For the Ones Who Never Asked to Be Here

 

Davies.

Davies was every inch a city boy.
He had known no life beyond the bustle of Kampala — the honking taxis on Jinja Road, the aroma of roasted maize at twilight, the sound of radio talk shows spilling from shopfronts. He spoke fast, dressed sharp, and believed the world began and ended in the city.

His father, Mr. Walusimbi, was an auditor — a man whose name once commanded respect in corporate corridors. Their family lived well; not among the rich, but comfortably enough to dine out on weekends and spend holidays in Entebbe. Once in a while, Davies would visit the village in Mpigi, where his grandparents lay buried — short, reluctant trips that reminded him how far he was from the dust and the drums of rural life.

But fate has a way of bending even the straightest roads.
One morning, news broke that Mr. Walusimbi had been implicated in a corruption scandal. At first, Davies thought it was a lie — fake news cooked up by jealous rivals. But as days passed, headlines screamed louder. “Auditor Arrested Over Missing Billions.” The trial was swift. The judgment, unforgiving. Seventy months in Luzira Prison.

Overnight, their lives collapsed. The respect that had wrapped their family like a fine cloth tore apart. Neighbors whispered. Former friends disappeared. Rent piled up. The phone calls stopped. And when his mother finally decided they had to leave the city, Davies felt something crack inside him — a boy bred in Kampala, now headed for a village he barely knew.

Part Two:

The Village Air

Davies arrived in the village (Mawokota) with his mother one quiet afternoon.
Though the air smelled of fresh earth and firewood, the city still clung to him — in his walk, his accent, even his thoughts. He was a teenage boy waiting to join campus, but now he wasn’t sure if that dream still had a place in his story.

His father had left no account details behind — and who knew if there was any money left after the scandal anyway? Davies was beginning to accept that his life, for now, would revolve around this village — a place with no Wi-Fi, no city friends, and no clear future.

One morning, his mother sent him to fetch water from the borehole. On his way, he saw a group of boys his age playing football on a dusty patch of ground. Their ball was crafted from polythene bags and sisal rope, yet their laughter rang through the air like music.
Davies paused for a moment, smiling faintly.
“Well,” he murmured to himself, “this is my life now. I’ll join them after I deliver the water.”

When he reached the borehole, all eyes turned toward him. He stood out — his clean jeans, fine shirt, and polished sneakers looked foreign in that setting. Davies was a handsome boy, tall and light-skinned, with sharp features and eyes that gleamed like they carried secrets.

Then, it happened. His eyes met hers.

Patience — or Pesh, as everyone called her — the village beauty. Her skin glowed under the sun, and her laughter carried the kind of warmth that silences a heart before it even beats. Every boy in the village wanted to walk beside her.

Davies felt his chest tighten, his heart beating faster with every second. He managed to greet everyone around the borehole with a shy “hi,” placed his yellow jerrycan in the line, and stepped aside to wait. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself — kicking at pebbles, staring at the hills — his mind kept circling back to her.

He didn’t know it yet, but that meeting — that single glance — was the beginning of a story that would change his life forever.

Part Three:

 The First Pump

When Davies’s turn at the borehole finally came, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Luckily, Pesh had already filled her jerrycan and was walking away, the golden evening light catching her neatly braided hair. He wasn’t sure how he would have managed to pump if she were still around. His hands were already trembling slightly, and the thought of her eyes on him would have made things worse.

He stepped forward and began to pump, the handle creaking with each pull. The water splashed cold and clear into the yellow jerrycan, but Davies’s mind was elsewhere. He watched Pesh from the corner of his eye as she balanced the jerrycan on her head with graceful ease — the kind of balance only a village girl could master.

“Eh, city boy, you’re not used to hard work, eh?” one of the boys teased, laughing as Davies struggled with the heavy jerrycan.
Davies smiled faintly, forcing a laugh of his own. “I’ll get used to it,” he said. But deep down, he wasn’t sure.

As he lifted the jerrycan and started the long walk home, he looked down the path Pesh had taken. For a reason he couldn’t explain, the evening breeze suddenly felt lighter, almost sweet.

That night, as the crickets sang outside and his mother cooked supper over a smoky fire, Davies found himself replaying that brief moment at the borehole — the glance, the smile, the way her eyes had softened when they met his.

He didn’t know her story yet. But somehow, he felt she had already entered his.

 

 

Part Four: The Morning at the Borehole

The next morning, Davies woke up earlier than usual.
He told his mother he was going to fetch water — though deep down, he knew it wasn’t just about water. He wanted to see her again. Pesh.

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and smoke from early morning fires. As Davies approached the borehole, his heart pounded faster with every step. And there she was — the same smile, the same glow.

Pesh had also come early, jerrycan in hand. What Davies didn’t know was that she too had been thinking about him since yesterday — the polite city boy with soft eyes and quiet manners.

“Morning,” Davies greeted, trying to sound casual.
“Morning,” she replied, her voice warm and clear. For a moment, their eyes lingered on each other before they both looked away, smiling shyly.

They began to talk — at first about simple things: how cold the morning was, how the pump sometimes jammed, how life in the village moved slower than in the city. But in those small words, something gentle started to bloom.

There was something about Pesh’s eyes — calm yet full of light — that blew Davies off his feet. He had seen many girls in Kampala, but none like her. She didn’t need fancy clothes or perfume; her simplicity carried a beauty that felt… honest.

And as if fate had arranged it, they discovered they were taking the same road home. So they walked together — slowly, each step stealing glances, each silence saying more than words ever could.

By the time they parted ways near the banana plantation, Davies knew one thing for certain: life in the village might not be as dull as he had feared.

Part Five:

The Shifting Ground

Days rolled into weeks, and the bond between Davies and Pesh began to grow quietly — like a flame sheltered from the wind. They fetched water together whenever they could, laughed under mango trees, and sometimes walked home from the trading centre sharing roasted maize and village jokes.

But in every story where hearts meet, whispers are never far behind.

The village boys started noticing. Especially Mike — the self-proclaimed “captain” of the borehole crew, tall, muscular, and known for bullying his way through everything, from football games to girls’ attention. Pesh had always been his silent target, though she never gave him much notice.

Now, seeing her smile whenever Davies appeared changed everything.

“Eh, so the city boy thinks he can take our girls?” Mike sneered one afternoon as Davies joined them for a football game. The boys had made him feel welcome at first — mostly to see how a ‘town boy’ would manage their dusty pitch — but now, with Pesh in the picture, the warmth was fading.

Davies tried to keep calm. “I just came to play,” he said quietly.
Mike stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “We play rough here, Kampala boy. Not those soft city games of yours.”

The match that followed was anything but fair. Mike tackled Davies hard every chance he got, sending him tumbling into the dirt, but Davies refused to quit. By the end, though bruised and sweating, he had scored the final goal — a clean shot that silenced the field.

Pesh, who had been watching from the roadside, clapped her hands with a quiet smile. And in that moment, something shifted.

Davies had earned respect from some, but hatred from others. The quiet city boy had just disturbed the village order — and Mike wasn’t about to let that go easily.

Part Six:

The Race for Pesh

Word spread across the village like dry grass catching fire — the city boy and the borehole captain were now rivals, and the prize was none other than Pesh, the girl whose smile could melt even a stubborn heart.

Every evening, the boys gathered at the pitch or the trading centre, their talk always returning to the same thing.
“Who do you think she’ll choose?” one would ask.
“Mike, of course,” another would say. “He’s the village bull. Even the chairman fears him.”
But some would shake their heads quietly. “That city boy… he has something. The way he talks, the way Pesh looks at him — eeeh, you can tell she likes him.”

Davies never said much. He just kept helping his mother at home, fetching water, joining in football, and talking to Pesh whenever he could. His heart was sure of one thing — he liked her. Not for her beauty alone, but for how kind she was, how she listened, and how her laughter made the village feel like home again.

But Pesh lived in quiet fear.
She knew Mike’s temper. Everyone did. He wasn’t used to losing — not in games, not in pride, and certainly not in love. Whenever she passed by him at the borehole, she forced a smile, careful not to stir his anger.

At night, as crickets filled the air with their song, Pesh would sit outside her hut, lost in thought. Her heart leaned toward Davies — the gentle city boy who spoke with respect and never shouted — yet fear chained her silence.

And so, the village divided itself into two camps:
Those who chanted Mike’s name, and those who quietly rooted for Davies.

The race for Pesh had begun — but it was no longer just about love. It was about pride, power, and the fragile line between courage and fear.

Part Seven:

The Prayer of Hope

Meanwhile, far away in Kampala, Davies’s father’s lawyers were busy preparing an appeal.
They believed there was something wrong with the case — missing evidence, rushed judgments, and political undertones. Somewhere in those dusty court files, they hoped to find a thread that could pull Mr. Walusimbi back to freedom.

When the news reached the village, it came like a beam of light cutting through heavy clouds. Davies’s mother received the message from a boda rider who brought a letter from the city. She read it once, twice, then fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

“Eh Mukama wange!” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The God of Elijah, the God of Israel — if You still sit on the throne, let my husband’s name be cleared!”

Her prayer was long, raw, and full of the kind of faith that grows in hardship. She remembered the man she had lived with for twenty-five years — a gentle, disciplined soul who had never been accused of anything. She could not believe he had turned corrupt overnight.

As she prayed, Davies stood quietly behind her, watching. For the first time since leaving the city, he saw his mother’s strength not in her words, but in her surrender. The small grass-thatched house felt filled with something holy — like heaven had bent low to listen.

When she finally rose, her eyes were still wet but burning with hope.
“My son,” she said softly, “maybe this is the beginning of our miracle.”

Davies nodded, though part of him wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Still, that night, as he lay on his mat, he whispered a short prayer of his own — not for the city, not for Pesh, but for his father.

 

Part Eight:

 The Goodbye at the Borehole

The next morning, Davies received a call from Kampala. His father’s lawyers had arranged for him to visit Luzira Prison. The warden had granted special permission — Mr. Walusimbi wanted to speak with his son personally.

Rumor had it that he wanted to guide Davies on how to access a hidden account — money he had secretly kept aside for his son’s university tuition before his arrest. For the first time in months, hope flickered inside Davies’s chest.

He packed his small bag and prepared for the journey. But before leaving, there was someone he couldn’t leave without seeing — Pesh.

The only place he could find her was at the borehole, the same spot where their story had quietly begun. So he waited.
And waited.

The sun rose high and hot, the metal pump gleaming under its light. Hours passed; children came and went. Still, no sign of her. Just when he was about to give up, she appeared — balancing her jerrycan as usual, her eyes calm but distant.

When she saw him, she paused.
“Davies? You’re early today.”
“I was waiting for you,” he said softly.

He told her everything — about the call from the lawyers, about his father’s request, about going back to Kampala. Pesh listened quietly, her face showing both worry and pride. The thought of him leaving made her chest tighten, but she tried to hide it.

“I’ll only be gone a few days,” Davies said, noticing her silence. “And when I come back, I’ll bring you something beautiful from Kampala.”

Pesh smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he insisted.

They stood there for a while — neither wanting to end the moment. Then Davies picked up his bag and slowly walked away, glancing back one last time. Pesh was still standing by the borehole, her eyes following him until he disappeared down the dusty road.

In her heart, she prayed silently that the city would be kind to him — and that he would return.

 

 

Part Nine: The Secrets of Luzira

When word spread that Davies had gone back to Kampala, Mike couldn’t hide his grin.
“Eh, you see now?” he bragged to his friends near the football field. “The city boy has gone. Pesh is now all mine.”
He began showing up wherever Pesh went — the borehole, the market, even the church compound — showering her with forced compliments and empty jokes.

But Pesh kept her distance. Her smiles were polite but hollow, her answers short. Deep down, she missed Davies — his calm voice, his honesty, his simplicity. Mike’s presence, though loud and bold, felt cold and heavy.

Meanwhile, far away in Kampala, Davies entered the tall gates of Luzira Prison for the first time. The clang of metal and the echo of footsteps filled the air. When he finally saw his father, standing in that grey uniform but with the same calm eyes he remembered, Davies’s heart swelled.

They embraced tightly, years of pain and silence melting away in that single moment.

“My son,” Mr. Walusimbi said, his voice low but firm, “don’t worry about me. I will come out — maybe soon, maybe later. But until then, take care of your mother. Keep her safe.”

Davies nodded, fighting back tears.

“There’s something you need to know,” his father continued, leaning closer. “Behind the old closet in our Kampala house, there’s a hidden safe. Inside is my ATM card — and a small note with the PIN and account number. There’s five million shillings there for your upkeep. Use it wisely. But promise me this — you and your mother must stay in the village. The people behind my case… they’re dangerous. They might harm you if you come back to the city often.”

Davies felt a chill run through him. He realized his father’s case wasn’t as simple as the newspapers had made it. There were shadows behind the story — people who wanted him silenced.

When the guards called time, Davies and his father embraced one last time.
“Be strong, my son,” his father whispered. “And don’t forget who you are.”

As Davies walked out of the prison gates, the sun hit his face, but his mind was clouded. He now carried not just his father’s hope — but his secret.

Scene: In Kampala, the night before his return

Davies had finally found the hidden safe behind the closet, just like his father had said. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it and saw a few stacks of cash neatly tied in brown envelopes. He didn’t touch them — he only took the ATM card and headed to the nearest bank the next morning.

At the ATM, he entered the pin carefully, almost afraid he might make a mistake. He withdrew the UGX 5 million, tucked it safely into his bag, and picked the receipt. As he walked away, something caught his eye.

He stopped. Turned the slip over again.

Account balance: UGX 250,657,357.467

He froze. “What? Two hundred and fifty million?” he whispered to himself. His heart pounded.

For a moment, he just stood there, his mind racing. All this time, Dad had this kind of money? Then why did we live like we were struggling? Why did Mum have to sell groundnuts to make ends meet?

He walked back to the small lodge where he was staying and sat on the bed, staring at the slip under the dim bulb light. His thoughts refused to settle.

Maybe Dad hid it for a reason… or maybe this money isn’t clean…

He sighed deeply, lay back, and stared at the ceiling. He thought of his mother — her smile, her faith, her endless prayers. Then, inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Pesh.

He smiled faintly. I’ll get her something special… something that will make her remember me until I come back.

As the night grew quieter, Davies held the slip close, still wondering how a man accused and imprisoned could have such wealth. Confused but determined, he whispered to himself,

“I’ll find out the truth… someday.”

Sleep slowly took him as city lights blinked through the curtains.

Scene:

Early morning in Kampala

The first light of dawn crept through the city skyline when Davies reached for his phone. He dialed his mother’s number, rubbing his eyes and trying to sound cheerful despite the sleepless night.

“Maama,” he said softly when she answered, her voice already filled with prayer as usual.

“Eh, Davies my son! You reached well?” she asked, her tone bright but with that motherly concern that never left her.

“Yes Maama, I reached. I met Dad yesterday.”
He paused, lowering his voice. “He said we should manage with what he left… he’s sure things will be fine soon.”

There was a long silence on the other side — the kind that spoke more than words. Finally, his mother whispered, “Tell him I will keep praying. Bring something small for the house, maybe some sugar, rice… and if you find a nice shawl, you know I love those.”

Davies smiled. “I’ll bring that and more, Maama.”

After the call, he dressed quickly and stepped into the busy Kampala streets. The city was already alive — boda bodas roaring, vendors shouting, and perfume from the nearby boutiques mixing with the smell of chapati from roadside stalls.

One boutique caught his eye — “Classique Mode by Doreen.” He remembered his father once mentioning it. Inside, soft music played and rows of elegant dresses lined the walls. He took a deep breath and began to browse, his heart beating a little faster as he imagined Pesh’s face.

The attendant, a stylish lady with kind eyes, smiled. “Looking for something special?”

Davies nodded shyly. “Yes… something elegant. For a friend.”

She smiled knowingly. Within minutes, she helped him choose a peach designer dress, a pair of sleek Italian shoes, and a matching handbag — simple but stunning. He stared at them for a while, imagining Pesh twirling in the dress by the borehole, her laughter lighting up the morning sun.

As he paid, a small thought crossed his mind — I should be careful with this money before Maama hides everything away like she always does.

He chuckled softly and left the shop, carrying the wrapped gifts. For the first time in weeks, he felt light — as if hope itself had followed him from the city streets.

Scene:

The Journey Home

After shopping for what he wanted, Davies boarded a dusty, worn-out taxi headed for the village. The matatu rattled and groaned as it crawled out of the city, the driver blasting faded old Ugandan hits through a crackling speaker. The smell of roasted maize drifted in through the open window, mixing with the sharp scent of diesel.

Davies sat by the window, clutching his paper bag tightly — inside lay the gifts that made his heart race every time he imagined Pesh’s face lighting up. The elegant peach dress, the glossy shoes, the handbag that sparkled in the sun. He smiled to himself.

He couldn’t wait to arrive home — to see his mother, yes — but most importantly, to see her, his love, his only love.

As the taxi sped past the sugarcane fields and the dusty trading centres, he imagined her laughter at the borehole, her soft eyes that had made him forget the world. Every bump on the road seemed to echo his heartbeat.

A thought flickered through his mind — would she really like me? Would she wear the dress? Would she believe that I got it just for her?

He brushed the doubt aside, leaning his head against the window as the taxi hummed along. He could already picture the moment: Pesh standing by the borehole in that same peach dress, the village boys watching in awe, and Mike’s proud face twisting with envy.

He smiled again.
But just as he closed his eyes, something strange caught his attention — a man in a black jacket seated at the far end of the taxi had been staring at him for too long.

Davies shifted uncomfortably, gripping the bag a little tighter.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just another passenger.

Still, a quiet unease crept into his chest as the taxi rolled deeper into the countryside.

 To be continued……………………………………………………………………….