirty side walk, was sporting only one leg. The second, was the man with the red dyed Mohawk bent over him, clipping the toe nails of that one leg.

According to Yosam, he hadn't always been that way (with one leg that is) but ask him how he lost the other and he wouldn't be able to tell you.

I know this because I did ask him; right there in the middle of the street.

“I don’t remember.” His off-handish answer had been.

You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember? I blinked at him.

I was intrigued and even though we were in one of the busiest parts of town, during one of the busiest times of the day, I "borrowed" a stool from a lady selling air time nearby (I saw her mouth twist into a mask of slight annoyance but pretended not to notice) and sat down next to him.

What he did remember was that the leg that went missing was the leg that he used to kick with. Footballs, tree trunks, metallic drums, heads in street brawls- he used it to kick everything. Without regard and without conscious.

And run. Boy did he love to run.

There was a gleam in his eye when he said this.

Even as a child he was given the title, “Little Lightening” and he went on to prove this time and time again; winning all the village races, catching all the chickens and out running all the canes.

Why he was telling me this was beyond me. Why I was even sitting there listening was even more outlandish. This wasn't like me at all. But then I hadn't been like “me” in a long time.

When he reached secondary school,

“Yes, I went to school,” He interjected, a sliver of an accent peeking through. “Kings College Budo. Senior one to Senior Six. And university in England as well. Nottingham; very prestigious. The same university that Sir Clive Granger attended. I may not look like it but I'm one sharp fellow.”

It was not until later that I found out that Sir Clive Granger is in fact a Nobel Prize recipient. Very prestigious indeed.

But then what happened? I found myself asking. Why was he now begging on the street with only one leg to his name?

Yosam waved away my question,

"Let me tell my story my way and maybe, just maybe we will get to that. Agreed?"

I nodded my assent.

"Agreed."

"Good. Now, are you thirsty?"

I was but I shook my head.

Yosam pointed at me.

"You are. Your'e lying to me. Your lips are drier than a nun past menopause."

I stared at him when he said this but he paid me no mind.

Reaching into one of the pockets of his ratty old khakis Yosam pulled out a knot of crisp looking notes of Ugandan tender. It was an inch and a half thick and from what I could see it was made up of mostly 50's, 20's and 10's. He peeled off a 10 and held it out to me.

"I drink Coke. You can get whatever you want."

I looked from him to the note then back up at him.

Who was this guy?

"Take it." he said shaking the tender.

After another moment's reluctance I did. Got up, walked to where a fridge sat 50 yards away, bought the man his Coke, bought myself a Sprite, both of which were of the 500ml plastic bottled variety, got the change and walked back to where Yosam sat.

When I got back the man with the red Mohawk was gone and Yosam's nails were clipped, filed and his heel scraped clean of any and all dead scaly skin.

I held out Yosam's soda and change, both of which he took. He cracked open the top of his soda and took a long swig.

Gulp...gulp...gulp and then,

"Ahhhhh." Yosam smacked his lips.

"Eh, I really needed that. Now, where was I...? Oh yes," and Yosam continued with his story.

When he reached secondary school not only did he run but he swam as well. He was so fast that when he competed in inter-school swim meets by the time the second place swimmer was half way through one lap, Yosam was already beginning his second.
His only competition was himself.

God had blessed him with a gift, at least that's what all his teachers and friends and family members told him. He really didn't see what the big deal was though.

So he was fast. And then what?

By the time Senior six was rolling around Yosam was quite the big fish and was quite the local celebrity.

"A big fish in a small pond" a white haired white man named Reverend Belinsky had told Yosam after yet another notch in the belt of a win.

"Let me take you to swim in the ocean." the old man had continued, appealing to Yosam's as yet still dormant sense of ambition.

Nine months later Yosam was a first year undergraduate at Nottingham University.

"What did you study?" I asked.

I was still finding it hard to believe that the man I was sitting with was a Nottingham alumnus. It just didn't make sense. You don't go to a school like that and wind up on the street. It was the kind of place that once you walked out off you were set for life. Or so I have been told.

"Economics and Russian."

You've got to be kidding me.

"Say something in Russian."

"Вы не имеете понятия, что происходит, у вас молодой человек? Бедный мальчик. Вы будете же. Все в свое время."

Again, all I could do is stare at him. The man could speak Russian. And although I was far from an expert, beyond what I had heard from action movie villains of course, his Russian sounded pretty darn good.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'I quite enjoy your company and I hope we can do this again some time.'"

I seriously doubted this but I let it go.

"But why Russian though?"

Yosam shrugged.

"Reverend Belinsky was Russian so I thought, meh, 'Why not?'.

"Anyway, I ran all throughout university, ran afterwards, ran when I moved back to Uganda and ran myself all the way to the Olympics."

"The Olympics?"

"Yes, the Olympics. Atlanta 1996 to be precise."

"Wait, Atlanta 1996? As in the one where Michael Johnson was such a big deal?"

"The one and the same. I raced Johnson by the way. I didn't win of course but I did race him. In fact; he won gold, I won bronze."

Now I knew he was lying. This man with one leg, wearing rags and living on the street not only raced a man who was at one time the fastest man in the world but also won himself an Olympic medal? Now that was just absolute and utter nonsense.

"You don't believe me do you?"

I didn't try to mask my disbelief and told him right to his face that I didn't.

Yosam nodded his head as if my reaction was a totally understandable one. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dirty handkerchief and held it out to me.

"Your'e giving me your dirty handkerchief?"

Yosam shook his head.

"Look at what's inside."

I reluctantly took it. Whatever it was, it was heavy.

Unwrapping the handkerchief I found myself looking down at a metallic disc about 70mm in diameter, weighing about 200gms and what seemed to be made of bronze.

I don't know how long I stared down at it.

"Quite amazing isn't it?" Yosam said, cutting through the dead space of my head.

I looked up at him.

"Who are you?"

Yosam looked at me with a bemused look on his face.

Before he could answer, however, I felt my phone in my pocket begin to vibrate; it's generic ringtone wafting between us.

"Are you going to answer that?"

I was. I didn't want to but I knew that I should and so I did. After a few seconds the yelling on the other end made it clear that it was time for me to go.

Wrapping the medal, I handed it back to Yosam who took it and pocketed it once more.

"I have to go." I said standing, "But I want to finish this conversation, how do I find you?"

Yosam licked his lips, finished off the rest of his Coke.

"I'll be right here. Every day. And it is not like I will be too hard to find, I'm the only one here with only one leg." he joked.

I allowed myself a smile. Extended a hand.

"Then I will see you tomorrow."

Yosam took it.

"Tomorrow then."

And I walked off.


It wasn't until I got home later that day that I thought to google the man with one leg, an economics degree from Nottingham and a bronze Olympic medal. He was indeed who he said he was. He did indeed graduate from the same university the current director of the British MI6 did, he did indeed have a front row seat to Michael Johnson making history and he did indeed win Uganda another Olympic medal. The only thing is, according to the almighty god Google, Yosam Kilungi had died four years prior in a car accident. His right leg crushed, his Olympic medal in one pocket and a thick knot of money in the other.



The End

For You I Will Move This Mountain: It's OK...Now Kiss Me

An Aside: A couple of people were asking me what ever happened to the story with Mundu & Sarah in it. Was it over? Is that where it ended? And if so, how come? The answer to the first two questions is a long and resounding "No." and so to back up that answer, here is the next chapter in the story, "For You I Will Move This Mountain"

And oh, just to make sure that all of ya'll are up to speed; here's the link to the previous chapter:

http://adoseofwordstothehead.blogspot.com/2012/12/for-you-i-will-move-this-mountain.html

Hope You Enjoy.


CHAPTER FOUR

Mundu and the old man walked for what seemed like hours and for what appeared to be, for a little while at least, in circles.

And if given the opportunity to ask Mundu why this appeared to be the case, he would have pulled out his four inch long blade, run it along the length of the inside of his forearm and sworn to you that they had passed that tree over there, the one that looked like a bent over old woman carrying a pot on her head more than just once, maybe even thrice.

But even though he was full of these suspicions, Mundu said nothing.

The Umululosi was old and possessed an old magic and even after all his exploits, Mundu still knew to be wary of this. And so Mundu did nothing in protest, simply wiping the sweat from his brow and putting one foot in front of the other.

They continued on like this until the sun began to dip towards the horizon.

And then they came to a clearing. And in this clearing sat a hut. A round, mud plastered, thatch roofed hut. And outside this hut sat a stool and on the stool sat a girl.

The girl wore a forest green wrapper that began at the armpits and ended mid thigh. Her feet were bare as were her shoulders. She was smiling a smile that seemed to almost say, "Don't look so surprised and come over here and hug me you ki-boy."

Forgetting how tired he was, which was very, and completely forgetting about the old man, and forgetting that the clearing and the hut were identical to the very ones they had left hours before; Mundu hurried into the clearing and then reaching Sera, lifted her off the stool and held her to him. He would have held onto her forever if it was not for her urging him to put her down.

Slowly, reluctantly Mundu did. Letting her stand on her own but adamantly refusing to remove his arms from around her waist.

He stared down at her in wonder.
"What are you doing here? Does your father know you are here? How did you find this place? It is getting dark, how are you going to get back home?"

"I've been waiting for you." is all Sera said in reply, smiling up at him.

She removed his hands from her waist and then took one of them in hers.

"Come...come..."

She led Mundu through the door way of the hut and inside.

What awaited him was something tantamount to a feast. Laid on a mat were bowls of cassava, sweet Potatoes, ugali, ground nut sauce, peanut butter paste, chicken, beef...it seemed like a lifetime since Mundu had seen so much food.

The assault on Mundu's senses was beyond belief and as if on cue his mouth began to water, his stomach rumble.

Sera pulled him further inside and then urged him to sit down.

"Let me serve you."

And she did, handing him a serving of food so big that it could have easily fed an entire family. As hungry as he was, however (the funny thing being that a few minutes before he hadn't been, not really, but sitting there he was suddenly ravenous) Mundu had no doubt that he would be able to finish every morsel.

He took the food but as he did, the strangeness of the entire situation suddenly began to plague him.

"Tell me something,"

"Yes love?"

"How did you find this place?"

"Eat up." was Sera's response as she sat down next to him. And so he did, although all the time mindful of Sera watching him curiously.

"Where is the old man?" He asked a few minutes later.

"How is the food?" was her reply.

"Good. But you have not answered my question."

"And which one is that?"

"Where is the old man?" and then remembering, "And how did you find this place?"

Sera placed a hand one one of Mundu's thighs,

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that I am here."

Mundu's suspicions were piqued even further by this. He knew Sera and she was not the dismissive type. She answered questions head on. This avoiding the question business was not at all her.

"But who are you?" Mundu asked setting down the food and standing up.

"What do you mean, 'who are you'? You know who I am. Why are you talking like this?"

Sera reached for one of Mundu's hands but he took a step backwards and out of reach.

"All I know is that you are not Sera. That is all I know."

At this Sera stood up. Took a step towards Mundu.

"You are tired. You should rest."

She took another step and then another and in that moment was standing inches away from him. She placed one hand on his chest, the other on a cheek. When Mundu didn't recoil, Sera ran her thumb along the line of his jaw.

"You are tired. You should rest." She repeated.

Munndu tried to protest but Sera cut him off by moving her hand from Mundu's cheek to the back of his head and on her tip toes, pulled him in for a kiss.

The lips that kissed Mundu's lips were Sera's lips, the taste of Sera's lips was Sera's taste, the scent of Sera's skin was Sera's scent, the heart that pounded in tandem with his was Sera's heart. Everything, absolutely everything told Mundu that the Sera standing in front of him was in fact Sera and so closing his eyes, Mundu kissed her back.

From close-lipped to open-mouthed to deeply passionate; the couple moved from standing to kneeling to trying to find enough space on the mat harbouring all the food to spread themselves out on. Which they did; Sera on her back, Mundu on top of her.
At this point though, Mundu paused. This was as far as the two had ever gone and he wasn't sure whether...

But he need not have worried though because as if anticipating Mundu's line of thought Sera once again placed a hand on the side of his face and looking up into his face whispered soothingly,

"It's ok...it's ok. Now kiss me."

And so Mundu, ignoring the niggling finger of suspicion poking around at the back of his mind, leaned in and did just that.

Chemo Brain: Chapter 2

Kampala

January, 1994

The heat has swallowed up everything. Sucking up the air; sticking its sticky and sickly swollen fingers through countless windows and underneath countless doors. Asserting its throat drying dominance by cracking lips, slicking bed sheets and propelling sleepless souls from sweltering bedrooms to plastic cups and open fridges to cold veranda floors in search of some sort of relief.

None is to be had, however- the whole city is on fire.

Only the air conditioned will have a chance at rest tonight and Lord knows how those are but a precious few.

Even the ones with fans will probably burn because all they do is push the hot air around; moving it from here to there.

It is in this heat, this furnace of an existence that we once again meet Conrad and his two siblings. Him and his older brother Jacob in one room, sharing a bunk bed; and their sister, Connie, in another.

Their mother sleeps in the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, not soundly however, because whenever the space of mattress next to her is devoid of the warmth of her husband's body, soundly is an impossibility.

It is late, probably past midnight and a school night at that but none of the children are asleep. Connie reads by pocket torch, Conrad and Jacob talk in whispered tones of songs played on radios and grown up movies on VHS tapes watched at the neighbours’ house.

And then they hear it.

All four of them at the very same moment- and freeze.

The engine, the car door, the gate- he’s home and they all know that when he comes home this late, it means trouble.

Quickly and in spite of the heat the boys clench their blankets with trembling fists and cover themselves, turning their bodies so that their noses are facing away from the door and towards the wall.

Connie's torch produces a quiet Click! and it's thin beam of light is gone and both torch and book are tossed under the bed.

Their mother lies on her back, eyes wide open, chest heaving, ears tuned to hear every movement, every sound.

The jingle of keys, the front door opens and a giant of a man, in both girth and height stumbles in. He reeks of booze, of anger and of a hunger that only a woman’s body can satisfy.

We watch from a shadowy corner as the bumbling giant stumbles into the kitchen, barely manages the fridge door and rummages around in search of something to eat. What he finds is a plate made especially for him; rice, chicken, greens with sweet potatoes. The only draw back? It is cold and even though all he had to do is stick it in the microwave for two minutes, he didn't have the patience nor the mental dexterity to do so in his current state of inebriation.

The giant swears and tosses the plate of food across the kitchen, breaking it, painting the floor, counter tops and even cupboard doors with bits of food.

He stares at the mess he has made for a moment and then like a flipped switch decides that he wasn't hunger for food anyway. He was, however, hungry for something else.
With swaying steps, bumping into things, he makes his way to his bedroom. We follow him. He opens the door and closes it behind him.

A deep sense of foreboding plunges my heart into a well filled with dread. Something bad is going to happen, I just know it. And so I hesitate entering the room, lingering before the shut door, reaching out for your hand with bated breath, hoping against hope that my fears are wrong.

I wait for a minute; maybe three and just as I'm about to let out a sigh of relief, the screaming begins.

Chains… w/ Corrine Bailey Rae (Interlude)

An Aside: This one...this one is for Moses Serubiri.


I said grace for her heart with a shrug and a steak knife. I like steak knives and even though they can be unwieldy to use at times when they’re sharpened to pointed perfection, they can be pretty fun too.

There were seven of us at the table that evening and as blade tip pierced still beating flesh, I played hide and seek with a dark, spry smile and watched the others howling and hooting and chomping at the bits like a pack of ravenous dogs.

“Hunger. Hunger you will not stay here for long.” I thought as I divided the heart into seven healthy, even chunks. Raw, just the way they liked it.

They say that seven is the number of perfection, of completeness…and hers was heart number seven. A long road it had been. Long and arduous with beautifully decayed corpses thrown carelessly into its trenches. Who knew what we would do after we had licked the last of her blood off our fingers and sipped the last of the wine we had bought specifically for this occasion? Life was an empty space when you had no soul to consume.

With plates in front of places it was not long before the other six had blood smeared faces, sadistic laughter cackling from throats as teeth worked and pieces of soul and spirit and love and life were devoured. I, however, took my time. Savored it. What was the hell was point if you neglected to embrace the pleasure to be found in it?

Knife, fork; left, right; cut, spear; chew, swallow. Sip…sip…sip…swallow and wash it all down.

No words were said, none were needed. We all felt it, the rejuvenation. And as the last of our plates were emptied, the Devil sat in the corner tapping his foot to Corrine Bailey Rae humming,

Chains…chains…chains…

Chemo Brain: Chapter One

An Aside: I owe the embankment of this journey to two individuals; Jason Ntaro & John Gatins. One a close friend, a brother and one of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the privilege to come into contact with. The other; also a writer. Also talented but unfortunately not one I’ve had the privilege to meet...Yet. It is because of these two individuals that I was able to write my first one thousand words of the year. Enjoy.

1
Kampala
January, 2013

We find ourselves, you and I, in a house that may have, once upon a year, been a home. Its worn carpets and stained sofa set and dusty picture frames housing faded photographs of forced smiles and strained poses, as well as the sagging cupboards full of chipped plates, mugs and glasses give a lengthy testimony to this. Now, however, there is a certain staleness and acridity about the place. Like either no one lives here and hasn’t for a long time or like someone does and just doesn’t care and as we look around and take notice of the empty packs of Dunhill Menthols, crumpled sachets of Royal Vodka, overturned and sometimes chip mouthed bottles of Nile Special, Club beer and Tusker Lager, not to mention the country of cigarette butts carpeting every available flat surface and the many, many tin foil takeaway containers crusted with and stinking of rotting left over food it becomes quite apparent that it is most certainly the latter. The real question now, is “Who?”

As I ponder this I hear a quiet sputtering of breath, regular and irregular simultaneously, (snoring maybe?) that sounds as if it is coming from somewhere around the house. A cursory inspection however, reveals that the most logical places, the bedrooms, are empty. A couch in the sitting room maybe? I stick a head stuck through a doorway- nope. Kitchen, dining room, bathrooms? Nein, nada, nope…but wait; there’s this last bathroom, the one opposite the “boy’s room”, let’s get a closer look.

Yup, there’s someone here and that someone appears to be quite unconscious. A man, this human paper weight seems to be; spread eagled on his stomach in a pool of his own vomit. Who is he? Well to be honest it’s kind of hard to tell from here but luckily for us I would recognize those scuffed and dirty red Tommy Hilfiger loafers anywhere…it’s Conrad.

Conrad, who amongst other things ( a poet, a priest and co-author of an unknown, unseen albeit quite often felt revolution that I am more than certain will one day reveal itself to be of great importance) both hates and loves his father in equal measure. Loves because, well, that is what a son is supposed to do isn’t it? Love his father. Hates, however, because ever since Conrad was in khaki shorts, knee high socks and black Bata shoes, his father; the kind and oh so gracious Honorable Kataga with his expertly hurled bottles, professionally placed insults and prodigiously vomit splattered carpets, tiles and hard wood floors has quite earned the fiery feelings of bile inducing revulsion that ignites the pit of Conrad’s stomach every time the man’s name is mentioned.

Now, we may wish to reach out and shake Conrad awake (Or at least try to because who knows how deep of a stupor he is in?) but we cannot because unfortunately for us we are no more than specters; no limbs, just senses; mere observers, denied participation in the events transpiring or about to transpire before us and so we have no choice but to watch and wait. And wait…and wait some more…and it feels like days have passed when it’s more like minutes when there is a long and continuous hoot at the gate.

I wish nothing more than that one of us could go and open it because I know as well as you do that our friend Conrad over here isn’t going anywhere any time soon but sadly we also know that there’s no opening that gate.

A few moments pass and then there’s another long hoot quickly followed by another shorter one and then finally the sound of someone outside of the gate opening it. Let’s go see who it is.

Black heels, black dress and black blazer. A visitor? She’s tall…or maybe it’s just the heels…but no, she’s tall…and pretty…and bears a striking resemblance to Conrad. She holds open one side of the gate and a maroon Rav-4 rolls through it. She doesn’t bother closing the gate and quickly click clacks her way towards the front door which is oddly already open.

Parked, the driver side door of the Rav-4 opens and a pair of black shoes, a black suit and a black tie climb out. Not so tall, not so handsome and although not such an obvious resemblance it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine one. Slamming the car door behind him he follows his younger sister through the front door, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the space of neck just above the collar of his shirt and right below the beginning of his hairline.

“Conrad!”

But Conrad, of course, doesn’t answer. As he looks around the house he grew up in, Older Brother lets a string of expletives tumble out of his mouth.

“How can he live here like this?”

He scoffs and shakes his head.

“The place is a fucking dump.”

Younger Sister let’s her gaze roam the room. She can’t dispute him on that but the truth is they don't have time for all of that. They are late and right now that is all that is on her mind.

“The service starts in half an hour,” Is all Younger Sister says in response. “Let’s find him and get going. Rad!”

She makes a move for the kitchen.

“Fine. I’ll check the bedrooms. You check the kitchen, bathroom, whatever.”

A few minutes later Younger Sister finds her twin brother.

“Jacob!”

“What?”

“I’ve found him! In the boys’ bathroom! Hurry!”

And Jacob does, finding Younger Sister kneeling, trying to shake Conrad awake.

“Move.” He commands and gently leads his sister out of the way. He takes off his coat and hands it to his worried looking sister who takes it wordlessly.

He hurriedly rolls up his sleeves and glances at his watch to see how much time they had before their father’s funeral begins: 17 minutes and counting. Grunting, Jacob bends and lifts Conrad up off the ground.