Some of my Fictional Writings
18 years after that Day, tears of joy, like cow’s urine, spurted from my eyes. Imbabazi. Forgiveness. The word that started the journey to today. Mbabazi. The name we will give our first child. Whether boy or girl, Bizimana and I know that the first fruit of our love will be called Mbabazi. The singularity of events that brought us together demands nothing short of an uncommon response. 18 years ago, nobody would have thought or imagined that a day like this would be possible. I stared at Bizimana my beloved, and the tears flowed even more.
The year was 1914. The Honorable Frederick John Dealtry Lugard, 1st Baron of Abinger in the County of Surrey, British Soldier, explorer of Africa, able colonial administrator whose present duty was to hold fort for His Majesty King George V, in the part of Africa known as the British Protectorate on the Niger River, sat at his desk in a most gloomy mood. He pulled his long curvy mustache, adjusted the collars of his well-starched and ironed jacket as he affectionately fingered the button of his medal honor. Where was he going to start? This assignment was so completely new to him. In fact it was out rightly difficult, if not impossible. Lord Lugard pondered on these thoughts as sweat drizzled on his forehead.
My heart sank deep inside the bottomless pit as I helplessly watched the specimen in front of me. “Haipy Baidaay Mine Loves” was slobbered – in an ill-fitting combination of pink, green, blue, brown and other dirty looking icing colours – on the slanting square-shaped thing labeled a cake.
I have never had to write anything close to an essay since I painstakingly wrote and passed my GCE and JAMB English Language examinations. However, I am aware that as a first year medical student, I will not be spared the ordeal of the English 101 General Course essay at the end of this semester. Give me algebra, quadratic equation, quantum physics, organic chemistry and the ilk, and I shall delight. But, sincerely, the thoughts of hunching over a piece of paper to contrive stories, or piece grammar together give me the creeps.
Yes, I have struck the match, ready to light my cheap, blonde hair extensions. I am waiting for my sister to buy the kerosene to pour on myself. The only problem is that the queue is long at the fuel station and the traffic is very bad around Wuse II. At least, so she said when I called her about five minutes ago. But wait a minute, is she not trying to buy time in order to make me change my mind about my chosen path of honor?