The Maroon Double Cabin — PART 2: THE FLOWER & THE GARAGE

When fate, single malt whisky, and a forgotten flower collided

I got on my knees.
“God, help me,” I prayed. Because no matter how hard I twisted the story in my head, I was out of words. Out of lies. Out of excuses.

Let me take you back a few days earlier.

Mariah had just come back from Socadido, Soroti, and was missing her stories and wanted to show her around the city nightlife. As you know, Kampala nightlife is world champion.

She smiled and handed me a single flower.
I shoved it into my coat pocket and forgot it was there. Life moved on.

Until madame found it.
While cleaning.
She held it up like evidence in court.
Like any man cornered, I lied fast.
“Ah, a friend from Europe sent that. You know how Bazungu give flowers when they’re checking on you.”
Madame looked at me. Nodded.
And believed me. You can ask Ali Ssekatawa; he was around when I got the flower.

To this day, I wonder… was it the gods who exposed me?
Did madame go to a traditional healer in Nagongera and Busolwe, since she had just come back from those places?
Or was it just fate catching up, slow and patient?

Because the flower was only the warning shot.
The real explosion was still coming.

That night at Sardinia Bar.

The music was loud: Rhumba, Lionel Richie, Peter Tosh. The drinks were louder.
As the saying goes: A drunk person loses good judgment.
I was drowning in single malt whisky.

Mariah kept saying, “Immanuel, take me to Nakawa. I’m tired.”
But I was a king with a full glass.
“Order another one,” I told her. “The night is still young, and this is the city.”

She begged. She pleaded.
Eventually, she got so exhausted she curled up in the back seat of the maroon cabin and whispered, “Just let me rest.”

Hours later, when I finally decided to leave, I walked around the bar looking for her.
No Mariah.
My heart sank. Another man must have taken her, I thought. Because Mariah was extremely beautiful and amazing, great, gorgeous body.
Even my friend Ali Ssekatawa didn’t know.
So I drove home. Alone. Or so I thought.

0300 hours.
Lionel Richie was playing: “Stuck On You” 🎶 as I drove past Doctors Village on Mawanda Road.
The guards opened the gate. I reversed into the garage.
Locked up. Showered. Collapsed into bed.
Snoring like an innocent man.

0800 hours.

Madame woke up early to make kigere molokoni.
She went to the garage for charcoal.
And that’s when she saw it—movement in the car.

At the exact same second, Mariah woke up.
Still half-asleep, she thought we were at Sardinia.
She opened the door and called out:
“Immanuel! Drive me to Nakawa!”

Then she looked around.
This wasn’t Sardinia.
This was my garage. My home.

And she screamed:
“SWEETIE IMMANUEL, WHERE HAVE YOU BROUGHT ME?!”

Madame was standing 3 feet away. Silent. Staring.

I heard the shouting.
I ran out. In a towel.
And there they were. Face to face.
If the ground could have opened, I would have jumped in.

“Why did you come to destroy my young marriage?!” I stammered at Mariah.
She shot back: “You’re the one joking! Your madame is about to beat me because of YOU!”

So I lied again. Fast.
“She got too drunk at Sardinia. She slept in the back seat while waiting for me to take her to Nakawa Business School. I forgot she was there. I thought someone took her or she walked home.”

Mariah, still dazed, confirmed it: “I fell asleep in the back seat.”
Madame said nothing. Just listened.

Then… she laughed.
Not a happy laugh. A laugh of disbelief, pain, and finality.

Mariah asked me to drive her to Nakawa.
I refused. “You’ve caused enough problems in my family.”
She got angry. “If I ever see you near Nakawa Business School again, you’ll regret it.”
“Good,” I said. “Because you won’t.”

She left.
And the house went cold.

For weeks, I hid.
If I saw madame in the corridor, I turned and ran like I had stolen something.
She never said one word about it again.
But her silence was louder than any beating.

I was terrified. Ashamed. Finished.
Until the Oracles in Kifuuta, Kyotera, Buddu spoke:
“Todangamu mukyala bwoba gwe asobeza. Keep quiet.”
And then: Buy her a ticket to Lisbon. And a Fossil wristwatch. Gold plated.”

Peace, it turns out, has a price and very profitable investment.

The maroon double cabin is gone.
But that morning? That flower? That song, that song of Lionel Richie, “Stuck on You.”
They still ride with me.

1982 Kampala. Rhumba. Regret. And a garage that became a courtroom.
Truth: One flower. One drink too many. One silence that lasted 44 years.

Let me enjoy my Bwakaata and steamed lamb neck, the sheen as I wait Jjaajja Luswata Zaidi to bring me Baluugu.