I experienced an engine that overheated a few months ago while driving to Kla from Gulu at night. One of the pipes connecting to the radiator had come off. The car I drove that day, a Ford, allowed me to limp a few more meters to a place I could safely park.
It was along the cattle corridor, a few kilometres to Cafu, and fast approaching midnight. Drivers hardly stop to help other stranded drivers in this area due to safety issues. This stretch is one of the worst parts to be stranded while plying the Glu-Kla route, yet, there I was with hardly any mobile signal.
I parked away from the road, in front of a makeshift wooden gate, that I later found out belonged to a cattle keeper from Western Uganda. The man swung by, a stick in his hand and a gun around his waist – he interrogated me, assumed I was there for his cattle, asked for identification and left. Earlier, he had asked me to move the car out of the way – I told him, ‘not an inch’. To this day, I still wish the arrogant bastard wakes up with red ants up his arse.
About 30 mins after getting stranded, a fuso driver and his colleague stopped, inquired what was wrong and checked under the hood – confirmed what I suspected, but identified the correct culprit. He apologized for not having water, and said to be careful, to watch out for antelopes besides bandits, and drove off.
A young man appeared out of nowhere soon after and introduced himself as Paulson, and that he stayed around. He said he had a Jerry can of water he could give me, but we would have to drive to a water source about two kilometres back to refill. The car had cooled at this time enough to refill the radiator. And soon, we were on our way to a borehole the opposite way.
Paulson told me he was from Mityana and was farming along the corridor. He was farming on an acre of land, that he hired at 50k a year and that he was hoping to add three more acres when he made some money. I chatted with the man for about 30 mins and met his young girlfriend. I left him with 50k to add an extra Jerry can and some supplies.
Each time, I travelled the same route, I stopped by and checked on the young chap. I often carried some bread, sugar and soap. I got him the extra three acres he wanted and some seeds – the idiot hugged me with all the mud he had on that day. It was well.
I last saw him in December and since then, his phone has not gone through. A few weeks ago, I stopped by his place, and his wife ran to me, and hugged me suspiciously tight, and broke down sobbing while telling me my friend died. He was shot by the arrogant man I encountered after Paulson confronted him about his stray cattle that had rummaged his garden.
Paulson’s death pierced right through me even though I had known him for barely a year. His kindness and humility are rare traits. I vividly recall his unpolished English, which he often laughed off and apologized for. This year in May, we were hoping for his second harvest of vegetables in May.
