Raise Your Hand

Raise your hand if you hit a boda driver this week while driving to work, sending him tumbling off of his motorcycle into the intersection right in front a police officer who was directing traffic during rush hour.

What?  No one else?  Am I the only one with my hand raised?

With less than two weeks to go, the memorable events continue to “pile up,” so to speak.  After I waited about seven minutes as the third or fourth car in line at a controlled intersection, the traffic cop started waiving us forward, allowing vehicles to either go straight or turn right.  A mass of bodas (motorcycle taxis) swarmed forward like Africanized honey bees so I started slowly and tried to let everyone clear.  This left a pretty large gap in front of me as I began to proceed straight through the intersection.

As I picked up speed, a boda on my left side (remember, the driver is on the right side of the car) tried to pass me in order to turn right.  Unfortunately, his back tire clipped my left front bumper, causing him to spin out and then go down.  Hard.  With his bike on top of him.  Right in front of my car.  Since I saw the whole thing happen, and since I was going no more than 15 MPH on impact, I was able to stop before running him over.  Though dazed, he didn’t appear to be injured as he lifted the bike off of himself and slowly rose to his feet.  His already-beat-up bike seemed to be OK, other than the fact that the seat had bent over to one side.  He put it back in place and then looked up at me.  We made eye contact from a distance of about five meters.  On the other side of the intersection was a gathering of about fifty boda drivers waiting for their turn to enter the intersection.  Seeing them brought instant flashbacks to several criminal cases I have worked on where boda drivers formed a flash mob and beat the living posho out of those who angered them.

Gulp.

As I looked at the guy I hit, I lifted my hands and shrugged as if to say, “My bad, you OK, dude?”  He simply shrugged back as if to say, “You are lucky I am not hurt or fifty of my closest friends over there would beat you like the step kid of an ugly goat.”  Just over the shoulder of the boda driver, I noticed the police officer in the middle of the intersection marching toward me, angrily blowing his whistle, and shaking his finger at me as if to say, “Forget the boda drivers.  I have a stationhouse full of police officers who will skin you like a goat at a wedding feast if you don’t . . .”

What did he want me to do?  I just stared at him frozen.  It was then that I realized the huge herd of cars behind me were furiously honking because I was holding up traffic.  The cop then over-exaggerated a motion that clearly meant I was supposed to go around the boda driver and proceed on my way.  So I did.

About three hours later, my pulse finally began to slow.  I am not sure I can handle any more excitement over the course of our last two weeks here.

A few updates before I close.  The final juvenile was sentenced on Friday, which officially ended the J-FASTER session.  All fifteen of the juveniles’ cases in the Pilot Program resolved prior to a verdict.  Two of the four cases that also involved adults are wrapping up this next week.  At the same time, I am feverishly trying to finish the final report and recommendations for how the structures can be changed so that no juveniles in Uganda will ever again be warehoused while waiting for trial, and so that the integration of plea bargaining into the adult criminal justice system can dramatically reduce the backlog of cases and thereby substantially reduce the waiting time before trial.

On Wednesday night, we had celebrated the Fourth of July at our place with most of the Pepperdine law students (and a Regent law student) who are over here right now working for various members of the Ugandan Judiciary.

Fourth of July Party

On Thursday night, Joline, the kids, and I spoke to all 200+ soon-to-be-graduating students at Henry’s school.  Our assignment was to compare the U.S. educational system to that of Uganda and to discuss what potential opportunities there were for Ugandans to go to college in America.  Fortunately, we had with us a graduate from that same secondary school who had just finished his sophomore year at Pepperdine.  We had a great time and the students seemed to enjoy having us there.  At the end, they gave us all nicknames:

Speaking to the Students at Henry's School

Jim and Pepperdine Student George Kakuru

Joline was given the name “Kirabo,” which means “Gift.”

Jessica was given the name “Birungi,” which means “The Beautiful One” (she was quite popular with the boys there).

Joshua was given the name “Rukundo,” which means “Love” (he was quite popular with the girls there).

Jennifer was given the name Sanyu, which means “Joy” (they thought she was adorable).

And I was given the name Habomugisha, which means “The Lucky One.”  It was clear to them that I was blessed to be married to Joline and to have Jessica, Joshua, and Jennifer as my children.  Amen.