“Hope you’re ok? Or do I need to pull you out of a ditch / jail etc?” reads the text I send K.
Two minutes later the phone rings. My head still on the pillow, I hardly recognize my own voice after last night’s cigarettes.
“Where are we?” K asks someone on the other end of the line.
“Triangle Hotel” comes back the answer.
Oh God, my head hurts …
“How much money do you have on you?” he asks. “I’ve lost my wallet.”
Now there’s a surprise: fuelled by half a bottle of Waraji, the stupid Muzungu has followed the scent of a woman into Jinja town. It’s a 45 minute ride in total darkness through the countryside on rutted murram roads – on the back of a boda boda of course.
“I fell asleep three times,” he tells me. (Or did he say he fell off the bike three times?)
I just hope she’s worth it.