Karamagi Andrew
Anita Among’s knees were red and swollen from over half-an-hour of kneeling before the Sistine Chapel’s painting of The Last Judgment.
Her face was puffy from crying, eyes bloodshot. Smudges of mascara formed rivulets on the blotched cheeks of her moon face.
While previous trips to Rome were a heavily publicised affair, especially photos of her and the Pontiffs, Popes Francis and Leo, this most recent one was a covert operation.
Her flight out of Uganda on a charter flight to next door Nairobi, Kenya, was not arranged by the Parliamentary Commission as is usually the case.
The 5.00 AM departure from her sprawling mansion in Nakasero did not feature a speeding motorcade with wailing sirens that punctuate her every movement.
Instead, a single, unlicensed Landcruiser of the LC200 variety purred out of the driveway and eased onto Kafu Road. After the traffic lights at the Yusuf Lule—Acacia Intersection, the guzzler turned Southwest for the forty-kilometre trip to Entebbe International.
The only sound in the vehicle cabin was the Rn’B playlist that her youthful driver loved, occasionally muffled by the quiet growl of the V8 petrol engine.
It was indeed out of character that, for this international trip, she was travelling with only two people, out of her bloated, often redundant staff.
She would have preferred to travel alone for this secret trip, but ever since a string of financial sanctions over grand corruption rendered her VISA, Mastercard, UnionPay and AmEx bank cards and internet banking apps useless, she always needs someone with functional cards to transact on her behalf. The second companion on this trip was her handler who manages everything from keeping her breath mints, monitoring her image on social media, paying hush money to nosy journalists, to running her diary and everything in between.
At Entebbe, the trio boarded a Gulf Stream as their bags got loaded into the luggage hold at the rear of its fuselage. Fifty-five minutes later, the bird touched down at Nairobi’s private Wilson Airport, at the end of whose terminal a lone, late-model Audi Q7 was idling.
The hop to the Villa Rosa Kempinski lasted no more than fifteen minutes. While her two companions checked into their deluxe rooms, Among was led to the $18,000-a-night presidential suite on the tenth floor where she would spend the next half-day, awaiting her 1.20 AM departure to Rome, via Doha.
Shortly after 7.00 AM, as daylight fully illuminated the Nairobi skyline, she pushed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button on the suite’s control panel, turned off her phone and fell into a deep sleep for the first time in days since the harrowing ruling party’s retreat in Kyankwanzi.
Her hitherto smooth-sailing candidature for the Speakership was publicly torpedoed by her boss, General Yoweri Museveni, when he announced that it was not a given. To underline the point, he even invited Among’s brainy, witty rival, Norbert Mao, who worked the home crowd during the week-long meeting.
She woke up towards noon and lazily scrolled through the channels on the massive television, but decided against bothering herself with the latest in the tensions between the United States and Iran, and promptly pushed the power button, then cradled the remote control into its leather pouch.
She looked at her phone, which was uncharacteristically quiet, and, wishing it stayed that way, was not eager to turn it on.
A better idea came to mind, even though it would last a few moments before the realities of her latest predicament brought her back to the real world. One of her younger, naughty colleagues in Parliament had gifted her a pleasure toy, which featured a tongue-like appendage at the centre of what looked like a rose flower in full blossom.
Here, in the utmost privacy of the presidential suite, would be the best place to explore.
She unboxed the contraption, discarded the user’s manual, felt around for buttons and got it to work. Particularly fascinating was the different power levels and modes it offered. Three toe-curling orgasms later, she tuned off the thing and napped. “Auri!” she moaned softly. [Ateso for “Oh my!”]
When she awoke, she felt sated and her thighs were still twitching from the pleasure, but first, she had to attend to the curious thought about just how big the presidential suite was and the splendour of its amenities. She strolled around, taking in its lavish features, and, for a moment, considered remodelling the bedroom in her fortress in Bukedea.
She turned off the ‘Do-Not-Disturb’ sign that was glowing outside her door, pushed a button that opened the large curtains to reveal a picturesque horizon and turned on her phone. As it booted and picked up the unsecured WiFi signal, she slipped on a bathrobe and dialled room service, then stepped into the plush bathroom for a shower.
Moments after the shower, she unlocked her custom-made Bottega Veneta beauty case to begin her skin care routine. The ritual was interrupted by a gentle ding at the door.
A pleasant, middle-aged, Asian-looking chef was waiting with a trolley, laden with food and drinks. He carted it to the kitchenette and, after bowing to her, left the suite.
Still in her bathrobe, she savoured her brunch from the balcony, which overlooked the busy, dual carriage Nairobi Expressway. From the tenth floor, the steady stream of cars racing in either direction looked like toys. Humans looked like ants darting about.
Among was now ready to look at her phone, which, after several hours of being left alone, was inundated with missed calls, unread text messages and incessant pings from social media. Two notifications stood out: one brought so much joy, the other caused such dread that she felt nauseated, to the point of retching.
The first notification led to an update from her handler: “Gd aftanun boss. I went to stan chart in westlands this morning and got 64k. Put it in a diplomatic bag. We won’t need ATMs in Italy.”
The second notification drained the blood from her face: “Mzee and SS had a meeting. they r tired of donors, media n bazzukulu asking questions about a ‘corrupt’ speaker…might be looking for a new one.”
For a split second or two, the thought of jumping off the glass and steel guardrail, to end this nightmare once and for all crossed her mind, but her survival instinct won and she skittered back into her suite, drawing the glass facade shut behind her.
The election for Speaker of the House was due in a month’s time, but first, the Vatican.
Part Two coming…
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