Last Sunday was for that annual marathon that bathes Kampala and social media in yellow. I don’t know what happened but I found myself in it. Once in, I vowed to complete 10km from start to finish without walking.
And it was all going good until I met two specimens who looked so good you would think they were neon lights at an upscale bridal shop. For a moment, I thought they were part of Mia’s advance mascots since they looked as good, if not better than, the cute things we see in RnB and rap videos of American stars.
Well, to say I abandoned the race is an understatement. The fact that they didn’t mind me joining their walk in yellow was all the more interesting. Then somewhere ahead, there was what looked like a scuffle. A man wearing a baseball cap was arguing with those around him.
Not long after, the man abandoned the race, shook off hands that reached to grab his arm and started jogging to the reverse of the race track. This was puzzling. Two other men followed behind the fellow in baseball cap.
‘Why is Mukula running back?’ I asked more to myself than to the two ladies.
‘Which Mukula?’ one of the girls asked.
‘Mike Mukula,’ I said.
‘You mean the NRM man?’ the other asked.
‘Yes, Capt Mike Mukula.’
‘The finish line is that way, but he is running back?’ the first girl said.
‘Weird,’ the other added.
‘Maybe he has been tipped off that Brian White is also taking part in the marathon but being malnourished, the socialite is way behind us so Mukula is going after him,’ I said and smiled to reinforce the joke.
‘Why would he want to go back and meet Brian White?’ the first girl asked. The joke had missed the mark.
‘Well, word is that when police yanked Brian White the other day, Mukula was one of the creditors who ran so fast to the police station.’
‘Ah, I remember his tweet now,’ the second girl said amid peals of laughter.
When they stopped heaving from laughter, one suggested that Mukula had made up with Brian White and tweeted about it. Her colleague shook her head in doubt. She said Mukula was always turning on his words.
‘Remember when he declared his intention to challenge Museveni for the top seat only to come back from Luzira renouncing everything and declaring that there was only one man with a vision to rule Uganda and that man wasn’t Mike Mukula?’ the girl said.
‘Back then, he had to save his skin otherwise he could now be bitter and signing the ICC petition forms that FDC is fronting,’ I said.
‘Like Omara Atubo.’
‘Yes, like Omara Atubo.’
‘But the joke about Brian White aside, why would he run backwards really?’
‘Or maybe Matia Kasaija, the Finance minister, is trotting somewhere behind us and Mukula can’t waste the opportunity to confront him about the suggestion to tax farmers.’
There was another round of mirth. Then one of the girls placed her hand over my shoulder. She shook me. Once. Twice. I opened my eyes.
‘Power is back, why don’t you charge the laptop and type your Monitor article before it goes off again?’ my wife said.
I’m angry. Angry at Capt Mike Mukula for invading my head with misleading dreams as if he pays taxes in my sleep. Or maybe I should sue him on account that I wasn’t anywhere near Kampala last Sunday when you – yes, you reading this – were busy taking selfies and posing in yellow gear to show you walked during the run.
Like seriously, Mukula should stop this habit of fuming like he is Museveni’s rib when he less than an hour later will be posing for photos to retract his earlier outburst. If he can’t control himself, let him join Uganda Police Force. That is where cretins flaunt their temper by flogging Besigye, smashing his car and molesting journalists.
I swear Mike Mukula, if you ever appear in my dream again, I will drag you by the mug shot, take you to Mulanda in Tororo and make sure you appear on the voter register as a mustachioed female. I don’t warn twice.