Paul Kanyike is dead. He was 34. Reading the short bizarre account of the fate of the �Mukono man� who died in a pit latrine in The Monitor, September 25, Paul Kanyike at first looks like a victim of his own folly and that of his friend, Thomas Mutebi.
While answering nature�s call, Paul lost his Shs 20,000 (about US $10) in a deep pit latrine. With the help of his friend, Thomas, and a simple rope, Paul was lowered into the pit � head first � to retrieve his money.
But as Thomas pulled his friend back from the pit, the rope snapped.
I read this little story again, filling in as many gaps as I could. I was devastated. And every time I try to retell it to friends I break down and weep like a child.
Supposing Paul was not a fool.
Supposing Paul was not lazy either, but had lost the only income he had made in several weeks.
Paul could have been a worker at an Asian exporter�s fish factory, earning Shs 1,000 for an eight-hour day of hard labour; in which case he would have had to toil for 996 years, including Sundays, to earn the Shs 360 million.
This is the same as the cost of sending a young woman on the presidential jet to deliver her baby in Europe.
On the other hand, Paul could have been without a regular job. Having done an odd task on the private estate of a �very busy� wealthy black Ugandan man two months ago, and after several fruitless trips � journeys on which everybody in the household instructed him that it was Mzee who had hired and it was Mzee who would pay him � Paul might have finally hit his �luck�, finding the rich man at home and in a good �mood�, and at last got paid.
Dear Paul Kanyike, I guess that your little Natashas and an orphan had been crying for a proper meal for days.
Did you stare in their empty watery eyes and remember the millions of African children who had shrunk to their bones and starved to death?
Twenty thousand shillings in an old faded wallet down the pit. Was God punishing you for missing two Sunday Masses in a row?
I see Paul dangling on the tensioned rope, the legs strapped and the soles of his feet facing the large rectangular mouth of the pit.
His eyes are wide open in the dark shaft.
At the mouth of the pit, his friend works the rope.
Paul has a whistle in his mouth. It belongs to his friend. Thomas sometimes referees at village football matches. They have agreed on the signals Paul will send when his hands touch the foul bog.
Going down, a swarm of giant flies whiz about in the thick damp around him. Some are crawling on his face.
The stench is heavy, suffocating and unbearable. Decay has its special power of oppression. He is sweating.
I see Paul approaching the sea of filth, its surface bubbling with maggots. There are flickers of light.
I see the man�s hand reaching out. That hand. This hand, which on Sundays received the Eucharist from the priest, was sweeping through the putrid soft resistant mass, searching searching.
Hanging upside down, his mouth hovering just above the dark bubbling belly, this man has descended to the lowest level of degradation. He has accepted.
All his struggles in life have dissolved into a dizzy nightmare in which his soul has shouldered the humiliation of poverty that imprisons millions of our people.
From this region, Paul signals his friend. At the mouth above, the whistle is hardly audible. But the rope starts going up slowly.
Then, suddenly, there is a jerk. Wedged against the doorpost of the outhouse, Thomas�s foot has slipped. The elbows of his sinewy arms dig in the dusty floor.
Paul must have felt something snap. His rope has lost a big strand. He now hangs on three strands, and the whistle has dropped from his mouth.
Desperate, he yells to his friend. Can his voice escape from the chamber? He is raised a few more feet. Although he cannot see it, he feels his rope getting thinner, more taut.
Another strand snaps, and in quick succession the remaining strands give way. Head first, Paul plunges into the bog.
Gasping for air, his mouth fills with the thick suspension of the pit. He chokes. He vomits. He swallows again. The ears are full. The nose. His eyes are closed. The universe has changed its dimensions.
This is no ordinary death. There is nothing to clutch on. Did God know enough about suffering?
Why did the prophets say that hell was a place of fire? No rat deserved to die like this.
Slowly, his body sinks. He rolls over a few times; beating and kicking in the soft mass like an animal that has lost consciousness.
The surface surges and then caves, giving one big heave before returning to its normal fetid organic activity.
