The tortured soul

I walked in through the back door and was greeted by commotion in the boy’s quarters.
I heard gasps and mummers and urgent voices. Men were moving around like sheep without a shepherd, or better still shepherds without their sheep. The ladies stood huddled together in a corner, wiping tears from their eyes, while others placed hands to their cheeks like they had been glued on.
Hadn’t anyone realized I was missing? The issue at hand seemed more critical than a silly little girl gone missing.

So this is how it happened. One bright Sunday morning we all went to church; I was only 8 or 9 years old at the time. After mass, I got lost in the crowd and couldn’t find my siblings. I walked around for a while before I figured they had left without me. I began to panic. One lady, noticing my dilemma, walked over and asked if she could help. I told her I had been left behind and needed someone to take me home. She was a nice lady; I had seen her at church a couple of time so I trusted that she had my best interests at heart. She offered to escort me home. Our house was on Katonga road, not too far away from church so we often walked to and fro. I knew some basic land marks – Sheraton hotel, Nile hotel, Tanzanian high commission, Doctors mess, and then home. We walked quietly together, but I couldn’t help the feelings of betrayal. When we arrived at our gate I pointed and said this was it, she waved goodbye and I skipped along.
That is when I stepped in the back door, and saw what I told you I saw.
Curious to know what had taken center stage, I wiggled my way in under their arms and against their waists. My eyes landed on the most ghastly sight in my 9 years of existence. Blood was splattered all over the walls, there was a mess of a soiled blanket and clothes on the floor. A paddle of blood mapped one corner of the room, it had caked on its journey out the door. The stench was most unbearable. As I scanned the room I noticed a heap of something or the other next to the wall. In that instant, one of my aunt’s caught sight of me and hushed me hurry a long; this was no place for little kids. The heap coiled on the floor was Oyen, a young man who had come from the village to help with home chores. I was extremely unnerved, as I slowly walked away, the men attempted to lift him off the floor but he protested – “Leave me here”.

This is the story: Thieves broke into the house while we were at church, and as Oyen attempted to defend himself, they diced his head with a machete and left him for dead. Even though the cuts were deep and he couldn’t quite recall the events of that day, Oyen survived. He was discharged from the hospital after 3 months and returned to the village. The criminals were never traced because of too many twists and turns in the security systems. We didn’t alert the police because nothing would come of it, we were just glad that Oyen got away with his life.

Mrs. Kiyingi and Major Gen. Kazini and now Ms. Karamuzi did not experience Oyen’s luck – their candles were smashed out without mercy leaving family and friends with so many unanswered questions. As the curtain comes down to end the show of our lives, people are known to seek rest, to unburden their hearts of heavy loads, secrets, untold stories. I wish that someday I, or someone with the same passion and professional skill can have an honest – no lights, no camera conversation with Draru, Mr. Kiyingi, Nkurunjira or whoever else fits the criteria. I would listen to their account of events and hope to God I have the right questions and countenance that would exude plain honest truth. Answers to questions that are scorching our minds about the events that led to these peoples murders.
What straw finally made them decide this person didn’t deserve life any more?
As they hit, stubbed, shot, shoved, what were they thinking?
What emotions ravaged their hearts?
Was there satisfaction after the gruesome act?
Do they sleep peacefully?
I know it’s a spooky road to walk but I itch to know the mind, the emotion, the spiritual state of these murderers.