too soon

‘you are looking for the Lokíru Kosma who has died last week, the musé?’ and silence.

probing eyes. a van in Entebbe. the minor inquisition. i had then said ‘oliotia’. the child had then lost interest.

the flowers were beautiful as they fluttered to the ground. pink and backlit—they were stronger than they were delicate, but the ornateness that they did possessed was all the more beautiful for the rough country that they inhabited. my company was not what i had expected. i could faintly smell the sweet aroma of the flowers when i held them to my nose. but Stephen assured me that the smell was befitting their visual beauty.



my feet had begun to chafe in these too-seldom worn shoes. weeds had brushed against my feet as i turned the last corner. a feeble, crumbling cross. piles of small marble stones. mining had become a new source of income here—the wealth had been fitting.



i waited until 9am to call. i was here, and i was the last to know.

the wheels had lost traction. the corner had come too quickly for my ignorant high speed. as we had graciously slid to a stop, rocking gently back and forth, i had turned to Kosma. ‘Larry doesn’t need to hear what just happened, ah?’ ‘I know nothing!’, he had proclaimed.

his shirt was red. probably neither of our faces expressed what we felt. ‘i meant to give this to your father,’ i said. it meant, but not soon enough.



‘yes, i will sponsor all.’ my pronouncement seemed flat and unbecoming the harsh circumstances that had brought us all together. the cokes, at least, arrived too early.

‘ga ica leɓ, leɓ, leɓ, leɓ,’ he had said. i had been irritated, and had ignored that what he had said was neither what i had wanted nor what i had heard.

i pinched the tobacco between my thumb and forefinger. with my middle finger i sealed my right nostril. i snorted with my left. coarse burning. i clearly didn’t know what was good and what was bad, if anything was supposed to be good. i ignored the burning. ‘It is good!’ i said—an act of faith. i couldn’t wait to see his pleasure when i presented him with even this small gift.

perhaps my convenience was an extraordinary dying old man’s sorrow. i hope not. it has rained a lot more this year than the last time i was here. i notice more and more that what makes life easy for me seldom makes life easy for the people here, and what makes life easy for the people here seldom makes life easy for me. surely this means something, but i can’t begin to know what.

there are too many beginnings to have also a middle, and especially an end.