The Wheels of Justice

I can’t believe I’ve been here five weeks. During my time with Justice Lugayizi and the week I spent at the prosecutor's office, I’ve been exposed to many facets of the criminal justice system of Uganda. I’ve visited a police station here in Kampala, spent a week with federal prosecutors, worked intimately with Justice Lugayizi in the High Court, and we plan to visit Luzira Prison in the next two weeks. Each of these experiences has helped frame a sometimes blurry picture of the Ugandan system. At times, it seems like the separate parts of the system—the police, the prosecutors, the courts—are separate wheels, each spinning at its own rate, not necessarily in concert. Over the next few weeks, I’ll try to present snapshots of what I’ve seen and learned.

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Part I

Four weeks ago, Justice Lugayizi heard the appeal of a man convicted of indecent assault of a nine-year old girl. More accurately, Justice L heard the appeal of the convicted man’s lawyer. The man, a teacher at the school the girl attended, was “sick”; at least that’s what his lawyer told the judge. The hearing proceeded. (That hearing is detailed in a post titled “We came to do business this morning” from May 30.)

Last Wednesday when the judgment regarding the man’s appeal was to be read, the convicted man was again absent, this time his lawyer informing Justice Lugayizi that his client was “bed-ridden” and hadn’t been up for two months. Again, Justice Lugayizi proceeded all the same.

If it seems strange to you that a man would not appear in court on the day he might be exonerated for the crime of indecently assaulting a young girl and subsequently set free, it should. That’s because when you are convicted of a crime like statutory rape in America, you go to prison. You have the option to appeal that conviction, and if the appeal is heard, you remain in prison unless your conviction is overturned. The same is not true here.

In Uganda, after an appeal hearing is granted, a convict can seek bail. If the judge grants bail, a man convicted of molesting a child can be released even though he has not served the duration of his sentence and his conviction has not been overturned. (Justice Lugayizi did not grant this man bail. In fact, Justice L no longer presides over bail hearings for reasons that should be somewhat obvious if you remember his experience with the Black Mambas, detailed in an earlier posting.)

There could be many reasons that the teacher was not in court last Wednesday. While he very well may have been bed-ridden, it seems more likely that he didn’t show up because a judgment against him would land him in prison immediately. Instead, as Justice Lugayizi was pronouncing the teacher’s fate, he was at home, allegedly sick in bed.

The conviction was upheld, and the man who was convicted by a magistrate of undressing his nine-year old student and touching her private parts was ordered back to prison. As it stands, he is hundreds of kilometers away from Luzira Prison, in the western Uganda district of Beshirye.

After his chambers cleared, I asked Justice Lugayizi how long it would take for the man to be sent back to prison. He told me he didn’t know.

Shortly thereafter, the state attorney returned to Justice Lugayizi’s chambers to pick up a signed copy of the judgment and take it to the Registrar. The Registrar of the High Court then will note the judgment in the official record and send a copy of the judgment to police headquarters in the district of Beshirye. From there, the police will arrest the man. At least, that’s how the wheels are supposed to turn.

It is possible, however, that the man will remain free. Sometimes, the police will show up to arrest a person who knows they are coming, and will learn that the person no longer lives at the residence of record. Maybe his family or villagers are hiding him. Sometimes, the arresting officers will be told that the man is dead. Because records of such things aren’t strictly monitored, the trail may end there.

It may be that a man who was convicted of indecent assault of a nine-year old girl and sentenced to three years in prison will live free the rest of his life, never serving out his sentence.

How was your day?

I spent last week working at the Directorate of Public Prosecution’s office as a break from the High Court. It was an eye-opening experience, much of which I’ll document later.

During my time there, I, along with the other Pepperdine student I’m clerking with, traveled to a DPP office in Masaka, about three hours from Kampala with our host, Jane. On the way to Masaka, we stopped at the equator. As you can see from the picture, when I roll to the equator, I dress for the occasion. You never know who you might run into in the southern hemisphere. The woman I’m with is Jane Francis, a state attorney for the DPP’s office.

Jane was our chaperone for the week. She’s an amazing lady whose daily life reveals both the burden placed on the women of Uganda and a little something about the politics of this country.

She is one of eleven children to her biological mother. Her father had seven wives and 45 children. When Jane was married to a man from her district in northern Uganda, as is customary of her tribe, cattle was paid by her husband as a dowry. 72 cows. When I asked how they arrived at the number 72, she told me that there is a certain allocation for each relative. Six for her mother, four for her father. One for each whole brother, three for each of her biological grandmothers, two for each biological grandfather, and at least one for each of her step-mothers and step-grandparents. So that’s how you get to 72.

Jane married well. Her husband is an ambitious man who sought to represent his region as a Member of Parliament. Against Jane’s wishes, he ran and was elected as an MP in 2006. If you can’t understand why a woman wouldn’t want her husband to be elected to a prominent position in government, affording her and her family opportunities only dreamed of by most Ugandans, just keep reading.

Prior to his election, Jane and her husband purchased land about a two-hour commute from Kampala, and moved there with their two children. When I asked her about her home, she described a sprawling estate with guest quarters, a veranda, and plenty of space for her children to play. These are some of the perks that come with being an MP, presumably.

The drawbacks will soon become apparent.

***

Last week as we were driving to Masaka, Jane told us the story of a man from her husband’s village that had been staying with her and her husband. That morning, the man had learned that his eight-month old child had died from malaria the night previous. Malaria is rampant in this country killing tens of thousands of children a year, and afflicting millions more. Experts say many of these deaths could be prevented with mosquito nets. They cost ten dollars. That is more than a week's salary for many Ugandans.

Earlier in the week, a woman in the DPP’s office met with us on Monday morning, but told us she wouldn’t see us again until Wednesday. She had to go to the doctor; she was getting sick. Only later did we learn she had malaria. When we had lunch with her on Thursday, we wondered how she knew she had malaria before going to the doctor.

“You learn what it feels like when it’s coming on,” she told us.

How many times have you had it?

“I don't know. I get it every few months.”

The infant who died, obviousy, did not have the experience of knowing what malaria felt like, nor the ability to inform her parents. By the time they figured it out, it was too late. So the morning that the man learned his daughter had died, Jane drove him to the bus station and paid for his day-long journey back home.

She seemed a bit angry with the man, and it wasn’t until she explained that we understood why.

The man had learned a week earlier that his child had malaria. He did not return home. He had been staying with Jane and her husband since February, since his daughter was three-months old, and at no time before had he tried to get back home.

Why had he been at Jane’s for five months?

When constituents vote for an MP, they feel like they have done something for that person and that the man or woman they have elected is indebted to them. For that reason, many of an MP’s electors will expect something in return. This often manifests itself in the form of an unannounced, prolonged visit.

So how many people are staying at your home, Jane?

“I don’t know, Shan.”

You don’t know how many people are staying at your house?

“Probably twenty. Or more.”

These people that come “visit” often stay for months at a time. They expect to be fed. They expect a place to sleep. When Hotel Jane reaches maximum occupancy, they sleep outside. And when they leave, they often take "mementos" with them. Jane says she buys new sheets every three months.

The “guests” do not pay for their food. They do not work. When they are finished with their meal, they will wait for someone to clear the plate from in front of them. If asked to do anything, like say, fetch water from the well, they complain. Not just to Jane, but to their family and friends when they finally decide to head back home. For that reason Jane employs two girls to help her, because she cannot possibly do it alone.

On a normal day, Jane wakes before 6 a.m. to get her kids up and get them ready for school. She drives them the two hours into Kampala and drops them off before getting to work between 8:30 and 9. Remember, this woman is a federal prosecutor. From her arrival at work until she leaves around 4:30 p.m., she is either in her office reviewing files and preparing for court, or actually in court arguing cases. That is, of course, when she’s not chaperoning two American law students across western Uganda. She’s also doing whatever else her boss asks of her.

The day we went to Masaka, she was asked to bring him a female fish. (How do you know if a fish is female? Look up its skirt. Or ask the guys in the picture.) Only, because she was busy keeping us occupied and buying two 50-lb. bags of charcoal—remember, she’s cooking for more than 20 people every night—she forgot to get the fish. The girl fish. So at 5 p.m. when we were returning to Kampala and she remembered the fish, we had to drive to Lake Victoria and visit Gabba Market. By the time she dropped us off, it was 6 p.m. on Friday night. She still had to drop off the fish for her boss, who had tired of waiting and gone home. Then pick up her kids. Then drive the two hours home. Then prepare a meal for 20+ people. Then put her kids to bed. Only then, maybe, could she rest, put her feet up, and have a well-deserved drink.

Just not in her sitting room. There was a soccer match that night, and the men who consume 30,000 Ugandan shillings worth of beer every day (about 30 beers) would be watching.

The guy in the chair

In just about every way imaginable, my hair is as far as it can get from that of a Ugandan. Blonde v. Black. Fine v. Coarse. Straight v. Curly. You get the point.

So last week when I came to grips with the fact that my lengthening hair was threatening the illusion of "professionalism" I work so hard to cultivate (see photo of a suited Shane; very professional), I decided it was time for my first haircut in Africa. Fortunately, Freddie’s Parlour, the salon on the ground floor of my apartment complex, looked inviting. A group of barbers were always sitting on a bench outside seeming to be likeable fellows, and I had even struck up a friendship with one of the women who worked there after she had directed me to a nearby ATM my first day in Kampala. I was worried that cutting muzungu hair might be a challenge for a Ugandan barber, but my familiarity with the place and its apparent general good nature put those fears to rest. This would be easy.

You know that scene in every Western movie where some out-of-towner rolls into the saloon, the guy on the piano stops playing, the bartender stops wiping down the bar, and everyone looks up from their drink or card game? I was the out-of-towner. I actually think the radio stopped working for a few seconds when I entered Freddie's Parlour.

I told the woman behind the counter I needed a haircut and she quickly led me to a chair; twenty sets of eyes followed me. Women getting their nails done, men getting shaves, even the other barbers—all of them watched me sit. When the barber who had drawn the Unlucky Number headed toward me, his barber friends started laughing at him and making, what I can only imagine were hysterical jokes in Lugandan, their native tongue. This did not stop.

After he finished trimming the sides with electric clippers, I asked if he had scissors for the top and indicated the length I wanted cut with my thumb and forefinger. About a quarter of an inch. I’m not sure where he got them, but he left the room for a full minute before returning with scissors. He started cutting. I closed my eyes.

You know that scene in every High School movie where the nerd walks down the hall and all the jocks make fun of him and throw stuff at him from their lockers, but the nerd doesn’t turn around? That was me. I just kept walking down the proverbial hallway, eyes closed, trying to ignore the snickering.

When Unlucky Number tapped me on the shoulder, I opened my eyes to see how it had gone. You see the picture of me holding the pineapple? Look at the pineapple. I don’t know what you call the stuff coming out of the top of it, but that’s a close approximation to what my hair looked like.

As politely as I could, I told Unlucky that this would not do. (Perhaps I should mention here that although English is widely spoken in Uganda, much is lost in translation between American-English and Ugandan-English.)

“Maybe cut more here. Just make same length all over. Understand?” He nodded.

Close eyes. Ignore the snickers. Walk down the hallway.

A few more minutes brought a second tap on the shoulder. Eyes open.

Take a look at the pineapple again. Now imagine if you cut it in half vertically. The stuff that would be left sprouting from the top, that was my hair.

“Maybe just a bit more here,” I said. I pointed at the pineapple sprouts.

No more reason to close the eyes. The snickering was now unabashed laughter.

Snip, snip. Cut, cut. Unlucky, who was now getting understandably frustrated with me, just raised his eyebrows at me asking, Is this good enough?

Sorry, but no. I have to be in court every day until this grows out. You’re going to need to fix my head.

You know that scene in every War movie where young men are going off to boot camp, and they get in the barber assembly line for the ritualistic buzz cut. Take a look at the picture of me with the pineapple again, but look at my head this time. Yeah, I was the guy in the chair.

Child Sacrifice

I mentioned that I saw a parade the other day, and that people in the procession were carrying banners speaking out against "child sacrifices."

At the time, I didn't know what this meant. In the two days since, I've learned what the paraders were protesting.

It is easy to make jokes about witch doctors and their voodoo practice when separated from that reality by thousands of miles. Here in Uganda, witch doctors are a very real part of everyday life, and the practice of some is horifically serious.

In villages outside Kampala, and even for some who make the capital their home, witch doctors and their long tradition in Uganda provide, what conscripts believe to be, an opportunity at success and wealth achieved by mystical means.

A man hoping to find wealth may visit a witch doctor looking for a path to that fortune. Some of these "doctors" will prescribe a human sacrifice. Typically, the doctor will seek a pure human, untainted by physical scars. A young girl with pierced ears or a boy who has been circumcised would not qualify. For that reason, very young children who haven't lived long enough to have scraped a knee or burned a finger are the most likely candidates to meet the purity requirement of the doctor.

The prosecutor told us a story of a man bringing an eight-month old infant to a witch doctor. In another case, a father offered his own nine-year old daughter as a sacrifice.

In order to ensure the success of a building's construction, the owner of the land may seek out a witch doctor. Evidently, the witch doctor will indicate that a human head being placed in the foundation of the building will provide good luck for the owner. Again, children are the best candidates for this, because while they may be scarred, it is simply easier to kill a child than a grown adult, or so the reasoning goes.

Surely, you are thinking, these incidents are the exception, not the rule. But in speaking with a prosecutor in the Directorate of Public Prosecutions office, the crime is fairly common, and the above descriptions depict actual cases that have come before Ugandan courts in the last few months. The prosecutor estimated three or four percent of all murders, the most common crime in his district of five million Ugandans, stem directly from a witch doctor's "prescription," and these numbers are growing.

To Think That I Saw it on Kampala Road

To avoid entering Justice Lugayizi’s chambers a sweating mess, I usually take a bodaboda to work rather than endure the equatorial sun in a dark suit for ten minutes. If you watched the video below (upon further review, it was definitely more than one part idiot), you know what the commute to court is like. The walk back from the High Court provides a totally different experience.

For one thing, I walk back along Kampala Road, which is the Broadway of this city, if there is such a thing. It is the most heavily trafficked road in Kampala and provides no shortage of distractions on the ten-minute walk home.

Vendors have taken care to lay out their fare on a mat not usually larger than five feet by five. Among the things you can buy are belts, ties, dress shoes, and socks. I actually bought some gray socks (two pair for 2000 schillings, slightly less than a dollar).

Some are selling Bibles or magazines and newspapers. There are G-nuts (b/c they come from the ground), crickets (salty and a little chewy), candy, or bananas if you’re hungry. Maps of Africa and Uganda, Swahili-English dictionaries, and posters that look like they belong on the wall of a first grade classroom can be had while waiting at a stoplight. Generally, it seems that whatever fell off the last truck through is now for sale.

Men and women with disabilities and amputated limbs beg for money. You will also pass children, many no more than two or three years old, sitting alone with their hands cupped, ready to receive money. Many of these children are left for the day by an older child or young mother in the hopes that a solitary child will engender more sympathy and collect more money over the course of the day. Sometimes you will see a mother breastfeeding as she sits in the middle of the sidewalk.

Jane, a woman I’ve worked with during the last few days in the Directorate for Public Prosecutions (DPP) office, told me that the last time she visited her village a day’s drive “up country,” an old friend of hers asked her if she could find his children in Kampala. Evidently, his wife had taken them there. When Jane returned to Kampala, she sought out the woman who did not know where her children were. Jane suspects they are alone on the streets, begging for money.

Yesterday, as I was walking back to the apartment, I saw a man carrying turkeys. Plural. Big bastards, too, probably 15-20 pounds each. The man had one stuffed in a bag hanging from his shoulder and another stretched over his shoulders, legs gripped in one hand, neck in the other, like you might hold a towel behind your head. Oh yeah, the turkeys were alive.

Today, I saw a marching band walking down the street. Not the sidewalk, mind you. The street. About twenty children in green and gold band uniforms playing their worn instruments and leading a parade of several hundred. The people behind held banners speaking out against child sacrifices, touting a new cell phone company, and advertisements for what I think was a dance club. This was at about 11 a.m. Traffic was still moving, just slowly navigating past the band in the open lane, as drummers drummed, trumpeters trumpeted, and the conductor spun and bounced his baton in rhythm. While the band passed, the otherwise bustling sidewalks stopped to watch the show. Vendors stopped vending, policemen stopped policing, the homeless stopped begging, businessmen, ears to phones, halted conversations, and one very amused muzungu looked on and smiled.

Shots from the balcony

A “Kampala vulture,” who hasn't left the nest in more than two weeks, tidies up.

A waxing moon rises in the east as the setting sun casts Kampala in a fiery glow.

One of thousands of homeless children in Kampala looks up from his seat on a dirty sidewalk.

Re: Strange and vivid dreams

If you read “Hooks and Dreams” below, you know that one of the side effects of the anti-malaria medication I’m taking is the possibility of vivid dreams. (As an aside, if you didn’t read that post and want to know how to scare the shit out of me, just scroll down.) As a general comment, the weirdest part of these dreams is that they include many people from my childhood and high school years, some of whom I haven’t seen in years. Without further ado . . .

If you are going to be surfing in Rwanda, just know that you’ll have to travel north from Santa Monica along PCH. Hidden from the road by a large grove of trees, there is a nicely furnished resort that has great views. But lock your doors at night.

When you travel across Lake Washington to Leclercq’s house to watch the Huskies play in the Rose Bowl during Seafair, just know that the television isn’t very big, and you’re liable to get pulled out of his house by Islamic Militants who will sit you in folding chairs alongside the dusty road as they check your documents.

Evidently, Seven Star, the restaurant Mormino and I visited several times a week when we were skipping journalism our senior year, doesn't make you pay for food you order in space. But I have no idea how to get there.

The Commute

Here is a short "documentary." You should be able to watch it from this page. If not, hopefully it works by CLICKING HERE.

I filmed it last week; it should give some insight into my daily life in Kampala. It is my directorial debut. When asked to describe it, here's what I said:

"This is a film that has many working parts. It's one part inspiration, two parts labor of love. It's three parts Blair Witch shaky camera, two parts ego, three parts Beastie, one part idiot, at least five parts danger, and totally kickass! If you're keeping score at home, that's at least seventeen parts--one for every Oscar it's going to win.

"I see you, Spielberg! But you can't see me."



(*Editor's note: The case I discuss in the video is detailed in the post below. Also, you can attribute the idiotic quote above to the fact that this video took about an hour to upload and I got bored. Thanks internet. Thanks alot.)

The "Black Mambas"

Last week Justice Lugayizi asked me to help edit a judgment of an appeal he was to read in court last Friday. (This case is discussed briefly in the post above. I recommend that you watch the video first.)

For procedural reasons, the judgment was not read until Monday. The appellant in the case, a woman who had worked as an employee of the state house, had been convicted in a lower court of embezzling millions of Ugandan shillings (thousands of dollars).

Government embezzling has become so prevalent in this country that an Anti-Corruption Court was recently instituted to handle these crimes exclusively. Given the woman’s political ties, the case was at least a blip on the political radar. Given his history of judgments in politically sensitive cases, I imagine it was a stressful decision for Justice Lugayizi.

***

In 2005 as democratic elections were approaching in Uganda, the incumbent, President Yoweri Museveni rescinded presidential term limits, allowing him to run for a third term in office. Because there were no other candidates with significant support, the move seemed effectively to extend his presidency.

That November, Kizza Besigye, a man who had opposed Museveni in the 2001 elections and had fled to South Africa in exile after treason allegations, returned to oppose Museveni again in 2006. He posed the only potential threat to Museveni’s re-election.

Upon his return to Uganda, Besigye was arrested and charges of treason and rape, both crimes punishable by death, were brought against him. For crimes that carry a possible death sentence, bail is not typically granted until after the accused has been detained for six months. That six-month term would have kept Besigye in prison until after the presidential elections.

On November 16, 2005, the High Court heard the bail application of Besigye. Justice E.S. Lugayizi presided.

As Justice Lugayizi was ruling that the Constitution of Uganda guarantees the right to bail, a group of heavily-armed men wearing black t-shirts surrounded and stormed the High Court, re-arresting Besigye. President Museveni publicly censured Justice Lugayizi the next day, saying that his decision to grant bail was improper. On that same day, the Daily Monitor’s front page showed the armed men in black shirts as they arrested Besigye, labeling them the “black mambas.”

The raid on the High Court was criticized both locally and internationally. The Principal Judge of the High Court described the incident as a “naked rape defilement and desecration of our temple of justice.” The Constitutional Court later held that the raid was illegal and unconstitutional. It subsequently affirmed that Justice Lugayizi’s original ruling had been proper.

The rape charges against Besigye were dropped and an army tribunal on the treason charge, also ruled unconstitutional by the High Court, was ultimately suspended by Museveni. Shortly thereafter, Museveni won the election, securing more than 80% of the vote. President Museveni has been president now for 23 years.

***

At the reading of the judgment in the embezzlement case on Monday, the appellant seemed disinterested in the proceedings and did not react when Justice Lugayizi addressed the decisive issue in the case. I thought perhaps she did not understand the judgment as it was being read, but then I remembered that she previously served as a legal adviser to President Yoweri Museveni, so that wasn’t it. Perhaps she felt the verdict was a foregone conclusion and the lower court’s judgment against her would be upheld. Maybe she was supremely confident that she would be exonerated.

Ultimately, Justice Lugayizi reversed the decision of the lower court, and the woman was acquitted of the 13 charges brought against her. Only after the entire judgment had been read did she rejoice.

D-Day

Today is the 65th anniversary of the D-Day Invasion.

When I was twelve and again when I was sixteen, I visited the American Cemetery in Normandy. The cemetery sits on a bluff that looks out over the beaches that were the stage for the Allies' invasion of German-occupied France.

I don't remember my first visit very clearly. It was, on the occasion of my second visit with my grandfather, the most humbling experience of my life. It still is.

For anyone who has been to the cemetery, you know that it is a hallowed place, whose magnificence and beauty are overwhelming. Row upon row of crosses and Stars of David stretch as far as the eye can see. In perfect symmetry they serve as headstones and reminders of the sacrifice made by thousands of Americans and other Allied forces for something far greater than themselves.

Remembering what happened June 6, 1944 gives us an opportunity to remember these young men who, to paraphrase Lincoln, laid the ultimate sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. So today, I will take a moment to remember not only the veterans of WWII, but all men and women who serve or have served in the United States Armed Forces.

For all of its problems, it is easy to forget just how special America is. Coming to a place like Uganda serves as a reminder of that. When I meet Ugandans in cafes, restaurants, at the High Court, or on the streets, they often ask about America with a kind of awe that such a place exists. Many of those people I speak with express their desire to visit, if only they could afford it. Some of them tell me they are saving, but that it will take years. That alone is something special; that people will spend, literally, years worth of savings just to travel to a place not because of its physical beauty, but the beauty of its principles. From our government’s ability to have peaceful transitions of power to the fact that most anyone can get a student loan to pay for college, there is something special about America that makes it unique among nations.

Much of that beautiful, principled uniqueness is built upon a foundation of the men and women who have fought and sacrificed for this country. Let us remember them, especially today.

Scenes from Kampala

When you travel to a foreign country, you expect that there will be cultural differences and you adjust accordingly. You bargain for everything. You take your life into your hands every time you cross the street. You ride to work on the back of a motorcycle. The pollution eats at the back of your throat. Bananas and boiled eggs are sold on the streets. A jogging club provides an early wakeup call on Monday mornings, chant-singing as they pass below the window. Orange Fanta is everywhere. (*Note: If the internet in Uganda were slightly quicker than, say, a glacier, there would be a picture of me drinking Orange Fanta above. Instead, you'll just have to imagine the look of satisfaction on my face.)

You accept these things because they are what make places and people different; and you can’t get enough Fanta. They allow you to appreciate your own culture and see the richness of others. But there are some differences that don’t really enrich the experience.

When I meet Ugandans and introduce myself, they have difficulty pronouncing my name. The long A in Shane is not a natural sound to Lugandan (the first language of most Ugandans), so they end up pronouncing my name “Shan” like the English word “than.” I repeat my name and emphasize the long A.

“Shaaane.”

“Shan?” Then they will look at me and laugh. “You have garl’s name. Why Shan?”

No explanation satisfies them, so I’ve stopped trying. The truth is, in Uganda, I have a girl’s name.

***

Daily maid service is included as part of our monthly rent charge. The woman who cleans our room, Rose, is very pleasant, and while communication is often difficult because of her thick accent, our brief exchanges are, if nothing else, an opportunity to share a smile or laugh.

Yesterday, as I was preparing to head to work, Rose was in the room exchanging towels and mopping the floor as I was applying sunscreen to my ears (SPF 30, Mom). She turned to see me rubbing my ears, but she hadn’t seen me pour the sunscreen from the bottle into my hand. She asked what I was doing.

“Oh, it’s sunscreen. So I don’t get burned.”

She looked confused.

“My ears burn easily,” I tried to explain. “From the sun.” I tried to pantomime a sunburn, which must have looked totally ridiculous to Rose.

“You work outside?” She knows that I work at the High Court, and she couldn’t understand why this muzungu would need sunscreen on his ears if he worked inside.

“No, I just burn very easily. My ears burn on the way to work.”

“Oh,” she said slowly. A smile she tried to conceal crept across her face and she laughed a little as she returned to her mop.

***

I mentioned in an earlier blog post that security guards carry single shot rifles with them. Two days ago I was up before the sun and took a seat on the balcony to watch the city wake up. At 6:15 a.m., a large truck came to a stop just below the balcony and approximately 50 men poured out of the back onto the street and dispersed in every direction.

It was the truck owned by a security company that provides guards for companies in central Kampala. Many of these men are employed by banks, stores, or, as is the case where I live, apartment complexes.

As I was heading to work later that morning, one of the security guards outside my building wasn’t sitting at his usual post behind a desk next to the building’s main entrance, but had gotten up to do something or other at a shop across the alley.

He was no more than twenty feet from his post when an old man grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and began chastising him.

“You don’t leave your weapon. Or stick. Or whateveryoucallit!” Total disgust as he pointed to the weapon leaning on the unoccupied chair behind the desk. The security guard’s young face revealed his embarrassment as the elderly man, who I imagine had been a soldier decades ago, smirked his disgust and walked away.

I guess it’s nice to have a security guard at the entrance to the apartment, and old men to remind them to do their job properly, but maybe hang on to the gun next time.