Undo

“…you cannot read loss only feel it…”
                                              Memories of a Geisha

Edwin called it dry mud, I didn't see the sense of his summation until we were deep into it. (The following sets of descriptions may be inappropriate but just imagine them applied to a dry place). The road was soggy, silted, patches of it were hard to ride through, and sticky. There had to be two or three revolutions to make a forward thrust. Of course you only felt it if you thought about it.

There was the possibility of stalling or even falling over, it certainly would be a soft fall, with a soil cushion spread wide out. It wasn’t a comfortable thought either so you were lucky not to harbour it. The motorbike struggled through the heaps of congealed soil…continually the thought of falling off the bike crept. I suggested I get off the bike so Edwin pushes it alone through but he insisted he could manage to go through…so I sat hapless as he wiggled the bike about the “dry muddy patch”. 

At the shops along the road, drunkards cheered us on, wavering high in their disability, they beheld us playing in the road, one even broke a piece of stick to come discipline us for being childish…I thought well…here we are…watching the roadside refusing to pass by the motorbike…its is like thinking of …the missing links in…a sequence of unexpected…interrupted…good music. 

We decide to stop when we reach a clearing. There is a hot wind swirling inside our shirts, I privately keep thinking it should bring relief, but it just perpetrates a hot feeling. We stop and sit under a tree shade. I lie on my back and I am overcome with the greatest of temptations-sleep.

I rise to a sitting position knowing this is the best way to avoid sleep now. Edwin too looks drowsy. Our water has run out. We have a ten-minute ride to town left but we can’t help sitting here quite. It feels happy here. The football fields of Gulu High School are litt ered in activity, kids in different groups playing football.

A chap comes by, “God help you,” he says. 
“God help you too,” we retort and continue looking and doing nothing.
“God help you,” he repeats. 
We stare at him wondering what he is up to, we reply thinking perhaps that he didn’t hear our reply the first time.
“God help you,” he says giving us a stiff smile. We look left, then right, then at him and he is still smiling. Saliva slides from the corner of his mouth and hangs in a long tail that is kept flowing by the open mouth.
“What do you want,” I demand.
“God help you,” his eyes are excited. He pulls out a sachet of alcohol (Empire), which he sips from and passes towards Edwin. He refuses but the chap places it in his hand. Edwin looks nervously around and thrusts the sachet into my hand. I hand the sachet back to the guy.

 He is still smiling. I whisper to Edwin that this man is not smiling and that he is paining. I give him 500 shilling to buy another sachet. He looks at me with an alternation of squint and big eyedness, and then pockets the money. After standing silent for a while. He thinks he finally recognizes me from somewhere. He pulls out 500 shilling and says he is going to buy me a whole sachet to drink alone

 “God help you,” he keeps repeating and the production of hanging saliva is increasing. The kids seated nearby are laughing. They call out to him by the name “God help you”
And tell him that he is very drunk. He tells them he is going Sacred Heart church for confession and that he is the new choirmaster.