A story that has ridden with me for 44 years
It was 1982.
The country was breathing again, and me? I had just bought a maroon double-cabin Toyota.
Brand-new smell. Chrome shining. Radio that could shake the whole of Kampala.
1600 hours.
I left home to pick my friend from Nakawa Business School.
Her name was Mariah.
Slender waist. Full butt. Eyes that laughed before her mouth did.
We met in Soroti, near SOCADIDO—two young Catholics chasing the Mass every evening after work.
That’s how we became close. Not by accident. By prayer and by time.
That night, Kampala was ALIVE.
We went to the National Theater for Peterson Tusubila Mutebi and the Tems.
But after the show, the night was still young.
So we crossed to Sardinia Bar to "wash our throats."
Me: Single malt whisky. Smooth. Serious.
Her: Lager. Then Tequila. Then Sex on the Beach cocktail.
And then the music hit.
Oh bro... we danced.
Heavy Rhumba that made your waist forget it had bones.
Michael Bolton crying into the mic like he knew our secrets.
Boney M and ABBA making the whole bar clap in unison.
And then it came on—Jimmy Katumba & The Ebonies:
"Twalina Omukwano Neguffa." 🎶
The floor shook. Mariah was spinning. Laughing. Sweating.
The DJ was playing our life back to us.
By the time we walked out, her head was spinning.
So she did what any dizzy girl would do—she slipped into the back seat of my maroon cabin and said, "Just let me rest for a bit."
I nodded. I didn’t think twice.
I didn’t check behind me.
0300 hours.
Whisky single malt was sitting heavy in my chest.
I drove through silent Kampala to Mawanda Road, near Doctor’s Village.
Parked. Locked. Showered, because a man doesn’t sleep dirty, and crashed.
Snored like the night owed me peace.
0800 hours.
Madame woke up to make me kigere molokoni.
She went to the garage for charcoal and butungulu.
And then the world cracked open.
From the back seat:
"Immanuel! Where are we??"
Garage doors. Accusations. Screams.
Madame. Mariah. Two women, one morning, zero explanations.
And me? Standing there in a towel, heart in my throat.
I opened the garage and let Mariah walk out.
The door closed.
And the house... grew 10 times bigger on me.
Madame never shouted.
She never had to.
A woman’s silence is an axe. That's when my grandpa gave me the name Mbazzi (an axe).
It cuts slow. Deep. Forever.
44 years later, she has never spoken of that morning again.
THEN THE ORACLES IN KIFUUTA SPOKE
They sat me down and said:
"Todangamu mukyala bw'oba gwe asobeza."
"Never argue with the madame when you are the one in the wrong. Keep quiet."
And then they gave me the prescription:
"Buy her a ticket to Lisbon. And a Fossil wristwatch. Gold-plated."
Because sometimes peace is expensive.
Sometimes forgiveness wears gold and flies first class.
THE LESSONS WRITTEN IN SINGLE MALT WHISKY AND REGRET:
- Never leave your vehicle open.
- Always check behind before you drive.
- Never argue when you are wrong. Keep quiet.
- And I have NEVER touched alcohol again (Singleton single malt whisky). I only drink Vintage wine and Cognac Remy Martin XO, and sometimes a Siberian Russian Vodka.
The maroon double cabin is gone. Sold. Rust. Memory.
But the Rhumba still plays in my head.
Michael Bolton still cries.
Jimmy Katumba still asks, "Twalina Omukwano Neguffa?"
And that garage door still echoes.
Kampala. 1982. Music. Mistakes. Mass. And a maroon cabin that taught me more than any book.
Truth: One careless night. One song too many. One silence that lasted 44 years.
Let me go to sleep in Kifuuta, Kyotera, Buddu, as the organised traffic confusion keeps Kampala in my pack of confusion.
