Blood Stains in the Red Dust
I walk past the well through the dusty red streets of Gulu Town head down and my spirit heavy in the weak morning light. Proud, deep, dark women stand tall near the well. I know if I leer at them I could get them to stone me. Most of them are no doubt married and the younger ones are descendants of the warrior chieftains that ruled these lands long before my people arrived. I hear their laughter and Swahili echo off the brick buildings.
And think this would be good. I deserve a good stoning, a nice baseball sized rock to the forehead would set me right. Maybe help redeem me. The blood stains, not my blood, on my rumpled white shirt and tan trousers won’t be enough to even raise a glance from the local police or even the defense forces.
But I need some form of punishment to redeem myself. I knifed a man, a quiet and small man, a good man with a bad temper when he drinks. His broken bottle only grazed my arm. His drunken wild swings were never a threat, but I still closed the gap between us and stuck him between the upper ribs with my knife. And as he slipped through my arms, my former friend, and collapsed onto the dirty floor of the bar, I snuck out the back entrance and waded through the stinking open gutters away from my crime.
I mutter an obscenity in Swahili, but the women ignore me. No doubt recognizing me for the broken down old Boer I am. I continue down the street towards the south end, where the whores and the nastiest drunks congregate, thinking maybe I’ll find redemption there instead.
