I want a gun. Shoot someone. That one, who tortured me, beat me, rendered me useless, denied me entrance in the pub and stole my phone. Could this have been going through the mind of that PGB soldier who shot at people at a bar in Kampala sometime last month?
A dark crispy night, air filled with happiness. There is a buzz, people talking to each other on the fine night. The sound of glasses skimming passed peoples lips and the sudden “pshh” sound as the waitress opens a bottle. Each round table is occupied by a couple chatting silently and sipping from the glasses and bottles. In one corner a group of young lads probably in their early twenties are the loudest in the room. They watch every lady that walks passed them, they do not say anything. They just watch. At the counter a lady in short dress probably it almost reveals her thighs, her breasts are held by her dress that rounds them up and reveals the mid-line between the two breasts. She seems to be waiting for someone. She is drinking a soda and punching the buttons on her phone. The waiters and their lady counterparts move from table to table talking to the customers. They seem to be happy and everyone in the room is happy and as the night dies out and the sound of the cockroaches grows deeper and deeper.
Do these people have any idea what is going on outside the bar. They innocently drink, dance and enjoy the night as they wait for dawn to arrive. The smell of uncertainty seems to be hovering around the bar and in flash. Gunshots. The night is dead. Dawn is not breaking. The glass windows suddenly break and the people scramble to run out of the room. In a split second there is alot of screaming and wailing. A night that was filled with soft music, laughter and hush sounds comes to a sudden halt. The unexpected happens and the wailing is high. Dead is life.
So did they deserve to die? A rampage. Eight innocent lives are brought to an end. There is no justice. The night is dead. Death came with its friends and took the innocent lives away.