The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Read Online Free Page B

formed into an unloving vise around the Acholi’s head, the Acholi’s fingers carving parallel red chasms into the Kakwa’s bare chest. Idi’s forearms pierce the tight crevice between the two pulsing bodies and wrench them apart. Although there’s only a half-second equilibrium, as Idi stands between the two bloodied combatants, most of the spectators register the traditional Kakwa scarring on the big
dupi’s
forehead and therefore assume that he’ll turn on the Acholi with all his fury. But, to everyone’s surprise, Idi hops to his left, pulls back his right fist, and releases it againstthe Kakwa’s face, cracking the man’s nose and sending him hurtling off his feet in an almost exaggerated tableau, as if the scene were an animated frame from the Superman comic that the soldiers keep passing around the barrack. The spectators freeze. Acholis giggle; several Kakwas gasp. But while the broken soldier moans in the dirt, darkening the orange dust with his copious red blood, Idi now moves against the Acholi. He grabs the back of his neck with one hand and, with the other, wraps his mammoth fingers and wide palm around the man’s genitals, pressing his five fingertips into the base as if that package were a ripe fruit easily picked and tossed away. Idi is at least six inches taller than the Acholi, so he’s looking down at the soldier.
    “If you touch a Kakwa again,” he tells the trapped Acholi, his voice loud enough for all to hear, “I will rip this little thing off you and shove it down your throat.”
    “Yes, yes, I understand,” whispers the now-submissive Acholi, a response that garners laughter from the crowd.
    The ancillary skirmishes break down and split apart; the wounded cluster in tribal groups. Although not everyone has witnessed it, the fighting soldiers have all sensed Idi’s intervention and have silently and unanimously agreed to respect its result. There’s no need for the approaching British officers to fire any shots into the air. Major Mitchell, commander of the Fourth Battalion, trots awkwardly onto the field, leading four junior officers. The
askaris
stand at attention. Some wobble in place, threatening to fall over, far too drunk to keep steady.
    “Would someone care to tell me what you think you’redoing?” says the major, so drunk himself that he’s almost slurring his words. No one dares answer. “Fighting again, are you?” The major sighs and shakes his head like a weary parent, not offended himself but determined to show some disappointment as a means of bettering his children. His eyelids are heavy and he smells of whisky; he too has been enjoying his night off. “My goodness,” he continues, “what are we going to do with you men? Are we not all Ugandans, here? Are we not all servants of His Majesty the King? This is preposterous.
Askaris
, I tell you once: you are all equal and the same in service to the King’s African Rifles. Sergeant, corporal, private—it doesn’t matter. I will have no more of this foolishness of Kakwa versus Acholi, or Iteso versus Madi. It’s entirely ridiculous! Do I have to take away your beer and
pombe
? Must I forbid you leisure time? Do we need to pay you on Monday mornings and then not let you off for a whole week? Have we indeed come to that? Listen to me, men: no more fighting amongst yourselves! Everyone understand?”
    “Yes, Bwana,” say the
askaris
in unison.
    The pacing major halts before the wounded Kakwa. Despite his broken nose, the blood dripping off his chin onto his chest and into his stained pants, he stands at attention. The pain he must feel does not alter a muscle on his stoic face. The major snorts, swallows hard, and peers into the
askari’s
eyes for some sign of his fear or agony, but finds only the blank stare of a soldier’s abnegation.
    “Private, who did this to you?” asks the major.
    The soldier is silent.
    “Tell me, private. That’s an order.”
    “The
dupi
did it, Bwana.”
    “The
what
?