Dear Iryn Not Namubiru but Namatovu,
I don’t know how to say this, but I cannot come to your concert.
I know you must be heartbroken to hear this. I know you have been really eager to have me there. It seemed you were, in fact, more than eager. You were desperate.
The first sms you sent me didn’t express how badly you wanted me there. But the subsequent ones…
Every single day, another invite. Unfailing, every day, over and over again. The same plaintive call to attend your concert.
It got to the point that I could sense, from the way the phone quivered in my pocket with a buzz of frantic desperation, that it was obviously another text from Irene… sorry, Iryn coming in.
Now, normally, I don’t really tend towards your music. I wouldn’t even be able to name any of your songs. You are the wrong Iryn, no offense.
I don’t even know what you look like and would never pick you out of a line-up, not even a lineup that consisted of Iryn Namatovu, an egg, a piece of toast, a dead jackal and my very own self.
But since it looked like my attendance would nevertheless mean a lot to you I figured I should do something right in my life for once. I cleared my schedule. Never let it be said that I was not there for my countryman in his time of need.
I was all set to attend your concert.
I even found some shabby clothes, and abstained from the shower for 48 hours, because I assume that will help me fit in with the sort of crowd you draw.
Unfortunately, at the last minute, tragedy struck. I spent the weekend in police custody and am currently still on remand, waiting to answer pending charges of grand larceny, aggravated assault, arson and wearing of a miniskirt in a manner contrary to the law.
I am sorry Namatovu,
I really tried.