Tales of Freedom…

The day was 14^th March, 1962.

I’d just been appointed to the Kabaka’s Legal Council for consultations a few months back, because my English was fluent and I’d just finished my Law course at the University of Dar es Salaam in the early months on 1960.

I hurried amidst the bamboo and tall grass that led me to a path from my father’s house towards the palace. The royal guard had warmed up to my sweet smiley face and they knew I had business with the King. Kabaka Muteesa II was quite a liberal man in my eyes and he was present from 1984 when the country became a British protectorate. So, I trusted his judgement and bargaining power. The only misgiving I had was his ability to tell the British off. He had been a puppet for these white men and his region had benefited for quite some time. I wasn’t sure if he’d get a good bargain but oh well, I had to trust him, there was nothing much I could do moving forward.

I scurried through the palace gates into the hefty building at the epicenter of the compound where Mukasa sat. Mukasa was the right-hand man to the King and is the one who had initiated me into the palace customs when I’d just been appointed to the Legal Council. He was a huge sturdy gentleman, with a mustache covering the most part of his face and a roundish well shaped nose, peeking through the facial hair. He was somewhat cocky but all the men who worked at the palace were, so I couldn’t hold it against him. He stood up when he saw me and approached with a fairly widespread beam.

“Nyabo watukidde watuffu. Tubadde tunatera kuchima Kabaka tuyingire meeting.” His thick, fluent Luganda accent reverberated through my ears as he spoke.

I politely smiled back and he led me through the huge hall, down to the far end of the castle. The rooms we passed were filled with artifacts of bark cloth and ancient hunting gear that could’ve been used by Muteesa II’s fathers and the ancestors of the Buganda Kingdom. I’d never been to this end of the castle so everything seemed to enthrall me. The thick Luganda accents and the way the words slipped through the gentlemen’s tongues amused me. I struggled with my Luganda because I grew up for the most part with the Kenyans and went to law school in Dar, so my Luganda was scanty but here I was.

****

The room was still when we entered. Four heavy set white men in khakhi shorts and vests, sat on the right side of the room, engaged in deep conversation, small trickles of sweat fell down their faces but their armpits were sweating profusely. They slightly looked up when they announced the entry of the Kabaka and stoop up as he walked in.

On the left, I noticed Milton Obote with his thick Afro, sitting by his wife and other gentlemen from his party that had been established at the start of the year.

As we ambled in with the Kabaka leading us, we were directed to sit on the left with Obote and once the Kabaka had sat, the negotiations commenced.

“Mr. McGaunagh, my people tell me that the queens guard suppresses them and the sales in coffee have greatly declined because your people are exporting the coffee without paying the dues.” The Kabakas’ rich and well-modulated voice authoritatively filled the room as he addressed the gentleman in the middle.

“Now, I’m not one to be ungrateful. I recognize the changes that you and your queen have brought to my land. The education,” he said this while turning and pointing towards my direction, “buildings and roads. But I think it is time that we took back our land. Our children have learnt your language and have gone to university. Our resources are fast being depleted and our fore fathers refuse to die on a white man’s grip.” The Kabaka continued.

“But err, your grace, erm, my queen has not yet given us the go ahead to leave… I know err, some of the boys are being too harsh but we can work sumfing around that your grace can’t we now?” Mr. McGaunagh that had been silent to this point, spoke in a heavy British accent that we could barely make out the words he uttered.

“Rubbish!” Obote bellowed abruptly.

“This land is not yours. Our fathers and their fathers before that tamed these lands way before you came and took everything fro us! Enough is enough!” His voice was now a high pitch and he had to be calmed back to his seat by the royal guard.

Everyone was squirming nervously in their seats and the room erupted into a frantic babble. McGaunagh and his five men turned to look at each other and mumbled some words that we couldn’t make out.

“Attention please, everyone should remain silent if they haven’t been given the mantle to speak. Milton, please don’t disturb this diplomatic round table again.” The Kabaka crossly bawled.

“Now, Mr. McGaunagh, you have already witnessed the riots that are breaking out in the country and are slowly impending the central region. My people are weary and need to be given their independence. The British have already left Ghana, Cameroon, Libya, and I can keep citing them. Mr. McGaunagh, your time is up in Uganda too. The wave of independence that is fast sweeping through this continent will force you to move back to your country. World war II hit you very critically and Europe is in recession now. Just consent to leave and we will all be in concord and content.”

The five chubby white men twisted restlessly in their spaces and by this time, their shirts jammed to their skin as the sweat continued rolling down their faces. And in a tone of resignation, Mr. McGaunagh turned, head bent, towards the Kabaka and mumbled something like he was going to talk to his superiors and they would meet in a few weeks.

The Kabaka seemed satisfied with this response. He turned slightly to Obote who also nodded in affirmation and the meeting ended.

****

On 8th October, 1962, after back and forth endless deliberations and drafting of contracts, Mr. McGaunagh sent a final telegram to the Kabaka stating that they were leaving and that Uganda could have their independence on the 9th before they traveled back to England.

The drums that sounded at the palace that evening, the harps, horn blows and the drinks that passed around were sufficient to last a whole month of feasting. And so, I was given the mantle to draft the last and final contract between the palace and the British guard. I spent the whole night into morning formulating obligatory words and by dawn, as I placed my pen down to get some sleep before the big day, I knew the white man was never coming back. We’d beaten him at his own game of words but only this time, we both knew the language and the laws. No one was going to step on us this time round…

****