I was a good soldier in the British Army. I was born in a very

Host: The rain was falling again, heavy and persistent, tracing silver streaks down the cracked windows of a small pub on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of peat smoke and old ale, the wooden floor creaking under the rhythm of tired boots. A fire burned low in the hearth, its light dancing on the brass plaques and faded war photographs that lined the walls.

Jack sat by the window, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whisky — the amber liquid glowing in the firelight like bottled memory. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absentmindedly, her gaze caught on one of the photos hanging nearby — young men in uniform, frozen in the act of marching toward history.

The storm outside was relentless, but inside, the world held its breath — caught between warmth and shadow.

Jeeny: (reading from her notebook) “Idi Amin once said, ‘I was a good soldier in the British Army. I was born in a very, very poor family. And I enlisted to escape hunger. But my officers were Scottish and they loved me. The Scots are good, you know.’”

Jack: (snorts) “The irony of a dictator reminiscing about kindness. History’s favorite tragedy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it stings — because even monsters have moments of humanity.”

Jack: “Or they fake them well enough to confuse us.”

Jeeny: “I don’t think he was faking. Hunger makes honesty simple. You don’t enlist for glory when your stomach’s empty.”

Host: The fire crackled, sending a thin trail of smoke into the dim air. Jack leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as the wind howled against the window — a sound like history knocking, demanding to be remembered.

Jack: “You know, that line — ‘I enlisted to escape hunger’ — it’s one of the most honest things I’ve ever heard him say. But honesty doesn’t cleanse a man’s sins.”

Jeeny: “No. But it explains their roots. You can’t understand cruelty if you refuse to see the desperation that births it.”

Jack: “You’re giving him empathy he never gave his victims.”

Jeeny: “I’m giving context, not absolution.”

Host: The light from the fire flickered over Jeeny’s face — half in warmth, half in shadow. She looked thoughtful, but unafraid of the darkness that always came with such discussions.

Jack: “He called the Scots ‘good.’ That’s the line that gets me. The man who became infamous for brutality still remembered tenderness — as if one small act of decency became a permanent scar on his conscience.”

Jeeny: “Because love, when you’ve never had it, brands you deeper than hate ever could.”

Jack: “So you think his kindness toward them was gratitude, not strategy?”

Jeeny: “I think it was memory. The poor remember goodness like the starving remember bread. It’s never enough, but you never forget the taste.”

Host: The rain intensified outside, turning the windows into trembling mirrors. The pub was nearly empty now — only the two of them, the bartender polishing glasses in rhythm with the storm.

Jack: “You know, Amin’s life reads like a tragedy written by history’s cruelest hand — born poor, raised by empire, taught violence, rewarded for obedience, and destroyed by power. A perfect colonial echo.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The empire made him before it feared him. He was a reflection of its own brutality wearing a darker face.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy of colonialism — it trains the oppressed to wield the master’s whip.”

Jeeny: “And then condemns them for learning too well.”

Host: Her words hung in the smoky air like truth that refused to be polite. The fire popped, and the room filled with the faint scent of burning oak.

Jack: “You think he ever truly loved those Scottish officers?”

Jeeny: “I think he loved what they represented — fairness, structure, a sense of belonging he never had. For a poor African soldier, to be treated as human was revolutionary.”

Jack: “And when the revolution ended, he mimicked the empire — because that’s the only language power had ever spoken to him.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He learned hierarchy, not humanity.”

Host: The wind wailed through the cracks of the old door, carrying with it the ghostly echoes of bagpipes from a nearby street performer — faint, mournful, like a memory bleeding into the present.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? A man can recall kindness from one hand while crushing others with the same. That duality — it’s monstrous, but human.”

Jeeny: “Because monsters don’t emerge from nowhere. They’re shaped — molded by hunger, discipline, humiliation, and opportunity. Every tyrant was once a child who wanted to be safe.”

Jack: (softly) “And some never stop fighting ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Amin’s ghosts wore Scottish uniforms. They called him ‘good soldier,’ and he believed it — until power told him he didn’t have to be good anymore.”

Host: The flames dimmed, the fire now a slow pulse of orange and ember. Outside, the rain softened, turning into a steady drizzle that sounded almost forgiving.

Jack: “You know, what haunts me about that quote isn’t the hunger or the soldiers. It’s the affection. The way he says, ‘The Scots are good, you know.’ Like he’s still trying to prove he deserved their love.”

Jeeny: “Because love is the one empire that never truly collapses. It outlives guilt, even evil.”

Jack: “You really think love touched that man’s heart?”

Jeeny: “Even the cruel crave gentleness. Maybe it’s the only thing that terrifies them.”

Host: Silence filled the pub again. Only the sound of rain against glass, the faint hum of distant wind, and the whisper of history through their conversation.

Jack: “It’s funny. You can hate a man and still pity the boy he used to be.”

Jeeny: “That’s empathy’s curse. It doesn’t absolve — it just refuses to forget.”

Jack: “So what do we do with men like him?”

Jeeny: “Remember them honestly. Neither demonize nor romanticize. Just hold their story up to the light and let it blind us long enough to see what made it possible.”

Host: The fire finally sank into glowing coals, soft red breathing in the dark. The bartender flipped the sign to Closed, but didn’t rush them. Outside, the world was washed clean — or at least pretending to be.

Jack looked at the photograph on the wall again — soldiers, young and proud, marching under a British flag. He wondered how many enlisted for freedom and how many for hunger.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, history loves its villains. But maybe the real story is the hunger — not the hate.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because hunger creates obedience first, then rage. It turns survival into a system.”

Jack: “And love into propaganda.”

Jeeny: “Until someone remembers it was real once.”

Host: The rain faded into mist. The last log in the fire cracked softly. Jeeny gathered her things, and Jack stood, stretching, his silhouette framed against the dying glow.

They left the pub in silence, stepping into the cool Edinburgh night. The cobblestones glistened under streetlights; the air smelled of rain and ghost stories.

And as they walked away, Idi Amin’s words lingered — not as absolution, but as evidence:

That hunger shapes destiny,
that kindness can haunt as deeply as cruelty,
and that even the ruthless remember love —
not because they earned it,
but because it was the one thing
they never learned to give back.

Host: The wind swept through the empty streets, carrying the faint sound of a distant bagpipe —
a melody that mourned, forgave,
and vanished into the night.