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This corner of Makerere is silent every morning. Whether the lecture rooms are filled with students studying for money, those dreaming of saving the country, and the many who just want a prestigious degree, or the seats are cool from want of human warmth. Not this Monday though, light murmurs twirl in the air. Students are gathered for a crucial cause. Our queue of the unlucky stretches from inside the auditorium to the walkway. Whoever cannot stand the sun roasting lounges under the trees. I sternly stare at nothing, pondering how marks go missing. Like with intense thinking, I’ll crack this university-long unsolved mystery. I distract myself with my phone. “Homosexuality is against the Bible and our values.” is the tweet that welcomes me, a comment recommends lynching. Sudden coldness; scenes of the suspected thief being beaten to a pulp at my residential hall four nights back flash before my eyes. I open Instagram to block that night while looking out, lest the person behind me notices the scrumptious unclothed men that dominate my feed. You are never far away from being mobbed. Is anything above the people of this country? A law prohibiting indecent dressing was implemented by men publicly undressing women that they adjudged indecent. After that dose of a visual buffet, I insert my earbuds and retreat to Spotify. The queue crawls, my pop playlist is replaying but I’m nowhere near the entrance. With no friend to chat the time away, I feel everyone watch my presence and notice my absence. I look left to right, pretend to be engrossed by something on my phone. Then look right to left. I look again for what I think I caught between left and right.

The commonness of a surrounding allows an unusual presence to radiate. What the eyes have known will hardly draw their gaze but they will return to a sight that defies the site. And there they were. I say they not to be gender neutral or that I perceived them as a they/them person. I say they for there’s beauty that cannot and should not be compounded in a singular form as he or she. There is a face that would grace a man, a woman, and any human. A facialness that cannot camouflage. Unorthodox facial architecture that will have you labeled. Aphrodisiac eyes that had the machoest boy in high school terrorize you, for the epic wet dreams smeared all over his sheets. A magazine cover face blueprint that has girls asking why you wear mascara and do your eyebrows, only to glow with envy upon realizing that’s all and only you. A visage that inspires reverence in a room or blows up the room. I swiftly stare at intervals, careful not to scare this great blue turaco away, but mostly, this is a face you digest in portions much like eating Nile perch under candlelight. You must watch out for small bones that may kill you before you taste the best part; its umami eyes. This isn’t the movie club scene where I push through the crowds to reach the pretty girl at the centre of the dance floor. It is law school where I don’t want to be so obvious. I look away, and fast for our paths to cross again. 

Back to earth, I’m at the auditorium’s entrance. My neck twists for one more glance but I see no reason behind me to be thankful for vision. On reaching Dr. Nalwoga, she peruses her MacBook for my records, then sends me to the examination officer’s office to find my script. Not too long into turning each box over, and attentively looking for my student number on every script, ‘Wewe! Wewe!’ reverberates through the office. I continue my quest, campaign rallies tone down their ghetto when they reach law school. The examination officer frantically ascends from her chair, sending a box of scripts flying off her table to the floor. ‘Put everything back. I’m closing. Maybe come back another day.’ It’s five to twelve, and don’t these selfless diligent administrators love to begin their lunch hour at midday. Out the administration block, I glance at the auditorium’s entrance while heading to the cafeteria. Some students fight to get in, others push to get out, locking both in the door. Their bodies rub against each other, shirts and blouses almost peeling off. A mosaic of bodies framed by the auditorium’s wooden doorcase. A girl falls through leaving an opening, I see who the eyes already know that still arrests their gaze. There they are. I see them. The opening quickly closes into a crack. I race walk to the entrance. There’s no way through. A girl a few feet to my right asks the girl who fell through what’s happening inside. ‘They have caught a gay,’ as she brushes dirt off her jeans. 

I freeze, trying to conjure anything else she could have said that is not what I think I heard, but my mind falls short. I dive into the bodied doorway, hoping my clue as to what brews on the other side isn’t true. After elbows, pushing, pulling, body dampness and unfriendly odors, I stumble through. I look all over myself if I am still together, then scan the auditorium. Finally, they’re sitting at the extreme left of the fifth row, in the left column. They are swarmed by over five people. Their enchanting aura submerged in chaos; a halo gradually fading. At that instant, I see him. The air dictates that they be he, for only a he can be arraigned for his dissimilarity. I walk to him. Wadimba swoops in, throws his left arm over my back shoulder, ‘My brother! Come see how these people have infiltrated eMakerere. Even law school? You’d think they fear counsels but they’re here, shamelessly contravening Leviticus 20:13.’ Him and his words, I can’t decide what’s more nauseating. We always clash in class debates. Wadimba is a “staunch born-again.” He preaches on campus streets, with almost the same conviction with which he defends the government when the police and army flog opposition supporters demonstrating on Kampala streets.

I wriggle free of him only to be ambushed by some lousy lanky lad, obviously not of this school. ‘Maani oba buno bu kyali buwoomerwa ki mu matako,’ he babbles, spittle escaping his mouth. I’m offended he saw an audience in me. Upon reaching the muse of the crusade, our eyes lock. I almost smile but Akot’s screeching voice stings my ear drum scaring the smile back into me. ‘My dear, you’re a man. I, Akot Dorothea Ogwal, a woman. You’ll never be a woman,’ she professes women’s rights and rebukes the patriarchy as she always does in class. Some guys barge in demanding that he is handed over to them, they take him to Lumumba hall “bakimalire eyo.” This pristine-looking guy interjects. His accent betrays his sleek white dress shirt, blue argyle tie, midnight blue trousers, and black Oxfords look. His face too is unfamiliar in this part of campus. He blasts the guys for “acting uncivilized” and insists that “matters are settled amicably”, whatever that means. He doesn’t add up. He tells him to push, and sits next to him, they start talking. Not loud enough for my ear. Seeing Ezekiel raises my hopes. In a charcoal grey suit, purple paisley tie and dark brown Monk Straps, he strides to us, a tailcoat train of regal brushing the floor behind him. His hands pocketed, you’d believe in there is the power to order sanity. Last week he managed to dissuade students at our hall from killing a thief they had caught leaving someone’s room with a laptop. Standing on a flower vase in the quadrangle, he shouted from his lungs like Simon Peter changed his mind and defended Jesus against the Roman soldiers. Otherwise, they would’ve killed that thief too, like the one last semester. After which the warden would’ve invited a police officer to give a “Dangers of Mob Justice Lecture”, like the one last semester. One wonders why they attempted another murder this semester.

Despite being a sophomore, Ezekiel is someone people listen to, especially within law spaces. In addition to topping his class, his eloquence is crème on his milky looks. I am eager to watch him speak sense into the room. ‘Just so we’re clear, I am one hundred percent straight…’ is as far as I listen. All I heard was, Hey guys! These beings are also human but I’m not like them so if I fail to convince you otherwise, please don’t lynch me. My consciousness reverts to the venust, he sits alone, the pristine guy stands in the gangway talking into a phone. He looks everywhere as though he’s watching out for someone. He hangs up, and returns to the axis. Ezekiel, our hetero-hero goes on and on. His handsome lecture drowns in waves of ‘Wewe!’ ‘Wewe!’ ‘Wewe!’ The choir is at a distance, it loudens as they near until they stomp into the auditorium. Guild presidential candidate Baleke Huzaifah of Unity Political Party leads the torrent of students. The lean student of education whose popularity sparked after being manhandled by university police during a porridge night stands in the doorway. His fading black suit billows over his gangling anatomy. His entrance ignites exuberance. ‘Wewe!’ he commands, to which the room (except me of course) answers, ‘Wewe!’ The pristine guy walks to him. They shake hands, and talk like people who have business together. The pristine guy points to the dandelion that unknowingly summoned all these wasps. They walk to him. The pristine guy, ‘This is Kasagga-’ ‘Ggenza Kasagga. You can call me Nzaka,’ his voice resembles his face. ‘Ggenza Kasagga,’ I tell myself. I believe it. What other letters put together would embody this? ‘Ggenza Kasagga’ Like the name of a folklore prince whose father, the Kabaka, sent to Ssese island, away from every subject who on seeing the young prince was bewitched to gaze upon him one more time. They sought him, followed him, and breached the palace walls for just one more glimpse of him. The Kabaka’s wives conspired to put him to rest so the prince would be Kabaka, and they would be his- The pristine guy snaps his fingers at the three guys besides Baleke, and gestures his head to Nzaka. 

All the pieces fall in place. The three guys grab Nzaka from his seat. I reach for Nzaka, uncertain where to hold without breaking him. Ezekiel stands in the way, his hands spread out reaching for walls not in proximity, ‘Guys you don’t want to do this. Guys, we’re better than this.’

‘These are things spoiling the great eMakerere. Girlifying our boys into wimpy sissified girls who cannot stand up to this oppressive university administration,’ shouts Baleke.

He turns, his right index finger in Nzaka’s face, ‘You expect such to fight the dictator?’  

Akot jumps in, arms folded across her bosom shaking her head to the rhythm of her words, ‘So what? Mbu you’re going to kill him?’

‘Obviously not, we want to help our confused brother here become normal. Just a campus tour. Aren’t you the feminist from Mary Stuart? You were protesting over the sorry state of your hall bathrooms. We’ve the same vision; a better Makerere!  Come with us. Even though you females have failed us. Letting our boys go astray,’ his fingers snap in Nzaka’s face.

‘I’ll die before I team up with a misogynist. Kiss my vote and the whole of Mary Stuart votes goodbye,’ she retorts.

Baleke shrugs, his face almost sorry, then clueless as ‘misogynist?’ flies around his head. His sycophants shove Akot and Ezekiel out of the way. They drag Nzaka, taking me along, my arms locked around his hand. Ezekiel runs out the auditorium and shuts the door from outside. The large room erupts; students shout while others point their phone cameras at us. The deep-voiced sycophants chant, ‘Ebisiyaga tubigobe!’ ‘Ebisiyaga tubigobe!’ We’re at the door, the sycophants push to open as Ezekiel pushes to keep it closed. I hold onto Nzaka but I am doing nothing. The psychos have him in a stronghold. Revulsion engulfs me, testing my ability to handle body contact with these goons that smell like puberty moved in yesterday. I try my best to pull despite being no match for the election hungry gang. They force the door open, throwing Ezekiel to the ground. The daylight blazes upon us like it is night inside. As they drag us off the auditorium’s portico, ‘Wewe! Wewe! Wewe! Wewe!’ an influx of fresh roars fills the clime. Their commander is National Sovereignty Party’s guild presidential candidate Onesmus Karuhanga alias Oneka. A sufficiently fleshy man who has evidently appreciated the wonder that is food. His white shirt buttons and buttonholes cling onto the other to contain his pouring gut, his navy blue tweed suit brags of being custom-made, and a yellow houndstooth tie swings below his neck. His minions stand in the way, and like programmed bots in sync sing, ‘Oneka! Oneka! Oneka! Oneka!’ while clapping their hands, and stomping their feet. Baleke’s face tightens, the veins along his temple pulsate. He whistles. His sycophants revert to the auditorium, dragging Nzaka and I along, then shut the door. Baleke is fuming, he frustratedly shouts at the pristine guy demanding to know how Oneka knew. ‘So-Social media! People have been posting everywhere.’

‘I’m not a fool. I know that, but I haven’t been here long enough for Oneka to gather such numbers to find us here,’ Baleke shouts back. 

‘If you accuse me of anything, say it and don’t go around in corners,’ he replies feigning irritation. 

Baleke walks to his sycophants. They encircle him as he mutters. From the middle, he launches his campaign song, ‘Baleke!’ The sycophants sing back, ‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Baleke!’

‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Ba’NSP!’

‘Tetubaleka!’

Baleke continues, ‘Ba’oppressors!’

The sycophants respond, ‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Ba’Vice Chancellor!’

‘Tetubaleka!’

Baleke sings with even more vigor, ‘Baleke!’

‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Abasiyazi!’ adds Baleke.

‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Ba’gay!’

‘Tetubaleka!’

‘Baleke!’

‘Tetuba—’ a bang on the door which springs open throwing the two Baleke lackeys who were on guard to either side, a chunky chap falls through flat on his round face. All eyes to the front of the auditorium door where the fat fellow lays flat as a giant slug on the terrazzo. Given the force with which he knocked that door open, and ultimately landed on the floor, we all think he’s dead, at least I do. After approximately three long minutes of examination room silence, he slowly lifts his flabby arm like a wounded soldier on the battlefield raising a white flag, and with whatever energy left in him, he squeals, ‘Onekaaaaa!’ The Onekans surge into the auditorium like a cesspool has exploded at the entrance. 

They charge towards Nzaka, four of them hold him. I realize Nzaka and I had been separated. They barely move before the Balekees snatch him back. A tall brutish Onekan barks at the three Balekees holding Nzaka, they flinch for their lives. I’d be shocked if it’s a student and not some luggage carrier from Wandegeya market they hired as campaign muscle. The brute picks Nzaka, and throws him over its left shoulder. Its left arm holds Nzaka’s legs to its chest. It turns to exit. Two muscly Balekees grab Nzaka’s arms and pull. Nzaka stays languid, slung between whatever this is. The brute turns, its side kick sends one of the Balekees plunging into the whiteboard, both falling and the board breaking. Eyes teary red, elbows bruised red; the Balekee untangles himself from the broken board’s metallic frame, collects himself up, raises a clenched fist, and shouts, ‘Baleke!’                        The Balekees now ready to die a noble death, yell, ‘Tetubaleka!’ They attack; spectators scatter for the exits. My eyes stay on Nzaka, bent over the brute’s shoulder as it fights off the Balekees. It places Nzaka behind the lectern, and swiftly grabs a short Balekee by the neck. With hands folded over my bowed head, I run through the battlefield ducking flying blows and floating chairs until I reach Nzaka.

I pause, overthinking my words before, ‘Hey. I’m Azrael Maseruka. Sorry about this…these guys. I mean…like…let’s get out of here. If you want,’ slips out of my mouth. 

‘If I want? Definitely.’ 

We exit. The scorching sun has never been so soothing. As we walk, our fingers brush against the other, our palms almost lock but we keep to each other. I look at him, my eyes forever struck. ‘Did I mention you’re the—’ 

‘most beautiful guy you’ve ever seen.’ I sheepishly smile. ‘Is that not what you were going to say?’ Embarrassed that I almost said the most banal thing he has heard all his life, ‘Not really, maybe close.’

‘Humor me?’

‘Did I mention you’re the…one guy people call most beautiful…because…the dictionary lacks a word that can justly describe you.’ Not sure where that came from. 

‘Okay. That’s kinda new.’ He blesses me with a smile. 

‘I’m Nzaka, by the way.’

‘How can I forget…from when you said your name in there.’

The rush outside the auditorium doesn’t bother us. Those running in and out are extras and background noise in the story of how we met. As we proceed to the parking lot, I feel his presence slip away. I look to my right, he isn’t there. They’re coming at us from everywhere. They’re pushing him, and as more reach for him, I am knocked to the ground. Nzaka is surrounded. From down on the pavement, I see through their legs as they push him from one side of the circle to the other. They curse, they chant, they laugh, they shout, ‘Ebisiyaga tubigobe!’ ‘No homos!’ ‘Ebisiyaga tubigobe!’ ‘Wewe!’ ‘No homos!’ ‘Wewe!’ I can’t see his face. I stand up and charge into them to reach him with what body? I shout, ‘Leave him alone,’ ‘Mumuleke,’ with what voice? My words drown in the tumult. My voice withers from being unheard. I tell myself I’ve to think, I am smarter than this. I should run to the administration block to what lecturers? Professor Othieno saved a suspected thief my classmates wanted to beat up in our first year. Where is the law school guard who doesn’t care enough to be here? I look in all directions for humans. The “EU-Makerere Collab4Research Conference” banner hangs from a tree branch with two mineral water bottles tied to its lower corners. The conference is happening today. I should angrily storm the Central Teaching Facility auditorium and condemn funding universities that murder students. I look everywhere for Ezekiel, he saved the thief, he can save Nzaka too. I resort to shouting words that never leave my mouth. I run around the circle searching for a crack to squeeze through. I am dazed. From nowhere, the brute shoves me aside and hurls a pavement block into the circle. I crash onto the pavement, curl up like a kid under a blanket afraid of monsters. I cover my ears to block their furor and joy, yet I hear it all. I look through the circle’s legs, catching glimpses of what the eyes already know that is now spilled all over the pavement. I shut my eyes, tears from the right crossing the nose bridge to join those in my left before dribbling onto the pavement. Did you have to look like that? Didn’t your parents teach you that boys aren’t meant to be beautiful? Did high school not bully the pretty out of you? Why did you join this godforsaken university instead of finishing your studies in Canada? Is the universe telling me human rights advocacy isn’t for me? My eyes unlatch, my sight blurred by their wetness. Dust rises to the heaviness of their steps, its dry earthy whiff is subdued by the metallic smell of the red lines trickling between the dumbbell-shaped pavement blocks from where Nzaka drains to where my fallen tears dried. I wish I had superpowers. I wish this be a dream. It would be well if beauty never existed, I have seen it and it is all well. I wish this be a dream, to never wake, to never see it real.