I do my utmost to ignore the mounting paranoia and continue reporting. But my job is encumbered by lunatics from the mental ward of Mulago Hospital who stroll out the doors in the chaos of war.

The worst of the lot is Wazimu (Crazy) Elizabeth who focuses her schizophrenic attention on me. I first see her in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, which is chock-full of journalists, soldiers, diplomats and government officials. She screams at the top of her lungs, “Idi Amin Dada, he fucked my mind!” Christ! The war is still on with Tanzania. Amin is being compared to Hitler. It is suicidal to say anything nice about him. And there’s Elizabeth, barefoot, head shaven like darkest Africa’s version of a Charlie Manson groupie, shouting in the middle of the lobby, “Idi Amin has a twenty-five pound penis! I know because he fucked me and I liked it!”

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