Janet Kemigisha

My phone buzzed just as I stepped off the boda. I knew the ringtone—Sharon again. I ignored it. Not because I don’t love her, but because she always calls when something ridiculous is happening, and today, I wasn’t in the mood for her chaos.

The heat clung to my back as I walked through the taxi park, the kind that makes your shirt stick and your brain slow down. I could smell chapati from a stall nearby, and my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since morning. It was nearly 5. I’d just come from my internship at the law firm. We’re not allowed to call it unpaid, but that’s exactly what it is—free labour with a smile. I’ve been there four months. I'm twenty-four, and every day I wonder if I’ll ever get a real case or just keep bringing coffee and pretending I don’t hear the men whisper “this one thinks she’s a lawyer.”

I was halfway home when the accident happened. A taxi swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a small grave and clipped a boda. The rider flew—literally. He landed hard, blood already soaking his jeans by the time I reached him. People shouted, but no one moved. That strange Kampala, Uganda, paralysis when something terrible happens—everyone wants to watch, no one wants to act.

I dropped to my knees next to him. He was groaning. I told him my name and that I was going to help. My hands were shaking. I’m not a doctor, but I remembered the Red Cross training from school. I held his head steady and called for help. It took twenty minutes for the ambulance to come, and by then I was crying and shouting at the crowd. One man filmed the whole thing. I wanted to smash his phone.

Later that night, Sharon came over with grilled chicken and beer. She called me a hero. I didn’t feel like one. I felt angry, exhausted, and somehow older. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the man’s eyes, how they looked at me like I was his only hope. Maybe I was, even for just a moment.

The next day at the firm, no one cared. Just more files, more coffee. But something in me had changed. And I think I’ll remember that moment long after I’ve forgotten the names on those files.