Monday Massacres: I wear my sunglasses at night

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We mean bidness. No jokes. We shall reel you in. Take it away now Sleek.
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I pull up to the traffic lights. The heat is sweltering, I can almost hear the rays screaming “Die nigger, die!”.  THE URGE hits me. I have to go. Now. I have to go now. I look up at the lights. Taking their time. It’s Uganda after all, everything takes its time. Not me…I live my life in the fast lane; quick look left, all clear, quick look right, strange-looking car leisurely making its way to the junction. I step on it…the tyres make that screeching sound as they hug the ground…they make another screeching sound as friction bites their  ass. Poor tyres.

It takes a while for things to register for the police man. One second he’s thinking about donuts and g-nuts (ya, his mind rhymes like that..donuts, gnuts…), next he’s seeing ‘zat car’ zooming away.

“Stop…(Jog.jog)..stop!…I sed stooopp!!(jog.pant.jog)” (Reaching for walkie-talkie)

“Elo dispatch. Elo! We have a runner. We finally have a runner. Errant driver making his way east. Fast.”

(Brain processing what else to say. Drawing blanks. Jumps onto police motor bike. Hesitates. Is the clutch this one, to the left or is it the other one? Scratch that…we have a runner to grab. Kick-starts the thing)

(Revs the bike. Revs the bike. Stops and pulls out his phone. ‘Baby, afande here. I’ll be late for lunch, got a runner to run-down. Hehe, pun intended’. Text sent.)

(Pulls on gloves. Tightens his shoe laces. Smears some black goo on his left cheek. Nigger, you going down. Revs the bike and zooms off to catch ‘ze errant driver’)

I see him first as a distant speck of individual tottering on motor bike. Then he draws nearer and I see it’s the popo I left at the traffic lights.

He is onto me.  Popo’s chasing me…screaming “Elo nigger…Elo u! Elo, stop innadiname of da low”. He has a steady rhythm; scream, totter on bike, struggle to steady it, almost fall, scream again. “Elo…you know dat if I get you…(cough. Prolly swallowed a couple of insects). Elo I yamu realle taking you down!”

I see him struggle to steady himself as he makes all attempts at speaking into his walkie-talkie while riding.

“Ya. Yes. The runner’s now next to Shoprite. Fellow long arms of the law, I beseech you to get his ass. Get his ass. He is now…he is…(bike veers dangerously off-course)…afande, lemme call you back.”

He concentrates and again starts to gain on me. Then life starts to get interesting. First I notice the chopper overhead. And then out of nowhere, a dozen or so popo cars stream in from all directions. Good thing I have this ‘driving like a maniac’ thing down to an art. Let’s get this party popping..or poppoing. I put some weight on the gas. The popos seem to be singing in a chorus, “Elo wiya gonna get you”. I reach into my dashboard. Three sachets of local spirit. I throw them out the window, towards the police cars gaining on me the most. They are delighted at their new acquisition. They pull over and indulge.

(sigh)…Three down, about nine to go.

I turn on the radio. “This is coming to you live from up-town Kampala where the police are in a nail-biting car chase with what seems to be a gainfully-employed street Adonis. We are following…”

I change channel.

“Elo, we are making an appeal…please slow down. You are tiring our officers. We need them to be productive in the evening.(wink wink). Please stop.”