Y. K. Museveni
Here I am, wondering.
When I look in the mirror, it�s your face I see.
Even when I go to sleep, in my nightmares, it�s you with that old gun in your
hands. From the times when you talked and I was trapped by convincing words, to
shed my own blood for you.
I played your game, but I didn�t know the rules.
I saw your face shine, while mine lost its color. Too tired to wash my face,
because of that gun weakening my arms. While I was doing all the dirty work, my
soul would ask me questions that only you could answer, but you couldn�t,
because you were hiding at a place I was denied to come. You were afraid of my
soul and told your bodyguards not to let it in, and when I tried to force
myself, you ordered them to catch me and steal it. I was running like a fugitive
all the time, away from those guns you ordered for me. I tried to raise my voice
for you to hear, but the hunt had already begun. Now that you got what you
wanted, you don�t even know my name. It�s so strange, we don�t play anymore,
why? I often cry. Didn�t I raise my weapon high enough? Maybe it�s because you
got what you wanted. Why didn�t you keep your promises, I have spent years
trying to find the reason. Is it the high walls where you live, or is it the men
with the guns around you twenty-four hours a day, that make you ignore the
cries?. Do you not remember?. The children you promised a life? When they needed
it most, together with you at the enemy lines. Many got killed and you say it�s
not that bad, but still our parents are looking for us. I wish I knew then. To
put my life in your hands, is like falling in love with a lion.
I remember one mother coming to you, looking for her son. She gave you his
names, and when she saw your reaction, she gave you the description of that
little kid, who you knew hadn�t stopped wetting the bed. But you had already
given him foreign names, those of distant actors and buried the real. She looked
down and cried, telling you that where she came from there were no such names.
You would tell her that you had no more time, because of the road you were about
to build. I watched her tears, and when she reached the stairs, the legs let her
down. I guess that later you realized what you had done, but while passing her
you chose to look the other way. I guess that I can�t pat myself on the shoulder
for a job well done, dodging bullets in the bush with you, in those times when
your pockets still had no holes. These crying games we played, it�s your time to
cry.
But you can still come back, and you don�t have to give your life, just a
tiny piece. Others would follow your example, if you can give the mother back
her child.
From your Childsoldier
