#mrveteran

In 2010, an army veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) threatened to shoot me. After boasting how he had a gun and would finish me off that night because I called him a series of coarse names for being a bad-mannered neighbor and disturbing our peace, he swaggered out of the gate with his thin doggy-like waist.
The shooting didn't happen. Instead he vented his rage on his live-in girlfriend, aka wife. Anyway, I reported the incident to the Police- the police post was some small wooden shack- somewhere deep in Kalerwe, behind the market. The policeman there did not want me to speak in English. He said he only understood vernacular. So, I put on my best Luganda. And do you know what he did? In the middle of my narration, he got a call on his kabiriti and walked away to take it. He returned five minutes later, with the ‘Statimenti Book’, drew some lines in it- if I remember well, date, details etc, handed me a red Biro, and told me to write my statement in CAPITAL letters, and to clearly indicate where I lived- he called it “your place of residence”.
As I left, he promised that they would patrol the area in the night. He also gave me his telephone number (after I had asked for it).
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) did not disappoint. As he was busy thumping his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, and screaming at her daughter, “Gwe Divaini, vvayo ndage akakazi kano empisa!”, I dialed the policeman. It was around 10pm.
“Who is this?” “Where did you say you were?”, “You are the who?”, “The one who…”. Seems he was deep in sleep. So early?
“Come quickly!” I urged, wanting him to witness first-hand the viciousness of the thug who was beating his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, punching her face in all the wrong places- in front of her two young children and maid, who were all screaming at the same time. The noise! Just like popcorn.
I did not dare to come out of the house to be Mama Divaini’s Joan of Arc, just in case Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out his ‘shotgun’ and peppered me with pellets.
Anyway, the policemen did come. Armed. What annoyed me most was that they told Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) that someone had called them. “Who?” he demanded to know. Oba what did they tell him?
Then, they walked him out of the house and started kuwozaring with him. I heard a little bit from my front window. “Ssebo, don't beat your wife like that, eh. You know there are people in the house and you beat her like that, eh?” I expected, and wanted, them to march him off to the police station and throw him in the cells, and then throw away the key.
Instead he came back about 15 minutes later, swearing to do away with someone, whoever had called the cops on him.
Mama Divaini had had enough of his beatings. She was a nakawere, her baby was barely three months old. From what I learned later, Divaini (Her name was Divine, and she was one and a half years old) was not his daughter. Mama Divaini packed her things and left after a week, housemaid and all. Chairs, tables, bed, mattresses, percolator, buckets, slippers. Kila kindu.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a veteran for all I know) agenda okuda from his nocturnal jaunts, thumped on the door yelling for Mama Divaini to “come open up or else I’ma show you, I’ma beat the living daylights outta you!”. (I wonder who told him his fake American accent sounded cool) But Mama Divaini did not come to the door, nor did he beat the living daylights outta anyone. Instead, he looked for the warmest corner of his verandah, where he nodded off until morning when some of us, who went to work at 5am found him, cold and miserable. He resorted to playing Philly Bongole ballads to fill the void.
And then one day, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) disappeared. Peace and heaven in the neighborhood. After a week and a half, I returned home to find a meeting of the neighbors. They spoke in low tones. Someone had pasted a picture of the good old Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know), a newspaper article with his picture, with his buswiriri on his front door.
The story went that Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) had hired a ‘Special’ to Mayuge district, then he also took him deep into some village in Hoima and then back to his house on Mawanda road.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) said he was the DPC of Kira, the Division Police Commander. When it came to the time to pay, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out a pistol and told the Special Hire driver that he was “gonna blow his bloody brains out so he berra shut the f*** up!” And then he disappeared into the night.
The Special Hire guy reported the case to police, and they came for Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) early one morning when he was still in his teeny nylon shorts that he called nighties.
And they carted him to the same Kira Police Station that he purported to be DPC of. A newspaper journalist looking for police report of the day wrote the story, took a picture of the suspect’s ID and the story was in the papers the next day.
And that was how some clever person got a hold of it and pasted it on Mr. Veteran’s (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) front door.
I dunno when he ever got out, because I moved house at the end of the week, but the remaining days were sheer bliss.
But I do know he got out because, six months after that as I was waiting for the salon lady to do my hair, I heard a familiar voice. I tell you, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was him. He popped his head into the shop and I ducked.
You ask me why I did it. I don’t know why. But I did.