I thought I saw you again today, on the Kampala-Jinja road stage, oblivious to all around you; the impatient beckoning taxi conductor and his angry, frowning driver, the friend I did not know standing next to you waiting for you to get off your cell and talk to you, the Policewoman looking at you and not the traffic she was directing, the Marabou stocks up in the white splattered trees looking down, the driver in the Toyota saloon car with his foot down hard on his brakes looking up at you. Everyone was looking up at you.
And you were on your phone, your shoulders rising and falling in your deep-throated laughter, your mouth wide open in mirth, your stiff Robocop shoulders shaking. In a blue Kaunda suit, your favorite. You were laughing. And I remembered your daily farewell that was never a farewell, “Will our bald heads be shinning in the sun one day?”
I don’t ever remember you walking but today I saw on Kampala-Jinja road speaking into your cell phone about to cross the road to Social Security House. You have been dead three years now but today sitting in an evening traffic jam in a taxi, I saw you. Looking up from the Tuesday New Vision newspaper I could find nothing in to read, I saw you again.