It was your typical shiny afternoon, around 1pm. He was leaving Buganda Road Library where he had spent two weeks of his second term holiday in preparation for his mock exams. In his right hand, he clenched two one thousand notes; it was his lunch money, only that he wasn’t going to spend it on katogo as usual. He had a different plan for it that day, a ‘diabolical’ plan he had been mulling over for the past week, and this time he was determined to execute it. With a grave face and ostrich strides—as if someone was going to stop him—he paced towards a new internet café across Bombo road.
He reached the entrance and paused, as if second guessing his actions. He was bat-shit scared, and yet had the determination of a hen trying to eat a snake. With the guilty conscious of a teenage girl entering an abortion clinic, he glanced over his shoulders, sighed; and then pushed the door open, entering right foot forward.
The room was dazzling and still; the only audible sound was the low volume Indian music playing from the front desk computer and three fans rattling on the recently repainted blue walls. It is the smell of this paint and fresh vanish that leaped to greet him like a caged lapdog.
“Can I help you please?” asked the Indian girl behind the front desk.
“I want time for 1k” he mumbled in reply, unclenching his quivering fist to pick out one of the notes.
The girl punched a few keys on her keyboard and slid over a small chit with a code to him. He stood still for a second, scanning the whole room for the most discreet free computer. Like in scary movies,—that part where the villain stalks an unsuspecting girl with a blood-dripping knife and thrilling sound effects playing in the background—he clasped his code tight and made for the computer on the extreme left.
He made himself comfortable in his semi-enclosed cell, wiped his sweaty hands over his thighs, and started stroking in the code. By now his heart was throbbing at about 150 beats per minute, he could literally feel it through his butt. While his knees were clapping in anxiety under the station, the little tennis match—good Vs ‘evil’—up in his head was in its final set, and apparently ‘evil’ was a more talented player. With the culpable look on his perspiring face, it wouldn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to tell this guy was up to no good. In fact, you couldn’t fault anyone for thinking he was there to remotely detonate a bomb in some babies home, or record his last words before executing a cybersuicide pact.
On the contrary, the little bastard was only there to break his porn virginity.