Brian Oduti

Lost

Khalid’s phone vibrated under his pillow at three in the morning. It was his friend Sema. There had been two bombings, he said. Not in Mogadishu but Kampala.

 Later that day Khalid watched the scene on NTV. Red and blue lights flickered, sirens blared, while dead bodies and broken chairs lay on the blood-stained ground. Al-Shabaab took responsibility for the suicide bombings in a video rebroadcast during the newscast. Men in black, full-face turbans holding AK-47s stood behind the announcer and shouted ‘Allah Akbar!’ at the end of the video. The army spokesperson who was interviewed said, ‘This is war. We are going to hunt them down.’

They are here, Khalid thought. His family had run away from them in Mogadishu.

 The morning after the bombing, Khalid and Sema went to their football club office in Makindye. Makindye FC, a team in Kampala’s U-19 football league, was preparing for a club tournament in the U.K. Coach Mike had told them that the appointment for the team’s visa interviews at the British High Commission had been postponed due to the terror attack on Kampala.

‘They could strike again, anywhere. But keep practicing, yeah?’ He clapped his hands and went around the room patting backs but placed an arm over Khalid’s shoulder and pulled him aside. ‘The board called… you won’t travel with us. I’m sorry.’

 ‘Why?’
‘You know what happened in the city last night…’

Khalid walked out of the room downcast. He had been the team’s goalkeeper for two years and the league had recently crowned him most valuable player. Sema found him in the parking lot, alone, squatting under a mango tree breaking twigs with his fingers.

They decided to go to the Super Bet outlet five minutes away but outside the grounds the police were everywhere, on patrol in the streets with their sniffer dogs. They wore blue camouflage Counter Terrorism Unit uniforms and red berets, their armoured vehicles parked along streets.

‘Let’s go to the market instead,’ Sema suggested looking at Khalid fearfully.  
‘No.’
‘Just trust me. It’s safer.’
‘I’m scared, man.’ Khalid’s mind was racing with thoughts and questions. What if he was arrested as a suspect? That would be the end of his football career. What would happen to his mother?
‘They won’t arrest you. Just pull out your national ID,’ Sema said placing an arm over his shoulder after easily reading his thoughts.
‘It’s just an ID. I don’t look like a Ugandan. What should we do?’
‘Keep calm. They’ll come for us if you look nervous.’

“Us!” Khalid was glad for the brotherly gesture but knew he was alone in this mess. His friend wore a confident face but there was doubt in his voice. 

The two boys reached Usafi Market and there was a security queue. A police officer was checking IDs. He looked at the cards, then at the faces, one at a time. Cars lined up, police dogs sniffed around, wagging their tails, while a police officer opened car boots. Then the officer waved a hand and shouted ‘Cleared,’ to his colleague, who allowed the cars to drive in.

The boys gave the officer their IDs. He barely looked at them and let them pass the barricade. Inside, they moved past the stalls, pretending to look for something to buy, killing time while they decided what to do next. Suddenly they turned and there were two police officers behind them.

‘You, stop,’ one of the officers shouted.

Khalid took off while Sema just stood with a puzzled look on his face. A vendor shouted ‘Al-Shabaab!’ At this, more vendors started shouting and chasing. They followed Khalid fanning out to close off all the exits.  Khalid ran towards the short fence that surrounded the market and jumped over it.

Sema was arrested, handcuffed and taken aside to be interrogated. ‘You are friends with the Somali. You must have information to give us. Where were you last night?’

‘At home.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Sleeping.’
 ‘What about your friend?’
‘He was at home too, sleeping.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘This kid is lying,’ a police officer shouted from behind the armoured vehicle. ‘Just keep him in custody until he tells the truth.’

 They drove Sema around the city at the back of their blue patrol pick up until the evening, when they stopped in Kisenyi slum, hoping that he would show them Khalid’s home so they could search it.

Khalid had taken off and down the road he was almost knocked over by a Volkswagen Golf. As he dodged it he fell and bruised his left knee. He tried to run but could only limp.  The Golf drew up to him and a voice shouted, ‘Get in! Get in, now!’ Khalid jumped into the car.

‘How is your knee?’

Khalid turned to look at the driver properly for the first time. She was a tall, young woman cramped in the seat of the small car.

‘I am Achol,’ she said without taking her head off the road. She wore sunglasses over her head. She glanced at him and reached out for a piece of tissue from the tissue box on the dashboard.

‘Khalid.’

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