The Shopkeeper

Life can hit you like a ton of bricks and you can’t always prepare for it.

On Sunday afternoon, when this post was supposed to come out, I drove my son to Bugolobi to see his grandparents.

I never call ahead before visiting my parents because they’re always there on Sunday. But as I flicked on the car’s indicator and turned right into the parking lot of my parent’s Bugolobi flat, I noticed their parking spots were vacant. A sight I’d welcome if the parking lot was in Lugogo and I was looking for parking before a concert. But I wasn’t.

There was an unusual smattering of cars in the parking lot for a Sunday.

Stationary in the car and alone with my thoughts, I considered buying something small from the nearby shops—we used to call them “the canteen” so I don’t know why I am here pretending, but allow me.

This thought sent me down a somber path:

Before Bugolobi became an expat settlement, there were no boundaries separating the blocks and I could ride my bike from my front door to my crush’s block hundreds of meters away, just to stare at her burglar-proofed bedroom window and make wishes that wouldn’t come true. Now, the newly manicured condominiums that are great for security and blah blah remind me of the crimes minimalism has committed against artistic expression—made it sterile and uninteresting.

One of the old guards of that Bugolobi of old was “the canteen”.

“The canteen”, an unsightly U-shaped single-storeyed structure that resembled a boy’s dormitory, had several shops but we only frequented one of the shops:

Juliet’s shop.

Like all shops in such communities, Juliet’s shop had everything. If you had a party at 8 pm but had to get tampons for your girlfriend, ball gum for your jaws, and a ball for the game of football at 5 pm, Juliet could sort you out in under 10 minutes. 5 minutes if she liked you.

And Juliet liked me.

I enjoyed going to the shop because I always prayed for the crumbs of spare change. Spare change in a child’s tight grip in the 90s could buy influence and everything else: Sweet Pepsi, coffee sweets, Big G, Super Tag…

Ugh. My insulin levels spike at the thought.

Juliet always had a smile on her face when I walked in. Even when she knew I was coming to collect milk and bread on credit, she’d greet me and ask about school while stuffing pints of milk and fresh buns into those black kaveras our government can’t seem to ban before sending me off with greetings for my parents. A greeting that doubled as an invoice for my parents—an inside joke I wasn’t privy to then.

Every now and then, I walked into the shop and saw glimpses of Juliet’s life: I’d meet a tall affable yellow-skinned man who I assumed was her husband because kids don’t only draw on your white walls, they also draw premature conclusions. I’d see her son: a jolly young boy who looked exactly like her and shared her warmth and cheekiness. You could always tell her son was around because Juliet glowed like someone turned the light on under her skin.

Several years passed by and I grew up and got my priorities all screwed up.

Instead of sweets, I wanted Fubu jeans, nicer shoes (not BATA), affection from the neighbor’s daughter, video games, and money to take some girl to the movies and hope she didn’t ask for a second helping of popcorn.

The excitement from visiting Juliet’s shop died down.

But when I returned from boarding school with a broken voice and a pimpled face, I still went to the shop to get milk and bread. And there was Juliet: ageless, beautiful, and cheeky as ever.

“How are you, Shemmy?”

“How was school?” She always asked enthusiastically as she bagged the buns.

What a lovely lady!

A few more years passed and Bugolobi was more sterile, with the blocks now organized in condominiums and no noisy children in sight. I can’t stress how much this so-called progress irks me but we move. The shops were harder to access, via a gate that was often inexplicably padlocked.

But in Uganda, where there is a will, there’s a guy you can call.

I bounced into Juliet’s shop expecting her usual warmth to greet me, but in the war of emotions she felt inside, sadness won over the space on her face. Her once bright and clear face now revealed fatigue and defeat in its lines, patches, and dark circles.

Dejected but too young to pry into her affairs, I got the milk and bread and bade her farewell.

When I got home, I asked my mum what happened to Juliet and my mum told me Juliet lost her son in an unfortunate accident. The jolly little boy who bore her likeness and cheekiness. The light of her world. My heart broke for Juliet.

I went to the shop a few more times and eventually, one day, I mustered the courage to share some words of comfort with her:

“I’m sorry about Junior,” I said with trepidation.

Her eyes were shiny with tears and she avoided my doe-eyes as she bagged the milk and bread slower than usual. She mumbled some words under her breath:

“Thank you” It sounded like.

With my own eyes shiny with tears, I left before my tears washed my cheeks.

I haven’t seen Juliet since, but I’ll look for her this week.

Life can hit you like a ton of bricks and you can’t always prepare for it. Make the most of today.