At SunDown, as the Red Sun was calling it a day, the scissor hands of a dying god stretched through the ether to snuff out the light and plunge us into a void of darkness. Resolute. Victorious, the death claws retreated into the otherworld from whence it came, leaving behind a night chill and those unperturbed steadfast black-and-white clad chaps at the Writivism Festival to commence with the business at hand. The moment we had all been waiting for had arrived.
As soon as The List was laid on the judges’ table, a heated discussion ensued. My close friend Adaeze and I were dazzled but nonetheless entertained by the sheer scale of the drone of voices passionately blending and fusing, tearing through the momentous night before cascading into a murmur of a dual symphony which accompanied the chirp of finely tuned crickets and bulbous frogs that joined in to protest against a chilly honeymoon-esque Kampala night playfully snapping and needling at our exposed flesh.
And here’s how it went: The Swahilification of Mutembei didn’t pan out. Not this time. Mutembei was just too slippery, a seafish, for the seasoned fisher of men, Nasoro, but not worry. Patience is a currency Nasoro has in bulging reserve. He will be back, I promise you. Like the Terminator. Wink wink!
And now Ma famille Ivoirienne bien aimée, ne partez pas. Les rues de Kampala vous garderons au chaud dans leurs couettes nuageuses, vous nourrirons de leurs rayons dorés, vous habilleront comme vous ne l’avez jamais vu et ne le verrez jamais. Ne partez pas. S’il vous plaît? S’il vous plaît One day, write back home, tell them Je ne suis pas rentrée. I am certain they will understand. This is a city deserving of a one-way ticket and nothing less.
As for you dear sister, your beloved Boyi is not lost between the margins. He broke forth and germinated in the minds of fellow Africans, who were deeply touched by his story. Restoring Connections is what he is about and he has traversed the continent at your behest. His soul is that unexplained warmth settling in the hearth of your bosom and the pride reflected in your shimmering eyes.
And the Red Sun will rise again, as it was foretold. A new dawn birthes new light and the darkness is singed, scotched and burned to a whisper that fades in her wake. Incredulous though it may seem, you snuck up on the lot of them and stole the groom on his wedding night. If fame and fortune is too much for your 20 year old self to handle, I am right here. I got $500 worth of problems and you can solve them all if you so wish. Call me.