"Golf is a game for the genteel. Play the ball as it lies, play the course as you find it, and if you cannot do either, do what is fair. But to do what is fair, you need to know the Rules of Golf,” read the plaque mounted above the fire.

Joe turned away from the plaque and walked towards the bar. Generally, he was a bad player, and lately it was getting harder for him to find golfing partners, everyone claimed they were either engaged elsewhere or already booked.

His game last week had been atrocious. His ball had gone wayward at the tenth hole and landed in what was referred to as the rough — an area with an overgrown thicket.

Seized by shame, he had taken an extra ball from his pocket and sneakily placed it in a better spot, but his fellow players had seen him and from then on, they kept sniggering behind his back.

The bartender cocked his head — as a way of asking Joe what he wanted to drink. Joe had planned to have a coffee while the man he was waiting for finished playing his round, but the plaque had unnerved him.

“A double whisky, on the rocks.”

Outside, the rain started pattering on the low verandah, but the sun still shone. Joe hated golf, and only tolerated it because it provided useful business contacts. It was also a way of boosting his image, although much as he tried acting sophisticated, a slip here and there gave him away — like when it came to his table manners and he chewed noisily and spoke at the same time; or when he got too drunk and his voice rose inordinately.

“Another one?” the barman asked, his face stony. Joe watched a group of players appearing behind some trees headed for the green to finish the eighteenth hole. His man was not among them. He nodded and said, “Same.”

Today, the last thing he wanted was to come here and be subjected to evasive smiles and whispers. But he had no choice. His consignment was held up at the port and the revenue man — who was the only one who could authorise its release — was playing golf today. Millions of shillings were at stake and time was not on Joe’s side.

The first team of players trickled into the lounge talking and laughing. They spotted Joe and went awkwardly silent, only to burst into laughter after passing him. Joe gripped his glass. They were still laughing at him! He took his phone, dreading the moment more players would arrive, and was on the verge of calling the man but cancelled because he remembered phones were not allowed on the course.

Get a hold of yourself, he told himself, remembering the amount of money at stake.

He took the phone again, desperate to keep his mind occupied. His first call was to his girlfriend. She was at the salon and it seemed her hair would be done much earlier than she had calculated. She hated using taxis and so wanted him to pick her up.

He suppressed his annoyance but it was quickly replaced by pride. He knew Joan did not hate taxis. She took them readily enough when he was away, but when he was around, she liked him picking her up, and, truth be told, he liked her seated by his side in the new double-exhaust Mercedes 500 SE. Her beauty complimented the bone-white metallic beast.

“Why don’t you indulge yourself while there, honey,” he said, leaning back pleasurably. Hearing her voice made him forget his worries, temporarily.

“You could have a massage — but not by a man!” he warned jokingly. “Or you could get a manicure — by whoever.”

She laughed, “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Crazy about you,” he breathed, “I’ll pick you up in another hour, honey.”

He hung up the phone then sat back thinking how strange it was that two women called him crazy; one his angry wife, the other his girlfriend Joan.

His next call was to his shed in Industrial Area to find out if they had finished repainting the black BMW and changed its Ugandan plates, and if other expected consignments had arrived. However, the foreman’s phone was off. Another group walked in from the course and they waved at him before snickering when they thought he was out of earshot.

A moment later, the first group re-appeared, having changed into their suits. They went to sit outside in the veranda.

“Another drink?”

He nodded grimly. He was already drunk and it was only three in the afternoon but there was no helping it. The glances from the men were burning his back, and their low chuckles seemed to twist his innards. Just this one deal, he promised himself, and no more golfing.

A third group walked in, talking in low business tones, and this time the revenue man was among them. He nodded cagily at Joe. Joe waved with a smile, but the man ignored him. Then more players and guests walked in from the parking lot and Joe was relieved to see some of them looking happy to see him. Those, he knew, were yet to hear about his cardinal sin.

He ordered a round of drinks for them, feeling good about throwing money around. It made him feel wanted again. But, he was also now getting properly drunk and loud. Twenty minutes later, the friends stood up and went to sit elsewhere “to discuss some important things.”

Time passed and the men who had been playing with the revenue man returned to the bar after changing but the revenue man was nowhere to be seen.

“Same?”

Joe looked up, blinking to clear the obstinate fog and nodded. He felt inside his pocket for the declaration documents. He had brought them so that the revenue man could peruse them and advise on how his illegal imports would be released at the port. The drink came and he gulped it in one go, now certain that the revenue man had gone without a word.

The other players watched as he walked out, this time ashamed of themselves for breaking a man just because of a golf rule. Outside, he took out his phone and dialled the number. This time the revenue man answered. He said he was sorry he could not talk to him at the bar because things had changed “for the worse.”

Joe leaned against his Mercedes dizzily. “Worse? What do you mean?”

“Matters are now beyond me. They are in the hands of the anti-corruption guys, Joe,” the man said.

“It’s over then?” Joe whispered, leaning on his car while wiping his face. “I will lose my consignment unless I declare full duty!”

An ominous pause followed.

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Joe. The police have tracked other illegal goods to your warehouse in Industrial Area,” the man said matter-of-factly. Joe stood frozen.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”

“I hear they are looking for you.”

Joe cursed loudly then said goodbye to the man before quickly hanging up.

He jumped into his car and took deep breaths. Would they trace his car? He started the car and drove off, knowing a man on the run needed a crowded place to disappear to.