#unclaimed

Three objects.
One living. Two non-living.
A traffic policeman, a motorcycle and a dead dead man.

He lies awkwardly, the left side of his face on the cold, hard tarmac where he has fallen along the busy road.
There’s an awkwardness about his posture, like something is badly broken or twisted. Like he was attempting a leap off the bike, fleeing from the danger that is now gone.

Has it been ten minutes? Longer? An hour perhaps.

It looks like a hit and run. Unless he hit the railing at the side of the road and fell back.

The policeman is taking notes, the pages flapping in the wind on the open highway.
Has he searched the man’s pockets for any form of identification? Was there money? House keys? A stick of marijuana?

He could have called for help already. In form of a police patrol pick-up vehicle that will arrive with reinforcement to carry and load the body onto the dirty floor under the makeshift seats.
Who is the dead man? Was he a bodaboda rider? Was he a husband? How old was he? A father perhaps?

How did he fall off the bike?
Did he attempt a clever but ill-thought swerve in front of an oncoming vehicle whose driver panicked and could not avoid him?
Was the driver just learning on the wheel?
Was the "accident” deliberate?
Accidental perhaps?


Was he on his way to work?
Had he just told his wife that, “Kaneewubeko ko wano katono mangu nkomewo?” knowing that the errand would only take him a few minutes to run?
And now she was calling, calling, calling his number and he didn’t answer, until a strange voice picked up and emotionless, droned, “The owner of this phone is dead!” and then the line went silent.

Did he have a plan for the day? Was he celebrating the announcement that Bobi Wine's Kyarenga concert had been given the green light, happy that Omubanda wa Kabaka was gonna give the show of his life?
Was he riding to the stage where he usually works?
Will his colleagues look at his coat, abandoned on the peg on the pole where they all hang theirs, and wonder why he’s late for work today?

Our taxi, like so many other cars this morning, whizzes by, carefully avoiding the three objects.
Some heads turn, and there are few, “Oohs!”, “Bambis” and from the ones who are waking from slumber as the vehicle does a sharp swerve, “Kiki ekibaddewo?”
They want to know what happened.
“Omusajja wa boda bamusse.” 
They all assume he is a commercial motorcycle rider and that he is dead. That someone killed him.

In a few minutes, we will all have forgotten the body lying on the cold hard tarmac, our minds occupied with the day ahead, thinking about Jennifer's voluminous resignation letter, the lumbe in Gomba on the weekend, your sick mother, an ailing business, the bogus boss, a philandering spouse who attempted to check your phone messages last night when you went to the bathroom.
The kinds of things that occupy a normal human being’s mind.

The motorcycle owner could end up in the Lusaze cemetery, where most of the unclaimed go.
Or if he’s lucky, the policeman will have located his family and he will be accorded a decent send-off.

This man. Someone’s son, brother, father, brother-in-law, cousin, love rival.