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a place to laugh out loud at anyone, including our distinguished house guests.
    One particular guest among all others ignited fits of laughter among the vendors. Perhaps there was something about his temperament that provoked them. Perhaps it was his German bowl haircut. Or maybe it was the fact that he often talked to himself. The man’s name was Patrick Aculu, a strange little man from our church. He was thin and unassuming, watchful and quiet. Because his demeanour seemed over-tolerant, I was convinced he had suffered heavily at the hands of bullies in his school days.
    The first day Patrick Aculu came to visit us it was at Ma’s insistence. The market vendors, when they saw him, laughed with tears in their eyes. They clapped. They did not stop for a long time. I opened the door for him as soon as he made it past the vendors. I showed him into our sitting room. I even called him Uncle Aculu in the hope of pacifying him. But Uncle Aculu did not look up, did not show any interest in Ma’s gold cushion covers, the new curtains, or the vase with fresh roses.
    On Uncle Aculu’s second visit – the next day – the vendors still laughed, but the insult was not as severe as before. Uncle Aculu sat in the sitting room. When I went to the kitchen to make him some tea, Ma followed. I thought she wanted to help, but she just wanted to talk. Ma said I should not call Patrick Aculu ‘Uncle Aculu’ any more. It was better to call him Brother Patrick, she said, because he was our brother in Christ. I did not tell her that the Sunday school children would not have agreed. They called him Red Devil. They thought his eyes were the colour of red devil peppers and that he talked like he was chewing fire, exactly like the devil on Uganda Television.
    Red Devil became a daily guest. Every evening after his job skinning fish for export in the industrial area, he headed not to his home but to ours. Red Devil wore a brown polyester suit. He lined the suit’s pocket with two sets of pens in four colours: black, blue, green and pink. I found the pens alarming and constantly worried that Red Devil’s brain was not wired properly. It did not help that at dinner time he used too much Blue Band on his bread and blew at the tea. They were things Ma said that only people with no manners did.
    Now that he was a regular guest, Ma started to plan him into our evenings. When she bought maize flour, she added an extra quarter kilo just for Red Devil. When she cooked meat, she added three ladles of soup. When we ate dinner, she invited his thoughts and opinions. Ma encouraged him to speak like he was part of the family. After a few weeks, Red Devil’s confidence had grown bigger than the man himself.
    Late one evening at the dinner table, Red Devil offered his unsoli­cited thoughts about the market vendors. I noticed he was careful about the way he approached the subject.
    ‘Your back yard is beautiful,’ Red Devil said. ‘But those vendors are too much. Have you seen how they pluck the roses? The way they leave your beautiful garden defiled, I cannot believe it sincerely.’
    Ma did not speak immediately. When she did, she said, ‘Good point. Very good point, Brother Patrick.’
    Chei , I thought, such nonsense!
    ‘You are right, Brother Patrick,’ Ma said.
    Though she was quick to agree, she was careful about implementing his advice.
     
    About half a week later, Ma confronted the vendors. She left her office at the printing press early, walked home as usual, and before entering the house, stopped by the back yard. She surprised the vendors. They sat up respectfully in the grass and listened to Ma as if they were schoolchildren. But being as ill mannered as they were, the vendors lost interest as soon as they realised that her stopover was not friendly. Accustomed to talking as loud as they liked without rebuke, they did not take to being scolded. I watched with amusement from the sitting room window, curious to see what the outcome might be.