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