Riding in a taxi, this morning, from Kla central to the serene environment of Makerere University where I work, my train of thought was interrupted by a ringing of a cellphone. It was the driver's.
Since I was seated just behind him, I overheard the conversation. It was sad news that the caller delivered. His child has been knocked dead by a vehicle. This completely disoriented the fellow who, only moments before, had been in such a good mood. How fast things change during the course of one day, or for that matter, within one morning.
I noticed that he started to drive a bit faster, cutting through the clutter that is on our roads, throwing caution to the wind [are taxi-drivers cautious, anyway?]. I kind of drifted into "autopilot" mode, hoping that nothing goes wrong and we end up as statistics in the Traffic Police files.
Seeming to regain his composure, the driver narrated what had happened. This child had been taken to the village by his aunt, just three days ago. The intention was to get the child out of the rumble and tumble, hustle and bustle of the city to the calm atmosphere of a rural setting. Now, a one-year old child who had just learned to walk was mowed down by a truck carrying sand to a construction site nearby.
It was not clear whether it was neglect by someone who was supposed to mind the child or it was the child, who, upon finding his or her first steps, walked himself or herself to his or her death in one of those freak accidents.
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