Where were you in January of 1986?
If you were not born, never mind – I’ll just go ahead and date myself.
In January of ’86 I was under the table, for the most part. No! I was not playing “hide and seek”, but I was hiding and desperately praying that the army men would not come seeking in our house.
Ordinarily Simon and I were dropped off to school and we rushed to our respective classes. Depending on the day we studied Math, English, Science and Social studies: played a little bit during break and lunch time, then had a blast running around after class until we were picked up. The preceding months however were no ordinary months, they were filled with uncertainty. Typically the days started off dull, and just as we were being lulled by the usual, cars zoomed into the school compound. Drivers and parents were picking up their kids, it was rumored that war was breaking out.
The country was going through strife, Tito Okello had just over thrown President Obote in a coup and so far no body knew what would happen next.
After 2 weeks or so, there was seemingly less chaos around the city. People were back on the streets, cars whizzed passed, children were dropped off to school, and parents went to work.
But friends whose parents were government ministers stopped showing up at school, some had fled the country, others were barricaded in their homes – unsettled about the future.
Road blocks were the order of the day. One couldn’t travel more than 20 meters without being stopped for a check. Woe unto you if you didn’t have an ID or if you looked of age and didn’t have an ID. My brother would have opted for anti growth hormones (if they existed); mom had to profusely plead and swear that he was only a kid – he was only 11 but his height was a serious factor.
The officers, dressed in army uniform and speaking Kiswahili didn’t care to smile what so ever. At each road block you prayed you would get passed without any trouble. You would get the sudden urge to use the bathroom if the officer raised his voice or if by some bad luck he wasn’t having a good day.
If he looked at your ID too long and decided you were not the same person because; - you cut your hair, lost weight or smiled when your photo had a sullen look - “Ka chini! we adui!” meaning – “lie down you are one of the enemies”.
You wanted to use the bathroom with even more urgency when you found friends and neighbors humbly sitting at the road blocks probably because they had no identification or any of the above reasons.
Ahh! Those were the days - gun shots on the streets were like music in a dance hall. One pop sent every one cowering for cover.
As if that was not enough, if some one decided to run for some reason, say they needed to get to place in a hurry or they tripped over a stone and trotted a head to avoid falling – the whole city begun to run. It was a ripple effect.
People seldom stopped to ask “why?” the motto was - run for your life and ask questions later. Those who dared to ask were told, and most times by someone who had no clue why they themselves were running – “they are coming” and if they went on to ask “who?” they were told “err… you wait and see”. At that point even the most curious didn’t wait to see.
We spent weeks on end running all over the city. Businesses were closed in the middle of the day – owners running for safety.
Shops were ransacked and looted on a daily basis; - army men took money and other valuables at check points. Such was the life.
When it was safe to come out again and the gun shots had stopped popping, people languidly stepped out of their homes. On most occasions it was in an effort to trace relatives, friends and neighbors who didn’t return the day the drunken sounding man announced on radio
“Dis iss Brigadier so and so. Deya hass bin a coup. … General Tito Okello Lutwa iss de presssident of Uganda. We are not goin to lib any stones unturned until we finiss all ob our enemis”
We held the hope that the missing persons had found fortress some where else, but news that their bodies were seen lying in some trench, on a street or by the road side left many bereaved. The next trek would be to the mortuary, hoping to identify them and give a half decent burial.
It had been about 6 months since all the chaos had seemingly died down.
I went to school as usual and then at about 10 am, drivers and parents started arriving again, picking up our friends and telling teachers how the city was not safe.
It was rumored that war had broken out in Luwero and that the army, led by a man called Museveni was taking over towns and was headed for Kampala, the capital city.
Before I knew it, our driver was at my class room door – it was time to head home.
I had not been feeling too well that day, so we passed by Poly family clinic in Kisementi to get some medicine. Before long I was groaning in pain, my head felt so light and the walls were spinning. Mummy came home from work and found me lying in the sitting room. She had been stopped at a road block and the army man had taken all her money. That was sad, but we were glad that she was safe.
I didn’t know that we were going to spend the next weeks crawling on the floor to avoid stray bullets. I didn’t know that we would spend the nights huddled together in the dinning room – no body cared for soft, cozy beds at that point.
I had no idea that we were going to spend the weeks, eating rice and beans, posho and beans, beans and more beans.
No one cared for TV any more but we constantly listened to news on Radio Uganda. I was sick to my stomach the entire time - turns out I had malaria. We crawled to and from the bathroom; lights were out the entire period. We saved on everything, water, electricity, food – amazing what human beings can do without in times of crisis.
Uganda is a lot better now or is it? That is a whole other can of worms which I chose not to open.
So you tell me, where were you?
In January of ’86 I was under the table, for the most part. No! I was not playing “hide and seek”, but I was hiding and desperately praying that the army men would not come seeking in our house.
Ordinarily Simon and I were dropped off to school and we rushed to our respective classes. Depending on the day we studied Math, English, Science and Social studies: played a little bit during break and lunch time, then had a blast running around after class until we were picked up. The preceding months however were no ordinary months, they were filled with uncertainty. Typically the days started off dull, and just as we were being lulled by the usual, cars zoomed into the school compound. Drivers and parents were picking up their kids, it was rumored that war was breaking out.
The country was going through strife, Tito Okello had just over thrown President Obote in a coup and so far no body knew what would happen next.
After 2 weeks or so, there was seemingly less chaos around the city. People were back on the streets, cars whizzed passed, children were dropped off to school, and parents went to work.
But friends whose parents were government ministers stopped showing up at school, some had fled the country, others were barricaded in their homes – unsettled about the future.
Road blocks were the order of the day. One couldn’t travel more than 20 meters without being stopped for a check. Woe unto you if you didn’t have an ID or if you looked of age and didn’t have an ID. My brother would have opted for anti growth hormones (if they existed); mom had to profusely plead and swear that he was only a kid – he was only 11 but his height was a serious factor.
The officers, dressed in army uniform and speaking Kiswahili didn’t care to smile what so ever. At each road block you prayed you would get passed without any trouble. You would get the sudden urge to use the bathroom if the officer raised his voice or if by some bad luck he wasn’t having a good day.
If he looked at your ID too long and decided you were not the same person because; - you cut your hair, lost weight or smiled when your photo had a sullen look - “Ka chini! we adui!” meaning – “lie down you are one of the enemies”.
You wanted to use the bathroom with even more urgency when you found friends and neighbors humbly sitting at the road blocks probably because they had no identification or any of the above reasons.
Ahh! Those were the days - gun shots on the streets were like music in a dance hall. One pop sent every one cowering for cover.
As if that was not enough, if some one decided to run for some reason, say they needed to get to place in a hurry or they tripped over a stone and trotted a head to avoid falling – the whole city begun to run. It was a ripple effect.
People seldom stopped to ask “why?” the motto was - run for your life and ask questions later. Those who dared to ask were told, and most times by someone who had no clue why they themselves were running – “they are coming” and if they went on to ask “who?” they were told “err… you wait and see”. At that point even the most curious didn’t wait to see.
We spent weeks on end running all over the city. Businesses were closed in the middle of the day – owners running for safety.
Shops were ransacked and looted on a daily basis; - army men took money and other valuables at check points. Such was the life.
When it was safe to come out again and the gun shots had stopped popping, people languidly stepped out of their homes. On most occasions it was in an effort to trace relatives, friends and neighbors who didn’t return the day the drunken sounding man announced on radio
“Dis iss Brigadier so and so. Deya hass bin a coup. … General Tito Okello Lutwa iss de presssident of Uganda. We are not goin to lib any stones unturned until we finiss all ob our enemis”
We held the hope that the missing persons had found fortress some where else, but news that their bodies were seen lying in some trench, on a street or by the road side left many bereaved. The next trek would be to the mortuary, hoping to identify them and give a half decent burial.
It had been about 6 months since all the chaos had seemingly died down.
I went to school as usual and then at about 10 am, drivers and parents started arriving again, picking up our friends and telling teachers how the city was not safe.
It was rumored that war had broken out in Luwero and that the army, led by a man called Museveni was taking over towns and was headed for Kampala, the capital city.
Before I knew it, our driver was at my class room door – it was time to head home.
I had not been feeling too well that day, so we passed by Poly family clinic in Kisementi to get some medicine. Before long I was groaning in pain, my head felt so light and the walls were spinning. Mummy came home from work and found me lying in the sitting room. She had been stopped at a road block and the army man had taken all her money. That was sad, but we were glad that she was safe.
I didn’t know that we were going to spend the next weeks crawling on the floor to avoid stray bullets. I didn’t know that we would spend the nights huddled together in the dinning room – no body cared for soft, cozy beds at that point.
I had no idea that we were going to spend the weeks, eating rice and beans, posho and beans, beans and more beans.
No one cared for TV any more but we constantly listened to news on Radio Uganda. I was sick to my stomach the entire time - turns out I had malaria. We crawled to and from the bathroom; lights were out the entire period. We saved on everything, water, electricity, food – amazing what human beings can do without in times of crisis.
Uganda is a lot better now or is it? That is a whole other can of worms which I chose not to open.
So you tell me, where were you?
i was in my father's hands running from stray bullets
ReplyDeletei was one year old,
ReplyDeletecant figure out a thing.
I was about 7 going to 8 at the time and Nigeria was under military rule. It wasn’t so chaotic then and didn’t even know gun could kill.
ReplyDeleteThis was some experience you shared here.
i was safely in Nairobi, without a clue about what is happening in our country...
ReplyDeleteI have read this and brought tears to my eyes. The horror of those days. I was at school- Kitante to be exact the days when parents suddenly started coming in to pick their kids because being in town they knew more than we did. And all we could do until you were picked up was peep out of those louvers into the valley to see people running. We lived in Mbuya at the time like 5 mins walk from the barracks and gunshots were normally the order of the day especially when the soldiers got drunk. But when the first coup happened we woke up to find a tanker parked or stuck right outside our house.
ReplyDeleteI remember the roadblocks and strangely enough reading this- that same felling one used to get (the fear/dread) while the soldier checked you out came back to me. I remembered the words "lala chini" and the small fact that we were swahili speaking ourselves did not work in our favour.
Oh man. This was some memory. It was a sad time. Do you remember "kandoya" and what did they use to call those child soldiers?- "kadogo".Man remember those kids holding guns???? WHAT! Now my heart breaks.
The only thing I enjoyed about that war were the soldiers songs- the NRA guys when they would run in the mornings- muchaka muchaka. My gosh- those days.
Wow, this has dug something up.