A Play Of Light And Shadow

I asked what part the tribe played in his life. "It is important. Since I am a Lango, I don't think I'd like to go and live in the West Nile District. I will always have the feeling that it is better to stay with my parents, to live where I was born."

We walked downhill from the gardens and high-rises of central Kampala into the business district. Independence Day banners swathed shops and light poles. Plastered in rows across all vacant surfaces were portraits of General Amin, his collar pushing up his jowls, furrows of worry around his eyes.

"I didn't expect the reception I got when I came home," said Akii. "There were 2,000 people at the airport. I met ministers, there was a VIP luncheon. The president came. It was the second time he had spoken to me. Last year he said he hoped I'd do my best in the Olympics. It was good to know I had.

"Everything has come my way since Munich. You know, since my father died we have been poor. I had not much schooling. I was not a middle-class man. But now I have so many friends, so many invitations. Every night I have to break promises."

Farther down the slope we came onto a dusty street which led past shuttered and barred wholesale-furniture houses and ended in a great mass of haggling people.

"That is a market," said Akii, "and this...." He turned and extended his arms both ways along the road. "This is my street."

"Your street?"

"I don't know for sure yet. The government has said they will name a street after me. This one has no real name yet. People just call it South Street. It's a good street, don't you think? Busy, with solid buildings."

"Yes, it's a fine street." I stood still, affected. That his name was to be given to an enduring public landmark seemed suddenly to elevate Akii out of the world of games, of records inevitably broken, feats eventually surpassed.

"Remember," said Akii, with a sly look, "there has never been anyone from Uganda like me." Then he laughed, an open, intelligent guffaw at the silliness of it all.