Liberators Became Oppressors

As I woke up this frigid, dark morning, the sky was heavy and hail fell on my tin roof,

I tried to close my ears but the loud noise was howling in my mind, 

All my reflexes ignited as the new fear took hold of my body,

I was reliving something traumatic about my life 35 years ago,

Today was a somber reminder of the political turmoil which my country has endured since 1981.

I remember days like yesterday when government soldiers fired their AK-47s into our home, we barely survived,

They shattered my father's door and dragged him out, including my brothers, my sisters, and me,

The agitated soldiers had rained kicks on us, one of the angry soldiers had urinated on my father's head, 

They bombarded us with questions,

When we didn't reply, they beat us with long yellow bamboo sticks.

Their commanding officer inquired harshly whether we knew where the guerrillas were hiding.

Two days before, a company of guerrillas brandishing AK-47s, rocket-propelled grenades, sub machines, and claymore mines had set up a deadly ambush and killed more than forty government soldiers,

After their bloody attack, the guerrillas had dissolved in the surrounding forests, carrying their booty and guns, leaving the consequences to the civilians,

I remember my old father had malaria, but that didn't stop the raging and erratic soldiers from hitting him,

Two soldiers hit him with gun butts, I watched as the scarlet blood gushed from his head, his right eye was swollen and I knew he would be dead soon,

I rushed and tried to protect him.

A government soldier kicked me in the rib cage, I was breathless. But I never lost my courage, I shouted at him. He aimed his rifle at my head, it was the intervention of their commander that saved my skin.

Momentarily, my father had passed out, and that dampened the anger of the soldiers, they were avenging the blood of their dead comrades,

The soldiers marched us along a cold, damp asphalt road, divided us into groups,

A long procession was made to jump like frogs towards the army encampment, a few miles away on a vaulted, sprawling hill with heavy 70mm field artillery guns provided by North Korea, and APCs. Hundreds of olive-green tents scattered its slopes,

I had tied a cloth around my father's head to stop the spout, then I carried him on my back,

He was heavy but I pressed on, though I was only twelve years old,

What was the essence of losing a father back then?

We had endured heavy bombardments, sleepless nights, extra-judicial killings, theft, and vicious attacks on civilians by the army and the guerrillas fighting for power and control.

The guerrillas had convinced the masses that they were fighting for their freedom.

A few weeks later, we were released unconditionally after the guerrillas organized one of their largest attacks on the capital, Kampala. The army was routed, the commanders abandoned their soldiers on the fields of battle, and fled into exile. 

Now, 35 years later, the same "liberators" have become monsters like their predecessors, the democracy they fought for, is now a mirage,

Security organs have kidnapped young people who support change, they have been imprisoned without trial, others have been murdered, elections are rigged every five years, corruption and embezzlement have remained widespread. 

This is the country we call home,

Looking back, I'm always traumatized when hailstones resonate on my tin roof! Such memories cling upon us like mud.