Back then, when frequenting bars was something else that he was committed to, apart from literally running away from their country home in the quest for harboring himself from numerous calls to “get out of your bedroom and busy yourself with something constructive” from his tired old man, and the ever unhelpful “play it cool” from his sweet old mama, he met a well thought out, a well planned, and a well constructed living monument of a Kampala lady.
There was, in his wildest dreams, no way that he would have – for the very least – ever seen her, if it were not for an amalgamation of all the preceding events before that moment.
His sister, who had, thanks to her unquestionable beauty, been publicly documented, by tabloids, as “one of the girls you must meet before you die”, “girls that make men go crazy” and “renown bar hoppers” had earlier that day requested him to share his company later that evening.
Her, her friends, and him had devised a plan; to, when the time came, attend a fundraising affair which would be taking place at an old, five star hotel before heading to either a sports facility which had gradually become more popular for a bar presumably opened for pep talks between players who thought of themselves as legends, or another bar, which had previously become quite popular for the mistreatment and deaths of employees that were occasioned by its rich owner, and, thereafter, a bar whose name was, apparently, inspired or derived from a lizard indented in its wooden signage.
Their travels, from one suburb, and bar, to another, were characterised by significant events. He had, while still in the hotel, found himself passionately partaking in a salsa dance training session he had not paid for. This, before saying his goodbye to several familiar faces that included a not so lucky in the beauty department ex pal who had held him back with complaints about his unfollowing her on her most preferred social network. He, of course, wondered. He was not even that influential when it came to exploiting electronic gadgets!
Without any boda-bodas in sight, he had found himself in one of the so many brands of them Japanese vehicles, with his head in between the driver’s and co-driver’s seats. Half of his uncomfortable bum had found itself in between a strange male figure that had gotten itself drunk off a bottle of Uganda Waragi which it had stolen from a pouch fixed onto the back of the driver’s seat, and a lady who kept shifting her lower decker in an attempt to not being carried on his lap before they reached their next destination.
He had no idea about how he had afforded himself a seat on this vehicle except for the fact that he made part of a gang – of sorts – which was not sober, that was chatting, and kept laughing at the top of their youthful voices, and driving like lost souls through a desolate city, on a guided trip of sorts, before arriving at their last and still happening spot for the night. He was only moving with the motion. Their motion.
Everything went as planned, so well that even the accidental things seemed to be happening on their plan. Save for one thing. An attractive lady that sat on a couch in a corner, that was more than enough to look at, that would change the course of the rest of that evening, or rather early morning.
(This is an opening for a, unfortunately, true story. One of the many that I have, for a couple of months now been writing, daily, and not sharing in preparation for, hopefully, a book that I am still debating on whether to title Vignettes, or The Unseen Seer).