He mentioned you just pick a topic at random and write about it. Anything and nothing, really. So I will write about you as you are a topic for a lifetime. I never told anyone but a piece of your skull is buried in that garden in Mbuya. Just under those two granite slabs. I know, neighbours wondered why I’m lighting beewax candles over there so here it is. A piece of your dead and burnt body was put there by me.
I have no obligation to remember you but I do. You have put my life in danger enough times that I should endeavor to forget that I ever knew you. The girls you slept with were dubious; you had a gun to my head more than once. You fired shots, I have witnesses. I should forget you completely and erase you from every trace of existence but I remember you well. So I can recognise your behaviours in any other person, male or female, so I can save the world from another one like you.
That bullet that you put into your head – we shall talk about this some other time. But what a botched-up job. It was meant to be grand, great concept, sloppy execution. Besides, I don’t believe in suicide as a solution, although you saved your ass. You left those girls. That was your crime. This is why I still shake my head when I think of you. Thankfully, no association with you any more. God, I was so stupid and green. Thank you for that innocence and for sparing me from all the dangers of his network and net.
I have no obligation to respect you either, and I don’t. But for the sake of those old days, I’ll leave it at this. For now. I’m not yet ready to tell your story. Except that bit about your bones and ashes. Not all was sent back in a cookie jar, a piece of you is buried in Uganda. You can never escape from here.