There is little justice for the poor in this world. But in at least one instance, it was served in a wheelbarrow.
I received the call sitting in a café in Uganda. It was our gardener, very upset. He had been taking grass clippings down to the local garbage site when he was jumped by several men. They roughed him up because he was from a different tribe. Then they took the wheelbarrow. They happened to be Kampala municipal workers, doing this in broad daylight with impunity.
Our gardener was upset for losing the wheelbarrow. I was upset because he had been assaulted. I told him I couldn’t care less about the wheelbarrow so long as he was safe. He assured me he was OK. I told him we should go to the police. He laughed and told me there was nothing further to be done. Sadly, I knew he was right. I hung up the phone and relayed the story to the man with whom I was meeting.
That evening I returned home to find a beaming gardener and our fully restored wheelbarrow.
Apparently, shortly after our call, several pickup trucks full of uniformed men arrived at our house. They were armed with rifles. They confirmed our gardener’s identity. They confirmed that indeed a wheelbarrow had been taken from him. Without further explanation they told him to get in a truck.
The convoy drove straight to the municipal depot. The armed men deployed from the trucks and fanned out across the compound. Someone approached the yard foreman and informed him they were here to retrieve a misplaced wheelbarrow. It was immediately “found” and loaded into a truck. The armed men and our gleeful gardener mounted back up and the convoy left in a cloud of dust.
The friend who was with me that morning when I received our gardener’s call happened to own a security company. He knew our gardener. And he was annoyed at the injustice. So he took it upon himself to dispatch a few truckloads of his men to sort it out.
Of course I thanked him. But then I asked if a wheelbarrow was really worth someone getting shot. “Oh Chuck,” he replied “I just sent them out with guns. Trust me, they didn’t have any bullets!”
Thereafter at the garbage site our gardener was given a little respect, and a wide berth.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]
[This story is dedicated to the godfather of our son. May he grow up to have a heart like yours, if not armed men at his disposal.]
Now that is truly a Ugandan moment.
The step above no bullets was being given one bullet to keep in your pocket.
I am so enjoying your Words for the Weary. Thank you!
There is little more satisfying than justice quickly served… Your entries make Monday morning a bit easier.