A Mad Manifesto

This evening, sitting at Mama Ruth's salon, I have watched one of the local mad men give a speech. He stood at the edge of the road, appearing to address quite a large (though invisible) crowd as he mumbled his words. He shook his fist at the sky, then covered his mouth and moved away. I can only imagine what manifesto he has declared for us all.

There seem to be quite a few mad people here in Atiak: men, women, and children. Leaving aside the drunkards, whose poor behaviour and nonsensical comments might be temporary, I must have encountered almost ten already, some of whom I have learnt to recognise.

There is the man who informed me that I am from Pakistan, have an Acholi husband and a baby called Giovany. This man with his unheard manifesto. The woman who demanded – in Luganda, nonetheless – that I buy her roasted maize. There is a boy who always smiles, showing all his teeth, and another who likes to do cartwheels. The second one likes to greet me, and today I met him eating a raw onion. There are others, too, whose unkempt appearance and strange behaviour attest to their disturbed mental status.

Auntie tells me that this is yet another result of the war and camp. Alcoholism and malnutrition and insanity: societal trauma attesting to the long-lasting affects of war and violence.