Help!

What I thought it would be like

a/n:

I am sure most of you noticed, but I am terrible at responding to comments. Believe me, in my mind, I have a reply for all of them. But I have a life and a job and a wattpad timeline that makes everything vanish immediately.

I do cherish every single one of your comments 😊

The following fic is...um, yeah, I loved writing the beginning, had no motivation for half a year, finished it in September, forgot about it and just now realised that I don't like it any more. But there is no use of it sitting on my hard drive.

So. Go and have fun.

//

Why?

Just why did he had to pretend that he even had a single clue on how to go about this. Any of this.

After solid thirty minutes of being harassed at the airport, running from left to right, sweating entirely through his shirt, he just went for the expensive cab ride he had wanted to avoid in the first place.

"Where to, Sir?", asked the man, who had ripped Brett's luggage out of his hands before any of the other ten people who offered even had a chance and bullied him into the vehicle.

"Um, just to Kampala. To the bus station. And then somewhere after Masaka. Between Masaka and Mbara."

"That's a long way. You know how to get there?"

Brett tried very hard to remember what he had researched beforehand but all he could do was stare at the dashboard, wondering if the speed indicator just gave up or if they really were going at 80km/h. And if there was some kind of AC, any kind, really. Which he highly doubted, considering this car looked like it was put to rest after 30 years of service in the developed world just to be brought back to life here. A very fragile life. Like all cars that he had seen so far.

"Sir? Is someone picking you up?"

Brett shook his head, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling from his belly away along with it.

"I wanted to take the bus. Can you bring me to the bus station in Kampala? And maybe", he hesitated, "do you maybe know which bus I need to take?"

"I know the bus station, no worry, I will get you there, Sir."

The drive from Entebbe to Kampala was only 45km. It took them two hours.

At this point, Brett hadn't only sweat through his shirt – his shirt was sweat. Why did it had to be so hot? He came from Australia, why did this feel worse?

Arriving at the so-called bus station was just as much a nightmare as the airport. It felt like ten, twenty, thirty people were yelling at him at once, asking where he wanted to go, asking what he wanted to eat, grabbing onto his backpack. Only that this time, he held onto it strongly. His laptop and phone were in that backpack and he would literally die without that. His direct line to the outside world.

Thankfully, the taxi driver took pity on him and negotiated with the crowd, finding him a bus company, told him what he had to pay for a ticket and brought him to the bus.

"Where to?", the busboy asked.

Brett broke into an entirely different kind of sweat. He could not remember the name of the village for the life of him but he knew that he had it written down on a note somewhere. Scrambling with his backpack, he found it in the fifth pocket he checked.

"Kyetume."

Blank stares were the response he received. He showed the bus boy and the taxi driver his note.