On Tuesday, May 8, 2023, I almost died when I was not even thinking about it. I was in fact asleep when I nearly died, sandwiched between two women with whom I had had good conversations for more than 15 kilometres.
I remember thinking, with the seats of the car pressing down on my body, unable to move, “Am I dead yet?” I know it maybe strange for some people to think about but the journalist in me was waiting, wondering, “How does a dead person hear?”
In hindsight, I should have known there was something unusual about this day. Perhaps I should have listened to my instincts more. I should have made the journey from Kampala to Mbarara during the day but instead I travelled at night. Against my own judgment.
You see, I had to make it to Mbarara that Tuesday because I was going to stand surety for my naughty brother Hamstrong who had got himself into another legal situation.
I was so caught up in work at Next Media Services in Naguru, Kampala that were it not for my mother’s call, I would probably have forgotten.
Adam Nuwamanya in office with producer Dalton Kaweesa in the background
The “funny” thing is that almost everyone else around me remembered that I had this civic duty to do for my brother.
I was still working that Monday night at 10pm when my boss Paul Lwanga, the Chief Operations Officer, came over to my desk and exclaimed, “Eh, Ssalongo, you are still here?”
I had no choice, I explained to Lwanga, “I have a script I have to finish because I have been allowed to be off tomorrow (that horrible Tuesday) and Wednesday because I will stand in for my senior Quality Controller Emma, who is starting his leave on Thursday.”
I joked with Lwanga, “Ahh ahem, that reminds me. The twins’ birthday is loading…three days from now.”
To my surprise, Lwanga handed me a precious shillings 50,000 note, “Get something for the twins.”
I left office at 10:50pm.
Looking back at the Next Media offices as I walked down the hill, I had no idea that I would not be back in Naguru for nearly a month instead of two days. The building, with its red logo, glowing in the Kampala night sky is one of the most beautiful sights you can ever see and I felt anew the privilege I have to work here with some of the smartest and most hardworking journalists in the country.
Facing the pile of laundry in my single room in Bukoto, I could not bring myself to ignore it though I was running late. I found myself talking myself into action, “Why don’t I soak them, go home tomorrow, sort out those issues throughout the day, then return and put them out for sun-drying on Wednesday?”
That’s how I ended up finally making it to the Bakuli Terminal to board a Global Bus at 11:45pm. Tired from a long day, I hoped I would be able to have about five hours of some rest as the bus made its way to Mbarara in the night. Tuesday finding me at Mbarara Taxi Park. It did.
Mbarara city maybe sleeping as the dawn creeps across the sky but the taxi park never is. The calls of the touts to my destination in Mbarara-Ishaka, “Nooz’ Ishaka, nooza’ Ibanda, nooza Ntungamo, Isingiro murahi, Kabale akamotoka nkariya kari ready Sebo kankutwareeho,” charming me as they always do when I hear them.
I was glad to get into a new looking Toyota Hiace Drone. I was even more delighted when my fellow passengers on either side were two friendly women who started up a conversation with me. All the more animated when they learned that I work for the mighty NBS Television.
But travelling at night is stressful and tiring. At some point, we started to drift off into sleep again. One of the women on my left side did not even object when in nodding off, I accidentally rested my head on her shoulder and sometimes bosom. I was tired but I was happy that I was so near home. I would be seeing all the people I love soon!This is what I was thinking when I drifted away from what could have been my final moments of consciousness.
Police would later reconstruct in the factual way they do what had happened to us.
The two taxis that collided
All I can say for sure is I remember being jolted out of my sleep by a loud bang that I did not just hear but “felt” in my bones. When I heard a woman screaming, “Jesus, Jesus!” as I came to, I knew we must have been in an accident.
But it was not even over. I could hear glasses shattering, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut instinctively. We were tossing and turning and even in the moment, I knew our drone taxi must be rolling over and over.
I remember thinking, “is this how I’m meant to die? Has God called my name?” I was not ready! I did not want to leave my twin daughters yet. I could not imagine what life would be like for them without me. What about my Nalongo? Was I going to make her a widow at her young age? God, no! I had spent a long time without uttering the name Jesus in my mouth but I joined others to shout His name!
Eye witnesses would testify how this terrible accident had happened.
On sighting some passengers waiting at Kabwohe main stage, the two drivers had started to race each other to get to them first. The passengers at the stage were traders, heading to Bunyaruguru with merchandise for Tuesday’s Kagango Market. They pay good money. More than just passengers.
This being a rural part of Mbarara, herdsmen were leading their cattle to the fields that early morning. As the two racing drivers tried to avoid running into cows in the road, they collided, fatally.
I remember finally opening my eyes when the taxi had stopped overturning and gazing at the lady on whose bosom I had rest my head. She was not moving. She was not saying anything. As my vision stabilised, I realised why. In the accident, one of the metallic parts of the taxi had “shaven” off her skull and her brains were exposed. She was dead. She was not the only one. My other neighbour on the right was dead too. But I was alive. I could not understand it. I still do not.
From seemingly faraway, I heard someone yelling, “Pull these people here. They should be rushed to hospital. Help! Some are alive.”
The dazed author after being extracted from the accident
“Which hospital?” another asked, “Kabwohe or Mbarara Referral?”
“Kabwohe because if you refer them to Mbarara, some will not reach there alive. It’s far. Don’t you see this one (pointing at me) has lost too much blood?”
The critical six of us were bundled in a Toyota Noah and rushed to Bushenyi Medical Centre in Kabwohe, Sheema on the advice of being taken to a private facility after a thorough warning to us against the government aided-Kabwohe Health Centre which they claimed did not even have Panadol on their shelves.
In the accident, I had suffered a fracture in my right arm, with a deep cut that caused heavy blood loss. My face was swollen three times its usual size from the “punches” of being rolled in that taxi. Every part of my body ached.
But I was alive. I still don’t know how I’m. But I’m grateful.
Life stopped and then restarted.
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