[Loud smack on my cheek—Pyaaa!!!]
“Why are you pulling me away?” Dunda (not her real name) yelled at me like she was demon-possessed after I had pulled her to her feet from beneath the legs of her boyfriend, Dre (not his real name). He had leaned over her, attempting to lock her head between the insides of his knees as he mercilessly punched her. All this was happening at Dunda’s doorway. Their bodies were half inside and half outside the house, with the door semi-open.
To rescue Dunda—whose head was on the outer side of the door—I grabbed her by the shoulders and, at some point, her head and hair, to pull her away from the scene.
“Why are you pulling me away? Leave me to beat up that idiot!” she shouted again, yanking her hand away from me as if to charge back at her opponent. But she didn’t. She went just close enough to hurl obscenities and expletives at Dre, who stood ready for round two.
Meanwhile, there I was, standing with a strand of her hair in my hand.
[Rewind]
A sharp slap at 4 AM is not a common occurrence anywhere in the world—at least not for a teetotaler or non-night-lifer. Even among night-lifers, a smack on the jaw at 4 AM is an oddity; by that time, no one has the strength to swing, sing, or sway anymore. All that’s left is just enough energy to stagger home by sunrise.
Any responsible adult worth their salt has, at one point, tried to stop a fight between two humans. If you haven’t, either you work as a full-time morgue guard or you’re yet to face that moment of truth. But if you have, just like me, you know the uncomfortable feeling that comes with that act of heroism—especially when you’re not built like The Rock or a trained fighter.
The sheer possibility of getting innocently hurt while breaking up a fight is numbing. Yet, somehow, for the sake of peace, you must press on. That’s exactly what happened to me on a fateful morning in 2022 at my apartment somewhere in Mukono.
The night was quiet, as it should be, and everyone in the neighborhood was minding their own business: sleep. As I went about mine, at a few minutes to 4 AM, I could hear the sound of a quarrel, faint at first, as though from a distance—it felt like a trance. It soon grew too loud to ignore. I got up from the bed, yawned, wiped the corner of my eye with the back of my palm, and walked to the window. I pushed the curtain slightly to the side to see what was happening outside without being seen peeping.
It was three drunk humans: Dunda, the official tenant at the apartment; her boyfriend, Dre; and another girl, who was Dre’s other girlfriend. Yeah, you read that right—he was double-dating. Yes, it’s normal for the true sons of Adam, but prohibited for the children of God.
As I peeked, I saw one of my neighbors, a Greek woman, near whose house the drama was unfolding. She was pacing about, visibly distressed by the sight of those violent Africans determined to fight. I walked to my closet, donned sweatpants, reached for the door, and off I went to the potential crime scene. I returned after 5 AM, carrying a woman’s braid strand that I keep to this day as a memento.
How It Happened Up Close and 7 Lessons I Learned About Stopping Fights:
1. If You’ve Got to Do the Right Thing, Follow Your Convictions, Not Your Feelings
I really didn’t want to go out. First, it was dewy and cold outside. Second, I still felt like sleeping more. Finally, strangers quarrelling and beating each other was none of my business. However, after all that bout of feeling, I had to step out because my convictions demanded it—regardless.
When I stepped out of my house into the piercing cold, the quarrel had escalated. But something seemed strange. Dunda, who was “high” on whatever she’d smoked that evening, was outside her house, banging on the door to call out her boyfriend, who was inside with their “mutual friend.” It turns out she had stayed longer than them at their hangout the previous night. As she banged, she yelled obscenities—the kind of words that make a Christian ear shrink from shyness or embarrassment on behalf of the person saying them, especially in public.
“[Expletive] Open the door! I want my phone!” she shouted. How her phone ended up with her friends, I didn’t get to know. All I—and over five other neighbors who had also come to watch—knew was that she wanted it. But soon, she turned her anger on their “mutual friend.” She wanted her friend out of “my house” and accused her of stealing her money some time back.
Meanwhile, Dre and his “side chick,” masquerading as Dunda’s friend, stood at the door from the inside, curtains drawn, talking back at Dunda.
“Calm down, Dunda, and get your act together, then we’ll open,” Dre said. We could hear him negotiate with Dunda, who was still smacking the door like a psychopath.
“You bastard, come out and give me my phone!” Dunda shouted.
The keys clicked in the lock, and the door swung open.
2. Heroes Are Made in the Moment
No sooner had Dre opened the door than Dunda went for his collar, attempting a chokehold, but he shoved her. She made many attempts, but her weed-weakened body could summon only so much strength to push Dre out of the way. “I want to enter my house!” she agitated. “The two of you, get out!”
She grabbed her friend, Faith, and pulled her violently out of the house. Faith, who hadn’t said a thing throughout all this, could only muster, “Dunda, calm down,” after regaining her balance.
“[Expletive] Leave me alone, you idiot!” Dunda exclaimed as she walked into the house and slammed the door behind her. Dre stood at the balcony, shirtless, wearing only a vest. He looked tipsy and spoke with a slight slur.
Meanwhile, Faith paced about. It was nearing 5 AM. Most neighbours had by now come outside to witness the brewing spectacle. Some freshmen, clearly hoping it would get more dramatic, kept quipping about the situation. “Mwekube, ekyo nakyo kyigwe, ffe tudeyo tweebake. Fight quickly and finish so we can go back and sleep,” they said.
After she had entered, Dunda locked the door and turned off the lights. Hardly five minutes had passed when Dre began knocking on the door, asking Dunda to open so he could pick up his shirt. At the same time, Faith realized her handbag was still inside the house. They both began to clamour. Faith had been quiet until she broke her silence with a big bang on the door. “You guys are making noise for me! I want to sleep!” she yelled.
“But our things are in there. Let us pick them up and we’ll go away,” said Dre, his voice rising and cracking with anger.
“Excuse me. This is my house, and I have a right to not let you in,” Dunda retorted.
[Bang] Dre punched the metallic part of the door so loudly that it sent shivers through my stomach since I’d drawn closer to the scene.
“I won’t. You break it and come in if you want,” Dunda shouted back.
Dre, now enraged, took off his vest and began wrapping it around his right wrist. It was clear what was coming next. A punch through the door glass. (To Be Continued)
