The Wheels of Justice, Part II: "The First Step"

Leaving the city center along Kira Road, as business establishments begin to give way to street vendors and huts, you come to a roundabout that sends strips of tarmac shooting in all directions. The hub of a paved wheel, four roads run from the roundabout like spokes to the western rim of the country.

If you aren’t paying attention as you approach, you will miss the inconspicuous building hiding behind a row of trees on the left, its façade giving no indication as to the nature of business within. It is the Kira Road Police Station.

If you do manage to pull off before the roundabout, you’ll find the dirt parking lot outside the station a confused mess of cars and motorcycles parked in every direction, some appearing to have taken permanent residence among the patches of weeds and potholes. The arrangement is consistent with the business inside.

At the front desk of the station, the ordered chaos of officers leading shackled prisoners to unknown chambers mixes with the clang and rattle of detainees in their holding cells. Some victims and family members hoping to file complaints sit on wood benches while others clamor for the ear of an officer. The sound is a jumble of rattling metal, English, Luganda, and various dialects, all creating an indiscernible din.

Our host quickly ushers us past the front desk where more arrestees awaiting processing sit on the cement floor. Some sleep while others look up as we pass through the back door of the station into the dirt courtyard.

Outside, the courtyard is a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the U-shaped station. Two eight-foot tall aluminum cylinders with cone roofs bake in the sun; neither of the three walls of the U provide the cylinders shade. The foul smell of human waste stagnates and arms reach through the barred windows of each cylinder.

They are holding cells, no more than twenty feet in diameter, temporary home to women charged with crimes, but whose immediate fate has yet been decided. The heat of the sweltering midday sun pours off the aluminum roofs.

By law detainees cannot remain in these cells for more than 48 hours, we are told with a wink and smile.

A stairwell along one side of the U leads up to the offices for the OCCID, Officer in Charge of Criminal Investigations Division, and the Divisional Police Commander. From the second floor, you can see over a fence the barracks for officers in the Kira department. The barracks are comprised of row houses and more cylinders like the holding cells for the women.

We are told that to each dwelling two officers and their families are assigned, some cylinders housing as many as fourteen people. At a salary of $75 a month, the free housing is a perk available to officers, one that most take advantage of. Of course, the salary has another indicator. At less than $3 a day, it is not difficult to understand why police officers are frequently linked to corruption in the form of bribery.

A young woman with whom I work at the courthouse recently told me a story of foreigners she knew. The Americans, a couple, had been seen kissing in public by an officer. Told that it was illegal, the officer successfully extorted from them 60,000 Ugandan shillings (about $30 U.S.) in exchange for not being arrested. This thought is firm in my mind as the officer leading us to the OC’s office announces us to him.

The Officer in Charge wears a suit and is intently listening to a briefing as we enter. In the corner, a uniformed officer is addressing the OC, but I can’t make it out through his thick accent.

On the couch opposite the OC’s desk is a child no older than twelve. With short hair and soft features, the dress she wears is the best indicator that it is a young girl. A young man, perhaps eighteen, sits on the floor. His shirt is tattered and his grimy pants are rolled up to his shins, exposing his bare, worn feet.

We stand listening to the officer wrap up his briefing. The OC asks something about HIV. The officer responds, “No.”

The OC indicates that the girl should be taken to her parents, the young man sent home. At this, the officer stands and crisply salutes the OC. He then collects the girl and boy and leads them out of the office.

During our subsequent meeting with the OC, we are told that the officer will complete his investigation prior to charges being brought in the case. We learn that the girl is an alleged rape victim. The young man, the accused. The briefing we heard was the officer’s preliminary findings based on interviews with the boy and the girl. He presented it in front of them. As they sat in the same room together. An arm’s reach apart.

As the wheels of justice turn, this is the first step in a lengthy, sometimes years-long process that will result either in the young man going free or in a conviction that could carry the death sentence.

"Resources are all around us."

Two weekends ago I traveled to Jinja, a city about two hours from Kampala. Jinja touts itself as the Adventure Capital of East Africa. When I visited two weeks prior, I’d gone whitewater rafting down the Nile and bungee jumping. The rafting was amazing, the bungee jumping a mix of terryifying and insane. Before you jump, they weigh you and measure the bungee cord so that you dip into the Nile as the cord reaches max stretch. This is a good way to scare the shit out of yourself for the bargain basement price of $57.50.

I returned to Jinja with Mike, a friend from Pepperdine, to go rafting again and visit the “Source of the Nile.” If you’re like me, when you hear “source of the Nile,” you picture a bubbling spring in a clearing of trees, sunlight streaming through the parting clouds, and maybe the soft sound of angels singing. It’s nothing like that. Instead, the “source” of the Nile is Lake Victoria, and seeing the source is kind of like watching the tide turn. I am also suspicious about this being the Nile’s source, as there are several major tributaries for the Nile, some of them originating further from its termination than Lake Victoria. Long story short, if you ever go to Jinja, skip the gently rippling waters of the source and head for the whitewater.

***

We spent Saturday riding ATVs along the river and through rural villages of mud, brick, and straw huts. Some of the dwellings had small gardens in front. In front of others, goats or cows tethered to a stake in the ground would wander as far as the ropes around one of their legs would permit. Some huts were surrounded by small fields of maize or other local crops. Everywhere we drove, women were hanging laundry out to dry on clotheslines or busying themselves with various chores, men were chopping wood, and children would run barefoot to the edge of the dusty clay road, yelling “Sabo! Sabo! (“Sir! Sir!) as they smiled and waved.

Our passing on the ATVs seemed to be a primary source of entertainment for the children, who wore dirty, tattered clothes, and came with makeshift toys. An old bicycle tire could double as a hula-hoop or a swing. Threshings from the field rolled up and held together by string might make a perfectly serviceable soccer ball. Sometimes the children chewed on an ear of maize or a piece of sugar cane as we passed.

During one stop, I finished the last sips of a plastic bottle of water, and several children immediately asked me for it. I’m not sure if they wanted the bottle so it could be returned for a deposit, if they valued its functionality, or if the children simply hoped to fashion it into some new form of enjoyment.

Regardless of its purpose, their desire to have the bottle reiterates the extreme poverty in which these children grow up—most of their families, frequently more than six to a small hut no bigger than your bedroom, survive on less than a dollar a day. But when you stop to speak or play with the children, they ask your name, they climb on you, and sing the new song they learned in school. You find that their happiness is not clouded by the things they don’t have, because new shoes or a video game system or fancy sunglasses—except for maybe one little boy—aren’t necessities in the true meaning of the word. For the most part, they have everything they really need.

***

After the ATVs, but before the sun hit the horizon, Mike and I decided to “floatswim” down some of the more modest rapids of the Nile below the camp where we were staying. In the picture, I’m giving the international sign for “I didn’t just drown” as Mike is waving to the imaginary throngs of spectators applauding our daring feat. During my floatswim, I sliced my forearm open on a rock. This isn’t a good thing for all the obvious reasons, but also because the Nile isn’t what I’d call “sanitary.”

Back at our lodging, I tried to clean it as best I could, but I didn’t have any hydrogen peroxide or other cleaning agent.

Later that night at the bar, I struck up a conversation with a Ugandan man who worked with a non-profit organization called SoftPower. SoftPower’s goal is to teach young children basic skills for the 21st Century. Because technology is foreign to most rural communities in Uganda, the program provides children basic computer skills, for example, how to use a mouse, the function of the cursor, and how to browse the internet. SoftPower has follow-up sessions to ensure the children are retaining what they are being taught.

The man, named Kibiina (pronounced “Chi-bee-nuh” or “Cheeby” for short) originally was a fisherman on Lake Victoria, but had come to Jinja to work as a whitewater raft guide. When he realized the river liked holding him underwater for long periods of time, he decided teaching was a better profession for him.

Our conversation led to the river, which prompted me to show him the battle wound on my forearm. He asked if it had been cleaned, and when I told him “not really,” he diagnosed the inch-long gash and decided to track down one of the raft guides to see if he could access the first-aid kit. When he found that he could not, a smile spread across his face, “You know, Shan, resources are all around us.”

Cheeby grabbed me gently by the arm the way Ugandan men do sometimes when they want to make sure you are listening. He looked at me seriously from underneath the brim of his straw hat and spoke with a trace of a lisp.

“A few years ago, my uncle saved up money and bought a car, but after he got it home, it wouldn’t work. All my cousins were upset with him and told him he’d been cheated. But my uncle said ‘No!’” Cheeby raised his index finger, mimicking his uncle’s gesture.

“You see, Shan, the car had no fan belt. But my uncle would not accept that his car would not work. He had to do something. So he got a thin nylon rope. You see, he’d seen a fan belt before, so from his memory, he knew what it looked like and how it was supposed to work.”

Cheeby set his beer down, underscoring the significance of what was to come next.

“He took the rope and weaved it into what? A fan belt. And do you know what, Shan? It worked!” Cheeby stepped back and smiled, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “So you see, he knew what he needed, but he could not find a fan belt. There are no fan belts where he lived. So he created a fan belt from a rope.”

I couldn’t help but smile at Cheeby’s passion for ingenuity.

“We can do so much if we use what is around us. We may not have what we would like, but we can fix cars and we can teach children all the same.” Cheeby brought his forefinger to his mouth, as if to hush himself in deep thought. Then his eyes fell to my arm. "And we can clean your arm. We’ll use spirits.”

I know that witch doctors are still commonplace here, but I must have looked skeptical and Cheeby noticed. “Come on, let’s go to the bar,” he said.

Never a bad thing, I followed him, still unsure how these mystical “spirits” he spoke of were going to cure my arm.

“What do you take,” he asked me.

“I’ll take a Bell.”

“No, not a Bell. You need something stronger.”

If getting drunk was going to help us channel spirits, then by all means. “What do you take?” I asked Cheeby.

Now he looked at me puzzled. “The spirit is for you.”

“Spirit?”

A smile came over Cheeby’s face as he comprehended my confusion. “Alcohol. For your arm. We are going to clean your arm with alcohol. A spirit.”

Ohhhh. I looked at the barman. “What’s the strongest proof you have?”

The barman grabbed a dusty bottle off the shelf, a clear liquid behind a foreign label. Cheeby was smiling as he prepared a napkin to use as a swab.

“Shan, the spirit is high in alcohol. It should disinfect the wound and you can clean it again tomorrow.” He put his hand on my shoulder as the barman poured a shot into a glass. “The best part is that what you don’t use to clean the wound, you drink.”

“Cheeby, I like your style.”

Cheeby smiled again. “You know, Shan, we get concerned with what we think we need, and lose sight of what we have. Resources are all around us. We just need to see them.”

Independence Day

In 1987, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) attacked the Sacred Hearts Girls Boarding School in Gulu, a town in northern Uganda. This attack marked the beginning of the LRA’s two-decades-long campaign of terror in that region.

On Saturday, I traveled with other Pepperdine students to Gulu District, about 175 miles north of Kampala, just south of the Uganda-Sudan border. Our destination was an International Displaced Persons camp not far from Sacred Hearts School.

IDP camps like the one we visited are scattered across the north, scars from the violent movement of the LRA, which has been accused of human rights violations including murder, rape, mutilation, enslavement, and the conscription of children soldiers. At the rebellion’s peak, more than a half-million Ugandans had been displaced by the raids of the LRA and were living in these camps.

Only within the last few years has some semblance of peace returned to the region, and even as we traveled there on Saturday, I read a story in the Daily Monitor about rumors of a shadow rebel group building forces in the secluded thickets of northern Uganda.

Led first by Alice Lakwena and more famously by Joseph Kony, the LRA is a guerilla army whose stated goal is to overthrow the Uganda government and usurp the powers of President Yoweri Museveni. Kony, who proclaims to be a vessel of God, is wanted by the International Criminal Court for his part as leader of the LRA, which is still operating in southern Sudan.

The raids by the LRA on northern Ugandan villages followed a basic pattern. Elders were killed or maimed, the latter taking the form of noses, ears, and lips being cut off by machete. Women and young girls who weren't killed were raped and enslaved as concubines; some traded for arms. Young men and boys were taken captive and indoctrinated, often forced to fight and kill members of their own tribe. Reports also indicate that the children, once inculcated, were employed in the killing of former family and tribe members. Throughout much of its reign, the army was composed predominantly of young children, most of an age that should have them climbing trees, some as young as five.

When Kony and his generals sent these children into battle, they would first paint with nut oil a cross on their chests, telling them it would protect them from bullets. It is estimated that thousands of Ugandan children were killed during battle for the LRA, an organization the US government characterizes as a terrorist group.

The people we encountered at the IDP camp know firsthand of the terror. Although I was ignorant of its significance at the time, on Saturday I met a woman without a nose, presumably a victim of one of the raids.

The woman and man pictured above, mother and son, have been in the camp for years, forced from their homes by the LRA. They, like many others, remain in the camp because the infrastructure there is better than the skeleton of a village that was once their home.

Most of the young children in the camp we visited have spent their entire lives there. This means that they have never flipped a light switch or used a toilet. The bathroom is not a "room" and certainly has no bath. It is a hole in the ground. A distant well is the closest thing they know to running water.

The camps are also supported by non-government organizations, but the NGOs have created a dependency that hasn’t allowed for the development of skills, markets of trade, and self-subsistence that is necessary for the villages of northern Uganda to flourish again.

While thousands have returned to their villages to begin the slow rebuilding process, the camps are a preferable alternative for many. Although the camps were originally to be a temporary haven protected by the Ugandan army from the LRA, because they have lived there for years, the inhabitants of the camps have created homes there. And their idea of peace and freedom lacks the permanence that you or I associate with it.

A man quoted in Saturday’s Monitor articulated a fear that keeps many from returning to the freedom of village life they once knew. “I was abducted and survived death among LRA rebels,” he said. “And now this new group will completely kill my hope to return home.” The man, 46, lives in an IDP camp that was once home to 21,000.

Hearing his story and speaking with the people in the camp we visited, you get a very clear sense of what independence actually means, and how fickle a thing like freedom can be.

This Fourth of July, I did not see any fireworks, I did not go to a barbecue, and I did not listen to any patriotic songs. But once again, I came to appreciate in an entirely new way, just how fortunate I am to call America home.

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.

***

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.