Dial M for Murder

I got the number and email address of a man who knows a man who knows how to deal with people who need dealing with. His name is Black Captain, and his business is situated in Kisenyi.

You can bet your sweet ass I am not going to any Kisenyi. Not when, thanks to the great strides in development made by this nation since the introduction of mobile telephony, I can just contract a hired killer from the comfort of my home.

EB: Hello, could I speak to Black Captain, please? I'm trying to get in touch with Black Captain.

Other End: This is Black Captain, Assassinations, treachery and bootleg CDs. How can I be of service?

EB: I wish to have a work colleague of mine "offed" in a discreet and non-odorous manner. He smells bad enough alive.

Black Captain: "Offed" is such an archaic and outdated term sir. It implies that we have something to hide...

EB: We do have something to hide. The remains.

Black Captain: Well, Modern Assassins and Contract Killers guild prefers the more new-millennium politically correct term.

EB: Sigh. And what would that be?

Black Captain: "Murdered", sir.

EB: Kale nno.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

I’d like to apologise for the delay. I got a bit distracted by things that I will freely admit are not as important as our primary objective. But I have been well-reprimanded, I have been shown the error of my ways. I have been chastised. No more delays. We are back on track.

Sidney and Death have an appointment and I have to arrange it.

The political atmosphere being what it is at present, what with the recent arrest of Dr Kiyingi for the murder of his wife (do these people understand the concepts of violation of human rights, due process, lawsuit, presumed innocent until proven guilty, forced confession, arrest warrant, tyranny, fascism, stupid drunk ISO idiot barging into your house at night and sticking a gun in your face and saying “Confess or I’ll kill you!”? I am getting carried away. This is for the other blog…)

The government and its boys are all up and excited about catching murderers right now. That means I cannot give my victim a spectacular and flamboyant send-off. I would have liked something nice and glamorous, with fireworks and stuff, but I do not want to end up on the other side of the newspapers. So I will have to do this discreetly. So that they don’t even find the body for like eight months or so…

My conscience is eating me alive. I have done a horrible thing. I must get it off my chest

I was in Ange scouring the floor for hot chicks with no inhibitions and nice personality, when I saw out of the corner of my eye, guess who? Ugandan dancehall superstar Jose Chameleone!

“That’s that nigga who has been singing all those shit songs fucking up my life!” screamed my left brain hemisphere.

I had to do something.

So I crept up behind him and when he wasn’t looking I stuck my hand through the crowd and banged my fist hard over his head. Then I crept away sniggering.

A little further on, who do I see but Chameleone’s rival, other Ugandan dancehall superstar Bobi Wine?

“That’s that other nigga who has been singing all those other shit songs fucking up my life!” a familiar voice in my head forcefully declared.

I repeated the process and crept away again.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bebe Cool.

“What is this, Christmas?”

I am an instrument of wrath. I crept up and scratched his neck with a key.

Then look what happened.

Now that's gangsta

Every silver lining has a dark cloud

Monday was lovely. Operation Spike (for what’s an evil plan without a codename?) was successful, and Sid spent 76% of every hour of the working day either perched on the porcelain or in transit between here and the local loo. That figure was arrived at with the help of Microsoft Excel and I would like to thank Bill Gates. By the way Bill, I heard you were at Live 8. Bonga. Did you get to meet Black Eyed Peas? How about that Fergie, eh? She is one hot tamale with the chilli sauce, isn’t she? I think you should go ahead and make your move. Go on. Don’t believe what they say about you being the world’s biggest supergeek, believe in yourself instead. Go Bill! Get Busy! Go Bill! It’s your birthday. But I digress.

Oh yes. Operation Spike meant our target spent so much time in the lavatory that by four he was calling the IT department asking them to wire his computer up to the loos so he can just work from there. It was a beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, today dawned. Bringing with it the first of a few of the side-effects of the medicine.

That’s right. Flatulence. I wish I had read the label on the bottle first.

I think it’s back to plan A. The man must die.

They have croaked

The poisoned corn worked. Don't let it ever be said that lawyers are never useful. Not only did the roosters die awful, drawn-out, painful deaths, with each hour more excruciating than the last, but I got a clever idea.

I am not going to poison, young Sidney, of course not.

But I am going to put a liberal dose of laxatives in his coffee. The more time he spends in the toilet, the less time he spends bothering me.

I am the genius I always suspected myself to be.

Strong-arming the law

All this trouble just because one stupid chicken can’t shut up. Yesterday day I got a call from a little bespectacled man with a bad complexion. I couldn’t see him, but he certainly sounded like a geek, so I am sure my description isn’t too far off the mark. The caller said his name was Kisembo and he was Sidney’s attorney. He sounded quite full of himself.
When I called him a smarmy pint of droppings, he was unfazed. He continued to smarm at me about how he could get a court injunction restricting me from yadda yadda. In essence he said, “Stop beating my client’s face in every morning because you’re in a bad mood. The man cannot afford to lose any more teeth.”

“Or what?” I asked. It was the natural question.

“Or I shall have to file for (some more legal yadda yadda.)”

I asked Kisembo if he knew anything about poultry control. There was a pause at the other end before he sighed audibly.

“Don’t tell me. Neighbour’s got a rooster.”

“Plural. Roosters.”

I could almost sense the tension on the other end of the phone as the little man battled with his conscience. He was a lawyer, and that meant he was not supposed to give free advice ever. But then it is hard to just sit back and watch another man suffer (unless it’s Sidney). Finally he blurted out: “Poisonedmaizecobsjustleavethemscatteredaroundtheyard!” and he hung up.

Hmmm.