Oh! What have I done!?!

I have started to feel some pangs of remorse. The Machiavellian in me was waning, giving way to the little teddy-ruxpin-teletubby-softy-wuss-care-bear within me that is otherwise called a conscience. I know it sounds silly, and that I am completely overreacting, and that I am being ridiculous and that you will roll your eyes but I could not help asking myself what you will doubtless consider an asinine question:

Did I really have to go and have a nigga killed?

I spent the weekend trying to shake the question off, but it wouldn’t go. Every unguarded moment it was there. During the commercial breaks, it was there. When one bottle was finished and I was waiting for the next one, it was there. Every idle moment, conscience was asking, “You could have just had him transferred, or fired. You didn’t have to get a hitman to kill him.”

In the end I broke down and cried. This end happened in the middle of a burger dinner at Nandos and caused a couple of patrons to look at me and sneer at such unhygienic behaviour i.e. sobbing uncontrollably on my knees in the middle of such a classy place.

I was able to stop sobbing long enough to give each of them the finger and articulate the words “classy my ass” before I returned to my breakdown.

I fortunately able to regain my composure as I was being carted to Butabika, and convince the cops to drop me off in Nakawa (50K did the trick), where I started to think optimistically. Maybe he is not dead. Maybe he really is on leave. Maybe I am not a horrible and evil and ill-mannered person after all.

“Yeah right,” conscience said.

So I went and had another beer. Okay, another crate.