In Those Jeans

You will see him any given day, sauntering in whatever direction he has chosen for the day but always within Lukuli. Like the trees, dust and intermittent chaos, he is a part of the landscape. His outward appearance is an assault on one’s senses: skin so similar to sandpaper you know for sure that it must itch; thick, heavy dreadlocks grown, and possibly fertilized by the immense amount of dirt you can see from whatever angle you choose to regard him; overgrown fingernails that send your mind in the direction of foraging. He must surely do that a lot because for what other good reason would a fully grown man’s hands so closely resemble claws? And the best part? The curiosity he inspires with the same animated hands. His speech is calm but his gestures are always wild. That’s how anybody knows what his hands look like and yet, everyone silently wonders about those hands. You may guess any way you like but never really zero in on it. On most days, he smells like neglect. It is hard to tell whether he is simply homeless or also insane. Nobody really knows the name of the man in the often-tattered clothes but the less cultured residents call him Zonto.

Because he never bothers anyone, none of the locals is afraid of him. He rarely suffers the indignity of people crossing the road when they see him. Stories abound of where he might have come from and some of the hilarious tales he tells, but there are none of him getting violent. If there were, given his sturdy 6-foot frame, perhaps he would invoke fear. There is no scenario in which a man built like him promises any challenger an easy take-down. It is slightly baffling how nobody can say with any certainty where he goes to after sunset. It is something between apathy and village legend that he lives in the bushy area closest to the swamp in a makeshift structure. Whenever he appears, he tends to come from that direction.

Today, something about him is different. The glum weather in Kampala has the gentle giant in cleaner-than-usual clothes: a grey sweatshirt and black damaged jeans with a skull on the back of the left thigh. He is speaking to the chubby lady who sells fried cassava and the rolex man who defies his environment by wearing a spotlessly white kuffi with a matching shirt. There is an unmistakable hilarity in their guffaws as they high-five each other, the truest mark of a story being excellently executed. The local council chairman rides by on his bicycle and waves at them. He gets reluctant waves in return. Nobody likes him anymore because like every other politician, it is more likely that Jesus will return before he makes good on even a third of the promises that he made when he needed to get into office. The way ‘Zonto’ throws his head back after the chairman leaves sends a few people slightly further away from him into fits of laughter. He has said something that has left everyone in stitches.

Just then, a radio plays a jingle that everybody recognizes as the news broadcast. A general silence falls as everyone’s attention shifts to the baritone coming through the crackly speakers. It is a lot of the usual; broken promises and general hopelessness. But today, there is more. Someone has gone missing and his distraught family has placed an advertisement for his safe return if anyone sees a person of his description.

“Waaah! That one must have gone for the reggae festival and didn’t tell people at home. Let him first run out of money and he will be back.” The chubby lady offers as she fans the flames on her charcoal stove, the heat making her skin glisten and the smoke coaxing tears from her eyes.

The rolex man laughs and looks at the homeless man. “You know men, that one must be somewhere enjoying somebody’s daughter seriously! When he tires of her, he will carry himself back home. A 30-year old man doesn’t just disappear.”

Just then, ‘Zonto’ stands up and pulls up the slightly short trousers, exposing ashy ankles that bulge ever so slightly above huge feet that are shoved into the usual weather-beaten yellow plastic Crocs. The baritone over the radio finishes reading the phone number people can call if they see the man anywhere. He stares into the infinite universe and furiously rubs his scruffy face with both hands as if performing a basic ablution. He finishes off by rubbing his hands together and stuffing them into the pockets of the trousers that fall slightly when he does that.

“That man is free.” ‘Zonto’ finally says, his voice barely a whisper, as he looks around, eyes wild with paranoia

“Don’t bore us! Nobody in this country is free, we all live in different cells! Let them first stop that horrible load shedding at night if they want people to stay around.” The lady spits as she balances a pan of oil atop dancing flames.

“Ahaaaaa!” The rolex man almost squeals in agreement, “after all, he isn’t the first one to disappear from Najeera. Didn’t they kill all those women in Entebbe and nothing happened? Here in Lukuli we are okay! Let the police go and concentrate those ends. They don’t have any work here.”

‘Zonto’s’ hands are now out of his pockets, moving in quick imprecise movements. His prior audience exchanges knowing glances: his moment of lucidity has passed. As the lady tosses a few sticks of cassava into the hot oil, the rolex man hands ‘Zonto’ a well-prepared rolex. He takes it with both hands, nods his silent gratitude and wanders off, leaving them to wild speculation about the missing man who was last seen two weeks ago, 15 kilometres away in a grey sweatshirt and black damaged jeans with a skull on the back of the left thigh.