“Donald Trump is the Anti Christ!”
The woman screamed the words, as she woke up with a start. Her husband beside her stirred slowly awake. He did not know what the matter was, but he had been married to his wife long enough to have figured out what some of her more dramatic episodes might mean.
“What?” he asked. He had heard her fine the first time. He was only playing for time. He had been woken up many times before because his wife had had a vision, and she had to share it immediately.
“I just heard the Spirit tell me, Donald Trump is the Anti Christ,” she spat out with a little impatience.
Inside the man’s head, regretful thoughts chased each other. It was 3am and he had only two more hours. Soon he would hit the road to beat the Entebbe Road traffic jam into Kampala City for another day of toil.
But voicing these thoughts was fruitless, he knew. It would lead into many micro-arguments about faith and the end times and the man’s failure to work on his faith.
Outside, dogs barked. Distant drones of boda bodas rode the night like surfers.
It was hot in the tiny room. The house being situated close to the cool Lake Victoria did not seem to have any effect on the heat.
It was close to Christmas 2016. Life in Entebbe was close to normal again. The couple, as had the rest of their neighbours with busy lives of toil were expected to have forgotten about politics, and concentrated on work.
Except this was far from the truth.
The upheaval had started midway 2015. The campaigns for president were heating up. Kizza Besigye was showing such strength, most people thought even after failing to unseat the current president, Yoweri Museveni three previous times, he had a real chance this time.
The crescendo of campaign rhetoric increased as February 2016 approached. Then Museveni won, and a morose blanket seemed to cover sections of Uganda. Those with internet connection, anyway. Because it was not easy to know if the people in the rural areas even cared.
The couple were not totally devastated. From their small house in Nakiwogo, they were following the American campaigns.
Surely this was going to be a win. It was the stuff of wild imagination: the first Black president of the USA would hand over to the first female president.
On election night, already Wednesday morning in Nakiwogo, there was a festive mood in the house. The husband, though he had to be at work, was in the living room watching TV.
It was a clear done deal. The polls said so. The respected newspapers said so. Donald Trump had made so many goofs, the American voter was going to show him who was boss.
Trump was loud, leud, bigoted, a braggart and sexist. He had has refused to release his tax returns, had made suggestions he wanted to sleep with his daughter and had said he’s win even if stood in the middle of the street and shot people dead.
The wife, though she was not interested enough to kill her morning, knew that this was a big deal. She had not had any messages from God about it, but she felt it deep in her heart.
Then Clinton lost so spectacularly.
The fallout from the November loss of Hillary Clinton will probably be studied for a long time.
For the couple, everything just felt wrong. There must be something supernatural about this.
The wife had not been following the news as closely as her husband, so she only knew what he told her. So in her head, there was no way this man could have convinced America to choose him over Clinton.
The husband, long a student of his wife’s histrionics, had neglected to point out to her that Trump won on the strength of the Christian vote. Bible-thumping, spirit-filled, demon-chasing Christians had decided this was their candidate. Not all of them, but a decidedly big enough number to push him over, it seemed.
It had been an interesting start of December.
This close to Chrismas, the husband was not sure he had the energy to get back into that whole drama. He started to tell his wife it was not possible Trump is the Anti-Christ because he’s not done the three-and-a-half years preceding the rupture. Those three and a half years should have given us a Trump with almost magical powers: where was the wound that should have killed him, but did not? where was the world peace?(many Evangelicals say the dude who achieves peace in the Middle East will be the One).
Trump had rode on an improbable bet and it had paid off. But all this was to expend energy he could not afford.
So he asked the one thing he could think of. “Should I get you some ice cream from the fridge?”