Sharon was a beautiful young woman in her late teens, an age that drew considerable attention from men. Her youthful allure and curves were impossible to ignore.
From a young age, after losing her father, she moved in with her elder sister who was married to a stern police officer.
We started dating soon after she completed her high school education, our one-year age difference feeling perfectly matched. Our outings to picnics or the market for vegetables were cherished moments, where we felt like two doves soaring through the sky—a perfect couple.
In those days, older men had more restraint; they left the younger girls for men their own age. In our small hometown, owning a Motorola L7 with a 2GB memory card was a status symbol akin to today’s iPhone Pro Max, while Blackberry phones were reserved for the children of wealthy families.
One unwritten rule, regardless of age, was that sleeping at a lady’s place was strictly forbidden.
Sharon and I enjoyed a simple life together. I didn’t have much, but sharing a bottle of soda, chips, and occasionally chicken was enough for us. Compared to today’s generation, obsessed with drinking whisky older than they are, we focused on simpler pleasures.
Our relationship was idyllic until trouble arose—the rogue police officer, content with Sharon’s elder sister, discovered my relationship with his sister-in-law.
You’ll soon understand why I call him a rogue.
Coming from a family of educators and excelling in my studies, dating a beautiful girl further boosted my reputation in our small town. Alongside my teaching job, I supplemented my income by occasionally selling second-hand clothes (mutumba).
Unexpected attack
I’ll never forget that particular Sunday. As I made my way to town, I heard someone call my name. Unbeknownst to me, he had been following me and, upon confirming my identity, I found myself suddenly on the ground.
Police officers are trained to subdue civilians, and I was rendered immobile and helpless. Within moments, two men had grabbed me and forcefully bundled me into a vehicle. When I regained my senses, I realized I was entering the gate of Sharon’s sister’s home—a familiar sight.
The beating I endured at the hands of the officer, for dating his sister-in-law, is a tale I may recount in greater detail in future editions.
As if the physical assault wasn’t enough, he poured dirty water on my white striped shirt, kicked me mercilessly, and warned me to stay away from his sister-in-law forever.
Returning home, bleeding profusely, I was advised to report the incident to the police. However, I felt it would be an exercise in futility.
Fearing retaliation, I briefly considered revenge against his children, but the thought of his authority and possibly being armed deterred me. He escaped accountability for his actions.
Recalling my time with Sharon often brings tears to my eyes. The aftermath of our relationship has left me with a deep-seated resentment towards police officers that persists to this day.
