The Chronicles of Torture

Hush! Hush!

Speak quietly, for Prince Metternich listens in, 

On the well-kept green lawns bordered by ancient trees,

Here lives, a gated and exclusive neighbourhood.

In the shadows, a terrible and frightening secret lurks.

Nobody knows when the darkness started!

This has occurred since the country's independence from the British in 1962.

This country has witnessed four cruel and authoritarian administrations.

Every night, agonizing screams ricochet back and forth.

On soundproof concrete former colonial structures known as "safe homes."

Silent screams go 'unnoticed' in these opulent residences, 

As black-tinted vans parade outside, transporting the 'enemies of the state.'

Men, women, little girls, and boys wallow and weep in their own urine and filth.

This affluent neighbourhood is home to the ruling caste.

Former 'liberation' soldiers rule the roost in this city.

These men profess to have brought “liberty, peace, and prosperity.”

Ironically, the enormous diplomatic corps live here too, in barricaded high-security installations.

More wine glasses clink in the distance, heralding the night's victory over 'terrorism.'

As the servers pour silver foam liquor into French crystal glasses, champagne bottles explode with a loud popping sound.

As the festivities begin, premium meats and chicken roast on charcoal grills, and the spicy aroma pervade the concealed and torturous cellars.

Mukasa, a 16-year-old “terrorist,” sits on cold, damp, and unsteady concrete.

Soldiers tore out all of his nails, and his toes and hands bled.

He can't sleep, since the musky cellar's heat makes him sweat.

He has an awful, burning sensation in his stomach, a pathetic rumbling.

In the morning, a masked medical officer had treated his injuries and injected him with something he didn't comprehend.

He cries out for water and food.

Abductees scramble to the imaginary hiding places and lower their faces as a solid mechanical door clicks and lights turn on.

A military guard wearing a black hood pushes through cold cups of slimy porridge, bits of musty bread, and a tiny jerrycan as a toilet.

Large, black cockroaches scurry towards their impending meal.

Mukasa sobs, and jumps at the soldier, inquiring what he has done.

The soldier strikes him in the ribs, causing him to fall.

He lies on the bare concrete, unable to breathe.

The lights go out once more! The silence descends!

Invisible, scruffy hands quickly grab the food and devour it away!

Someone touches Mukasa's arm and comforts him in the darkness.

Mukasa's chest and backside hurt, and he can't stop weeping.

He can't stand up since he can't feel his feet or knees.

They've all been puffed up by the batting.

Torture welts cover his entire body, forming a spider web of brutal cuts, caning, and bayonet use.

The horrible scent inside the dark vault sickens Mukasa, causing him to cough violently and vomit blood.

Hooded soldiers had attacked Mukasa's hostel in the early hours of the morning, 

Forcing all suspected opposition activists into dark-tinted vans.

A bystander had claimed Mukasa ripped off the incumbent's campaign posters.

Mukasa, for one, denies pulling any posters.

Mukasa's classmates had locked the doors and gone into hiding.

The national anthem plays loudly, followed by other patriotic music.

More applause erupts in the quiet, steamy evening.

The guest of honour addresses the party members,

He smiles as he thanks them for gaining more parliamentary seats and “re-electing” him to power.

The flag-wrapped pavilions reverberate with strong flattery.

This marks the start of his next five years as President of the Banana Republic.

The leader promises to eradicate poverty, ignorance, and diseases. 

The president cites the arrest of troublesome political scumbags and 'terrorists.'

The fat cats applaud him and yell, "Nyamurunga weitu, Our beautiful peacock!”

While stumping their feet, causing a thunderous commotion.

The peacock is a vibrant and flamboyant symbol for the president.

An aide steps up, salutes, and tightens his blue mask.

The soldier bends down and whispers into the president's ear before placing a thin, sealed red file on the makeshift desk.

The commander quickly flips the file over, opens it, and scans its contents.

He gleans with the wisdom of an old cat.

Every party member quietens down and wait.

The commander straightens his army uniform, stands up, and claps, 

Then, he stammers into the microphone, "Wote... Tumewashinda wahalifu na wako mbioni!" We have defeated these criminals, and they are on the run!

My soldiers have surrounded the opposition young leader's residence and blockaded him!

'Simba enatembeya musituni...!' he exclaims. The lion still roams the bush.

In the old liberation days, he was the mythical lion. Now, his followers call him the Peacock.

The president waves and commends his “special forces.”

They had nabbed the 'terrorist' cells just in time for his inauguration.

A commotion breaks out as party members applaud their leader's success and wisdom.

The General writes new orders for the Aide-de-Camp to distribute!

Mukasa's fight was over by daybreak, including others held in many “safe houses”.

Their bodies will be fed to the 'presidential crocodiles' along the Nile. No one will ever locate these corpses again.

The parents, spouses, husbands, and children of the victims will never know.

What became of their loved ones?

Sometimes, decomposing bodies appeared in black, sweaty polythene bags near their families' homes.

Faceless men dump the dead, tortured bodies in unmarked graves or throw others into enormous swamps, to become food for hungry catfish, flies, and black bare-neck vultures.

Occasionally, they release the fortunate ones but are warned never to talk about their experiences, especially in the media.

Others rot slowly in undisclosed prisons, supposedly military facilities.

The diplomatic corps, international corporations, and Democratic think tanks continue to celebrate on the terraces as usual.

These bureaucrats create more favourable media coverage and distribute more dollar checks, counterterrorism weaponry, and aid to eliminate more “terrorist” cells in Africa.

These imperialist agents fix their blue eyes on the continent's oil and minerals.

The need for cheaper oil to grease the monstrosity of capitalism outweighs the desire for democracy in Africa.

The revolution of an ideal green energy car is far from reality.

Washington, Paris, and London adore Africa's benign tyrants, especially those educated in the Western world and culture, and they massage these dictators’ egos and protect them rather than promoting young, unknown, firebrand 'Trojans.'

To compound it all, the Western capitals keep an eye on the dictators' stolen money, stored in their banks.

This money lubricates the Western economies and industries.

Nobody in Washington, London, Brussels, Moscow, or Beijing enjoys waking up to al-Qaeda-sponsored terror assaults.

Cry our beloved country! The “Pearl of Africa” passed away with Sir Winston Churchill. The ghosts of yesterday continue to haunt us, and we wonder if we are still human.