Ruti gave chase, adrenalised by the hunt. The squirrel, of course, left him far behind. But Ruti stayed on its trail.
On September 17, 1972, the clock struck 4:30pm and the sun shone softly above Mbarara Town. There were lovers somewhere sipping on bushera and haters everywhere, partying to the fall of President Milton Obote. It happened a year before, but Ugandans need every excuse to party.
At that point, a young bespectacled rebel decided to take up arms against the regime of Idi Amin. Back then, the gilt-edge wallop of this rebel’s vision was revolutionary. His fiery personality would transform his vision from singular conception to collective reception.
On September 17, 2024, a man called Ruti wandered the western uplands.
Ruti was an Mbararan. He was a herdsman who led his cows across soaring peaks and plunging valleys. Then, one day, rustling through the thick brush, he saw an odd-looking squirrel. It was tuxedo black; so unlike the grey-brown ones that he was used to seeing. This one looked like it had burrowed in from a black-tie dinner, he thought.
As he looked at it, it suddenly turned to look back at him. Ruti and squirrel were now metres apart, eyeballing each other like two cowboys at high noon in some spaghetti western. As they took each other’s measure, Ruti believed that he could rush towards it and successfully grab it.
He knew that they were swift little creatures, but he was ready to try his luck. However, the squirrel beat him to the punch. And, as if anticipating his next move, it suddenly turned and sped off; leaving small fire trails in its wake.
Ruti gave chase, adrenalised by the hunt. The squirrel, of course, left him far behind. But Ruti stayed on its trail. Soon, he was led by his hunt to an asphalt clearing the size of a soccer pitch. And there, perched in the middle of it, was the squirrel.
It stood pat, challengingly watching Ruti as he edged towards it. Creeping gingerly in a ‘here kitty-kitty’ fashion, Ruti was soon a few paces from where it was. Then, something happened.
The squirrel was suddenly haloed in a white back-light that gave it the appearance of a rodent angel! And, equally on a sudden, it spun on its paws and started to run.
Ruti leapt forward, hot on its heels. But just then, the squirrel went through a ripple wave the size of a door; a portal perhaps. Before Ruti could tell what was happening, he had gone through it too. When he stopped running, he found himself in a rolling meadow. This was still Mbarara, near the barracks. The rodent had disappeared completely.
Something whizzed over Ruti’s head; once, twice and the third time it happened, he realised that somebody was shooting at him! Within moments, he saw multiple men in military togs; bloodied and retreating from a flare-up of gunfire.
They were getting closer to him. An explosion occurred, and the heads and limbs of some of these men were blown off.
In a trice, what seemed like a cool upland had atrophied into a scene of severed limbs and decapitated heads; sheer carnage. Shrieks and screams rented the air; several persons were on the floor writhing in agony.
Ruti turned to run but collided with a man dressed in olive green uniform. The man fell to the floor with Ruti and then, very quickly, shot up and grabbed Ruti by the elbow.
They both started running hard, as testosterone-fuelled gunplay seared and laid waste to everything around them. Then, out of nowhere, a vertical stream appeared before them and they rippled through it. It was similar to the portal Ruti had passed through when in pursuit of that mysterious squirrel.
Ruti and the rebel now found themselves on the same asphalt clearing that Ruti had previously left. The gunfire was gone and so were the corpses. Silence reigned. It was as if they had run through a time-stream and zipped back and forth in time. Yes, time travel.
Ruti just stood there with the rebel, led to him by a squirrel. The squirrel would soon return. It would take on the shape of the government that the rebel would form, to squirrel away much of what he fought for.
