The fabulous puppet show

Nine years ago, I got into an argument with my roomie Rodney Ruvuza about fate and destiny. We’d just come out of a lesson on Oedipus.

In our back-and-forth, an observer would have gathered that I was passionately in the corner of those who believe that one can change their fate. I did not want to believe that there are some beings up there pulling the strings and whatever we did we could not run away from them. Until, maybe, they lost interest and went to sleep. Rodney, always the one to let life take its course was surprisingly passionate about the counter view; Oedipus’ ass was made the moment that oracle was made. He would kill his father and marry his mother.

He couldn’t run away. Last night I had an epiphany. Walking home in the gathering darkness, I almost broke my leg in some man-hole thingy. There they were again, the little bearded men playing nine pins, making fun and watching me stumble like I knew where I was going.

I am careful when I walk, of that I am sure. It wasn’t very dark and the roads are paved in Entebbe, thank you. In my area code, anyway. So what was I doing falling into a hole? If that’s not the evil hand of fate, what was it?

Maybe I should buy Rodney a beer one of these days.