By Chris Mwesigye Bishaka
A loud noise of staccato gunfire pierces the early morning queitude
The sound of glass shattering on the army green SUV crawling along the lethargic line of ramshackle cars snaking their way to the CBD alerts the general inside of something amiss
Suddenly, the general feels a sharp pain in his upper arm and looks down only to see a pool of blood drenching his paisley “leeya” shirt
His instictive reaction is to check on his daughter who had recently returned home from the United States and with whom they are now headed for the interrment of her maternal grandmother in the village
He sees her tumbled clumsly in an inert heap next to him on the back seat and realizes she must be dead
Eyes forward and the driver’s head is slumped over the steering wheel without movement
His disbelief is interrupted by another ear shattering volley of bullets released by his bodyguard to scare away the assassins
The general gets out of the Mpenkoni riddled by 56 bullets, worried that his body is losing all the blood, wondering what wrong he had committed to deserve this brazen and heinous attack
As fellow monied commuters drive by unconcerned about his predicament, a group of ordinary boda boda taxi riders make the critical decision to drive him and his bodyguard to a nearby hospital strangely named Marukomu
The gun, which is supposed to protect us, has become the tool of murder in a society deeply polarised by a leadership insensitive to calls for change after 35 years of more bananas
Rest thee well the general’s daughter and driver