two friends and a phone

A loud scream. Incoherent speech. Frenzied cries. Raised voices. In the dark. Two men, walk on, probably returning home after a hard day’s work, maybe they’ve even failed to raise the kaveera their wives are eagerly waiting for. They only glance briefly at the area from where the screams emanate. Faithful, fully paid-up members of the ‘For Me I Just Kept Quiet’ brigade.

I rush back when I heard the word “Hajji”. Is this a case of domestic violence happening before my very eyes and ears?

The young woman is hysterical. Her phone has been stolen.
“My phone, essimu yange, essimu, essimuuuuu!” she wails, throwing herself down heavily on the pavers in the good Doctor’s driveway.
Her hands go to her head. “Essimu yange. Emitwalo jange ataano!”
This is confusing. A phone, 500,000 shillings. Have they both been stolen?

She jumps up, “Siiko, Siiko munnange, mbulira essimu gyeli! Siiko wange, emaali yange eri ludda wa?”

In some situations, much as you want information, you also need to take a step back and first ascertain the situation so you don’t fall headlong into it.
For all you know, she could be talking to herself nga emizimu gya ba Jjaja are on her head. Because the Siiko who was being addressed is nowhere to be seen.

The jump becomes a jog. Round and round, in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail. In the dark, her silhouette looks like she is doing some kind of dance, a drill, some exercise.
Darting to and from the perimeter fence, racing across the good Doctor’s driveway and back again. Like that.
Then she disappears- falling onto the ground, where she writhes, rolls over and over, raising her hands, pounding the pavers, beating her thighs.
This is a woman in mourning.

We have now established that there was a demise of some sort. A phone. Worth 500,000 shillings. The young woman’s name is Bridget.
She is a student.
This is her second such possession in the space of five months.
That the earlier one had also been stolen somehow.
That she had scrimped and saved and saved and scrimped to be able to purchase this new gadget, not even five weeks old. But it is now gone. Disappeared. Poof. Kaput. Gone. With. The. Wind. Fabulous.

Then I also discover that apart from the key players - Bridget and the thief - there is the Siiko who is being implored to return the precious coveted item.
She is huddled in a corner, curled into one of the pillars of the perimeter fence of the good Doctor’s driveway, probably wanting to disappear into the baked bricks or become one of them.
The light from the headlamps of one of the bodabodas – they gather like moths to the light – show several strands of unruly hair that have escaped from a back puff. Her fat cheeks are wet.

“Tugende ondage essimu!” Bridget is spluttering, weak with pain.

The Real Siiko attempts to stand up, but sits down again quickly, returning to her foetus-like position. She feels safer like that.
The crowd is made up of mostly women.
One, in her nightie and black hair-net, is asking Siiko for exact details of the story.
Siiko is attempting to recount but dissolves into a helpless cry about how she is not being allowed to tell the story from where it started.

“You girl, how did you come to be in possession of the phone?” Madam Nightie with a Hairnet demands.
Siiko get up.
This time her legs do not buckle.
Her face is short, stuffed.
Like an old pussycat.

She starts explaining that a man had approached her. That he had told her her name, adding that he could tell that she had plenty of problems.
“Woiiii! God help me! I was conned, I was conned. I was cooooonnnnned! Abasajja banfeze! Heiiiiii!!” she bawls.
“You’re lying!” This from a Mama in a Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear. It comes down to near her ankles. She switches on her katorchi phone and shines it in Siiko’s face.

I want to hear Siiko’s story to the end.

“My name is not Siiko. I am called Scovia!”

“Alright Scovia, what exactly happened?”

Mama Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear that went down to near her ankles is back. She has just consulted with Bridget who is howling, prostrate on the pavers.

“Siiko you are a thief!”

“Nooooooo” Siiko wails. “Hear me out. Why do you judge me when all of you have ever fallen prey to conmen? Hear me out!” she screams in frustration.

Her version of events is that the man had told her about her many problems and offered a solution. He asked if one of the things she desired was a phone? If so, which type.

‘Infinity Phone’, she had said.

‘Can I see a picture of it, so that when I am asking the gods, I will say that Siiko of Kitiiyo village desired this very make?’

And Siiko had said would show him the exact make she so desired.

And so she had sat on the man’s bodaboda motorcycle and ridden to Bridget’s house.
Bridget was sleeping. Siiko said she wanted to borrow the phone for a few minutes to make a quick call.
Bridget had not thought twice, after all, Siiko was her friend.
So Siiko had unplugged the charger and taken the phone. That was the last time Bridget would set eyes on her beloved gadget.

Just then, Bridget recoveres from her trance on the pavers.
The jog is back in full force.
Like a woman possessed, she runs up to Bridget.
I wait for the blow. A slap. Something like that. I stepped away. It does not come.
Bridget falls to her knees and gently, very gently, holds Siiko by the hips.
“Mukwano Siiko, ntwala essimu gyebagyibbidde!”
Then she leaps up and towers over Siiko.
She touches her friend’s wet cheeks and whimpers, “Kikwano! Abasajja baagenze wa?”
The whole scene is rather disturbing.

Trying to get an answer from Siiko is like getting blood from a stone.
She gapes like a fish out of water.
No words come out. Bridget prances away again in a hypnotic-like state.

A woman carrying a huge black rucksack appears from nowhere. “Bannyabo,” she says authoritatively, “Leave this Siiko alone. I think your attention should be focused on this other woman and her mental state. She is very distressed.”

And so the women turns to Bridget who was now trying to dislodge one of the good Doctor’s pavers from his well-preserved, freshly-laid driveway.

They surround her and lift her by the arms and legs as she tries to wriggle from their grasp, shouting, “Okusoma kwange kuwedde! Nfudde nze! Emitwalo gyange ataaano gigenze bwegityo!" 

Siiko stares as Bridget is carried through the gate. One of the women returns.

“Siiko, come here!” She grabs her hand and leads her down the driveway.

God knows how it ended.