The Mutara Option

My recent articles have earned me the wrath of Kigali’s “high society” gals. At a recent secret ceremony they took a solemn blood oath to make sure I never get married. A goat was sacrificed just to show the seriousness of the issue, any girl who breaks this solemn vow will be descended upon ravenously and liquidated.

My recent articles have earned me the wrath of Kigali’s “high society” gals. At a recent secret ceremony they took a solemn blood oath to make sure I never get married.

A goat was sacrificed just to show the seriousness of the issue, any girl who breaks this solemn vow will be descended upon ravenously and liquidated.

“You’ll never date again! We have all decided to blacklist you, even the hookers in KBC have all been sent your photo, you will never be able to marry now.” I protested but to no avail. “It was just an article,” I said, “nothing serious.”

They were right, my usual charms were lost that week and even my cat wasn’t talking to me.

While I contemplated my limited options, I remembered one I had always discarded. A lifetime of celibacy could be averted by what I call “the Mutara option.” It is a three-step process of step 1 – going to Mutara, step 2 – bringing a girl back and step 3 – marrying her. It is perfect because I am of such an age that my family would not object. At last!!!

It was perfect. She had never heard of my articles, in fact she had never even heard of articles. Most importantly she hadn’t heard of the pact to ostracise me. I moved quickly, too quickly for the “High Society” gals to notice.

“Rama, you have a new housegal?” I paused for effect. “No, actually it’s my wife,” I said. There was fainting all round, they laughed at first but they left angry that I had outsmarted them so easily.

It was hard to keep Mutara gal happy. I even used to bring cow dung and dump it in front of the house so she could feel at home.

The chicken woke her up at 6am, she would run out to milk the cows only to find she was in Kigali, and there were no cows to be seen.

I told her “those darn people at the City council won’t allow you to keep cows in the middle of town no more.” She sighed at the over-regulation and petitioned for cows to be allowed in certain zones like Kimihurura where I live.

One day she went to visit a relative in a Congo war-zone but decided that life was preferable there, even with the FDLR and 50 types of Mai Mai?

So back to square one, the Mutara option didn’t work but at least I proved a point. However, I was still labelled the “Chris Brown” of article-writers and there was no escaping it.

“You are exactly the same; you just do it with a pen. There is no difference. Everyone hates you.” The fatwa was still out, and even stronger than ever. This was their revenge. “You were condemned to death by loneliness, it is slow and painful and kills you a day at a time,” said the hooker outside KBC.

I wasn’t trying to procure services; I just went there to check once a week if the fatwa was still on.

“These fatwas, no one knows how long they last, you just have to hope some other guy does something worse and they forget about you.” I had to hope that someone left their pregnant wife, just to get the heat off me for a bit.

I asked my best friend “I need you to leave your wife and kids, it’s just for a week, you can go to Kampala but I need some respite.”

He refused; I would have to confront my fears alone.

Ends