They stood in the middle of the sequestrated highway at midday. It was so peaceful, so silent. Even the wind seemed to have taken a siesta. All around us, the park was at peace. The picturesque savanna plains burnt a couple of days ago by errant pastoralists presented a kaleidoscope of quaint country illusions. A few patches of brown grass and shrubs remained in isolation. A roosting sparrow chipped from high up in the Cactus tree on the other flank of the road.
As I stooped over to capture a magnificent photo of my family, apart of me drifted far away into the heart of the of the peace that surrounded us. I lost myself into it as my fingers subconsciously took multiple shots. The sound of an approaching automotive resuscitated me. Rubber soles slapped the burning bitumen as my family scuttled to the safety of the sidewalk. In a moment, the red Nissan Quasqai was gone. The silence returned. Peace once more prevailed. A pair of weaver birds flying low glided past our faces, pieces of half burned grass between their beaks.
While the clear pristine Kasese sky held no promise of a downpour, in my mind, a storm was gathering. I knew a raging tempest was fast approaching. Like a hen gathering its chicks in the face of the first downpour after enduring a prolonged African drought, I guided my family back into the car and drove away. Apart of me remained in that spot, imprinted on a million grains of sand hidden in the tiny crevices between the miniature gravels held in captivity by the gooey tar.
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