The government building was like a mausoleum. Reaching room no.28, meant climbing through a jumble of stairs and creeping past various idle and interrogative stares, to finally reach the sanctum sanctorum. The Ministry of Planning spans two buildings -- connected by a system of bridging staircases. It explains why the building has two identical 2nd floor addresses – 2 buildings mean 2 second floors.

Room no.28 was a steamy kitchen – an old man boiled water in a big sufuria.

Did I want some tea? He asked, very kindly.
"No, I am looking for Mr.____ ?"
"He is in room 28. The other Room 28"

I waited in the other Room 28. The red rexine sofa squeaked upon the slightest movement. So I sat very still, also because, I was watched over by the domineering bust of the president. It had a stout fiberglass torso – painted in shiny gold.

On my right were two men, reading the newspaper together. The excited topic of discussion was a prophecy by one of Uganda 's church leaders – the Holy Spirit had appeared to him in a dream, and warned that one of the contenders for president would die a horrible death. At the same time, the Holy Spirit had jumped into a rival Pastor's dream – this time urging his flock to vote for the president. Either way it was hopeless, the men concluded, there was nothing they could do.

On my left was a blonde-haired man who nodded ‘hello' with a French accent. He jabbed away earnestly, on the keyboard of a compact computer perched on his lap.
For a while, I flipped through the Kampala phonebook. It is a skinny volume, though the section for vices (‘Massage Parlor') in the Yellow Pages is much more bountiful and varied than Nairobi's. And Idi Amin is still a popular name.

The French man proved talkative. He spoke grandly of a ‘business plan' he was preparing for the government. It revolved around: the coffee plant, a mammal known as the civet cat which ate the coffee -- and the cat's droppings which apparently yielded great smelling coffee. Lots(‘beaucoup' ) of silver was at stake. The coup de grâce was a special machine to extract the coffee from the droppings ('remove the coffee from the sheeth' ).

That evening walking out of my regular coffee house, I stumbled and fell. A very short man with big arms patted me up, handing me my books and papers. He wore a battered motorcycle helmet. Before I could thank him, he skipped away, vaulting himself onto a parked contraption with dangerously sharp edges, three wheels and a handle bar. Within seconds he was gone, thundering away in a cloud of smoke, arm raised up in stately goodbye. I remembered then, he was the cripple who begged outside the coffee shop.