The Kifuuta Oracle Speaks From Kyotera, With a Bleeding Heart, as Police Dance to Lucky Dube's Song, Dracula
My children, come close. Come very close. Today, I am not speaking as a man who is angry. I am speaking as a man who is wounded deep inside, where no bandage can reach. Because when the protector becomes the predator, where does the poor man run? When the lion that was supposed to guard the goats starts eating the goats, who do you call?
Listen to this story and let your heart beat. Let your blood boil. Let your tears come, because this is not a story from a film. This happened here. In Uganda. In Ntinda. Before our very eyes.
One evening, Tony was doing his official duty, driving his boss as usual. A clean man. A humble man. A man doing his work with a clean heart. A man who wakes up to hustle, not to fight. A man who respects uniform, who respects law, who respects people.
He had booked accommodation for his boss's international visitors at a named, flashy hotel on Martyrs Drive 2, Ntinda. The visitor was from Zimbabwe, a senior lawyer of H.E. Comrade Mnangagwa, who had come to visit me. A big man. A man of law. A man who carries books, not guns. A man who had come to Uganda for a business opportunity for the benefit of all Ugandans, without government influence. A clean opportunity. A sweet opportunity for all of us.
The flat-turned-flashy hotel was sprayed as an old wine centre. It looked sweet outside, like honey. But inside, it was bitter like poison. The accommodation and all necessary costs were paid in advance. Everything was clean. Everything was paid. No debt. No quarrel. No reason for war.
Now listen carefully, because this is where the whole fire started. The fight between Tony and the manager of the hotel was because they had refused to issue Tony with a VAT receipt, which Tony had to present to the office for accountability.
Yes! A paper! A small paper! A receipt! Tony was not asking for gold. He was not asking for a woman. He was not asking for a fight. He was asking for what the law says every Ugandan must be given when he pays: a VAT receipt. Because in his office, if you do not bring a receipt, they say you ate the money. If you do not bring accountability, they say you are a thief. So Tony was protecting his name. Tony was protecting his job. Tony was doing his duty.
But the manager refused. Refused to issue a receipt for money already paid! What kind of hotel takes money and refuses to give a receipt? What are you hiding? Is it tax evasion? Is it theft? Is it darkness? That refusal turned a simple question into a war. Tony insisted because he had to account. The manager got angry because he did not want to account. And from that small paper, blood started to flow.
After having my visitors around, they had to rush for departure at Entebbe Airport. The clock was running. The flight was waiting. On reaching the hotel, I found Tony being beaten by the security guards. Beaten! Beaten like a thief. Beaten like an animal. Beaten like a man who had no mother, no father, no family, no God.
Imagine it. A man in his work clothes, being punched, kicked, slapped because he asked for a VAT receipt. While the people who were supposed to protect the hotel were the ones destroying a human being. Imagine the noise. Imagine the screams. Imagine the shame.
After seeing me with my visitor, they let Tony drive away, but he was seriously bleeding, with teeth displaced and in pain. Blood on his mouth. Blood on his shirt. Blood on his hands. Pain in his whole body. Pain in his soul. A man who had come to work was now leaving like a man who had come from war. His teeth were no longer where God put them. His mouth was a river of blood. All for a receipt!
I asked Tony to first report to Ntinda Police Station and open up the case. I had to rush my guest to catch the flight back to Zimbabwe, but he was shaking in disbelief, with a headache in the middle of his heart. That was around 2345 hours on a Sunday. Midnight. The hour when evil walks without shoes. The hour when witches laugh. The hour when a man can be beaten and no one hears.
My guest was shaking like a leaf in the wind. A senior lawyer, a man who argues in courts, was now speechless. He kept asking, "Is this Uganda? Is this how you treat your people?" I had no answer. My mouth was dry. My heart was heavy.
When we came back the next morning, Tony went back to the police station again for a follow-up on his case to find out whether the suspects had been arrested. To his dismay, he was informed that the suspects had been given police bonds. Bond! Bond for beating a man until his teeth moved! Bond for turning a mouth into a wound! And Tony was asked to go for a medical examination at the Police Surgeon in Naguru, who confirmed serious bodily harm. The doctor saw it. The doctor wrote it. Serious bodily harm. Not a scratch. Not a joke. Serious.
Then I asked myself: How did the suspects know they had a case at Ntinda, and who reported to them that Tony had reported them? Who is the leak? Who is the traitor inside the station? Who is calling the criminals and telling them, "Run, hide, come, we have released you"? I left that question hanging in the future air compressor. It is still hanging there, swinging in the wind, waiting for God to answer.
Then the CID of that police station wanted to get the camera footage from the hotel, but she was stopped by the OC Station. Stopped! A CID officer stopped from doing CID work! Imagine a nurse stopped from touching a patient. Imagine a teacher stopped from teaching. That is how crazy it was. The suspects were arrested but given bond by the OC Station again. The file was successfully sanctioned by the State Attorney, and the suspects were locked up at Kira Police Station before being taken to court the next morning. But the OC Ntinda Police released them at midnight at Kira Police Station, and up to now, they have never been brought to court. Midnight again! Always midnight! Why is justice always released at midnight? Why do they fear daylight? Because daylight shows the truth.
What must someone do for Tony to get justice? Must Tony die first? Must Tony bleed again? Must Tony kneel and beg? Must we all go and sleep at the police station?
I lost business with my guest because of the fighting he witnessed, and Tony's blood splashed on his white shirt as he was trying to calm down the owners of the hotel and the security guards. A white shirt turned red. A clean white shirt, like peace, turned red like war. A business opportunity turned into a funeral of trust. A lawyer from Zimbabwe went back home shaking, telling his people, "Do not go to Uganda; they beat people in hotels." Do you know what that means? That is Uganda bleeding in front of the world.
Mr. Kituma, the Police Head PR, is my old friend. At one time, we used to drink from the same cup, but ever since he became the boss, he does not pick calls or respond to texts. My friend is now a big man with a big phone that is always busy. Tony has tried to get justice from the Police Headquarters, which manages issues of errors in the police, but he has not received any help. I have many good friends of mine in the police; they all seem to be busy. Busy, busy, busy. Busy doing what, when a man is bleeding?
Gen. Kasingye, the man who would follow up issues in detail, is now in Kabwohe looking after his grandkids. The good ones have gone home. The serious ones have retired to peace. And we are left with jokers playing chess with our lives.
Police, what is police in the eyes of the giver of life, God, when you hide in the street wisdom of the devil?
And my children, this is not only Uganda. This is a disease of the whole world.
In America, George Floyd cried, "I cannot breathe," under the knee of a policeman who was supposed to protect him. The whole world watched a man die in broad daylight, calling for his mama. In Nigeria, the youth rose up and shouted, "EndSARS!" because the protectors had become hunters, and the streets became a slaughterhouse. In South Africa, at Marikana, men who were asking for better pay were shot like birds, falling in the dust. In Kenya, young people in the streets have cried that police bullets are faster than justice, faster than the courts, faster than God. In France, in London, in Brazil, the same story. Morning, afternoon, evening, the public is losing hope in the police. Morning, they fear. Afternoon, they bribe. Evening, they hide. That is not policing. That is terror in uniform. That is a uniform without a heart.
How many people go through such experiences but cannot write about them? Tony can write. I can write. But how many Tonys are bleeding silently in villages, in towns, in hotels, in bars, with no one to speak for them? How many mothers have buried sons and were told, "Go home, the file is lost"? How many fathers have sold their land to chase a file that disappeared at midnight?
One of the most highly educated police officers in urban crime is the present IGP, Abbas. He is a highly respected man, highly trained in urban crime. We respect his rank. We are asking: Where is the justice for Tony? Where is the camera? Where is the court? Where is the law?
The gods of Kifuuta, Kyotera, Buddu, banange mutuyambe, come down in Kampala and take the message to God and report the organised, discounted chess in our police. Because this chess is not played with pawns. It is played with human blood. With Tony's blood. With Tony's teeth. With Tony's pain. With Tony's tears.
I am not asking for revenge. I am asking for justice. Bring those men to court. Let the camera speak. Let the doctor in Naguru speak. Let Tony speak. Let the law speak. Let the truth walk in daylight, not at midnight.
Because if Tony does not get justice, then no one is safe. If a man can be beaten in a hotel he paid for, and the police release his beaters at midnight, then the police station is no longer a station. It is a market. And justice is no longer justice. It is a joke told in the dark, while a man bleeds in the light.
My young brother Kituma, do you remember how Muzei Rusoke Kituma taught us the state apparatus, the subject he taught me at your home? Do you remember those days when we drank from the same cup and talked about serving the people? Where did that spirit go?
The Oracle asks the Kifuuta gods. The protector must protect, or step aside and let God protect us. Mob justice is accelerated by the police's feet on the pedal. I remember my childhood friend Kituma used to dance to that song by Lucky Dube, Dracula.
