In the morning, I went to the market, thinking that perhaps they might be selling fish. As I was driving down an empty street I spotted a green Land Rover behind me. It disappeared, but a minute later it was there again, and as it overtook me I caught a glimpse of Amin bent over the steering wheel. The Land Rover sped on ahead, passing a crossroads, where I lost sight of it. Even so, I swear I could actually hear him – could hear his laughter in fact, receding, just audible. Shortly after I came up behind a convoy of vehicles, moving slowly – open Jeeps and soldiers, all in helmets, aiming their rifles into the trees as they passed them. In the middle of the convoy I noticed Amin’s shiny Citroën-Maserati, and on the back seat there was the massive figure of an officer who I could tell had been shot – caught, no doubt, by a sniper.

In driving behind the convoy, I wanted to be very inconspicuous. In fact, from the moment I spotted Amin, I made a point of neither accelerating nor slowing down – no turning or stopping. It’s a well-known tactic: not to draw attention to yourself, to shrink to the size of a drop and sink into the ground. The eyes of these people are fixed, looking through the sights of their rifles, looking for a victim. In killing they seem to find an outlet, some kind of confirmation.

After some time – it seemed a frightfully long time – the convoy turned towards Naguru and I drove down to Kisenyi.

Old Man Potchikoo