#nseneneinthetoilet

The woman who cleans the toilets at our workplace started talking about grasshoppers when she saw me. “You see, they are so tasty those flying insects. They taste even better when I fry them, because sometimes these people on the streets even use Vaseline. Ate when I add raw onions, ho! I can even bite my tongue and fingers!”
But because I don't eat grasshoppers, I don't know how they taste.
So I entered the stall, did my business and came out. She was still standing in the position I had left her, leaning on her mop, with a bucketful of water close by.
She continued, “Kale, my children love nsenene. Nga they live for them! Naye, they are so costly!”
“Eh?”
“Yeah, a cup of un-plucked insects costs 5,000 shillings.”
As I washed my hands, I felt the Good Samaritan in me urging me to complete her children’s evening otherwise this conversation would be repeated on my next visit.
“Kale.” I left, and returned in a few minutes. With enough for two cups of nsenene.
She thanked me profusely, asking God to bless me abundantly.
But this got me thinking. Our conversations, save for two or three, always happen in the washrooms. She is either cleaning the floor, or a toilet, or the sink, mop in hand, or sitting on a sanitary bin. I know she doesn't have her meals here, otherwise. I mean, people do all sorts of things in these places. Like they have no idea that if you find the place clean, then leave it the way you found it. I recently visited the University of Rhodes in South Africa, and my, my, my, those washrooms looked (please note the word “looked”) and smelt so clean, you could literally live and sleep in there.
There are jobs which society considers undesirable. And toilet cleaning falls in this category. In countries like the US, they are referred to in a more polite way.  Janitor. When I was still little, I thought a janitor was like a class monitor. And I wondered why they always carried mops and buckets in films.
Now, these our public toilets in Kampala, the ones which Jenny said should be accessed free of charge. Hmmm… There is that person who used to wake up every morning to the job of sitting at the entrance and collecting the 200, 300 shillings for short and long calls. And people use them as bathrooms as well. Gross. I’m not sure how regularly they are cleaned but their stink pervades the early morning air, so you can imagine. My heart goes out to the people with no other option but to use them.
Then there are the washrooms in the malls. Where you have to pay and are handed scraps of measly-looking toilet paper and warned not to “spoil” the place. And he doesn't put the change in your hand. He drops it in a bucket or on the bench where he is sitting. I mean, what if you didn't wash your hands? Its bad enough to spend the day in a smelly place, but he is not about to contract cholera or dysentry from your spatters.
So, back to my cleaner friend, she loves and values her job. The single mother told me it has sustained her family, her children are in school, they sleep well at night and she has something to do every day, however dirty or unpleasant. To her it matters little about what the odd hours she works, what sights, smells and floating messes she is subjected to as she sits alone in that cold, tiled room she calls her office. And she doesn't mind if anyone asks what she does, she proudly says she cleans toilets for a living.

#thelaunchthatneverwas

The coup happened inside the prestigious, heavily air-conditioned Conference Center. The government officials, donors and representatives of aid agencies were left dumb-founded as men and women young enough to be their children, nieces and grandchildren interrupted the proceedings with loud protestations, booing the organizers and heckling. On the podium at the front of the hall, the Labor state minister Kabafunzaki held the microphone mid-air as his calls for “Order! Order” were ignored.

The minister of East African affairs, aging and white-haired in white and yellow, and who has served in all governments from the time of independence, was dumb-founded. He and other invited officials sitting at the broad table on the low stage at the front, with bottles of soft drinks arranged in front of them, looked on in shock and horror as the events unfolded and all hell broke loose.

This was the Launch of the National Youth Policy at the Serena Conference Center, Kampala on 16th December 2016. That never happened. By the way, Uganda has had a policy for the youth from 2001. It provides for young people’s rights and freedoms, employment as an area of focus, the National Youth Council, provision of life skills, education, and there is a budget for it as well.

The youth had a host of complaints. One, they felt they were not ably represented. The invitation letter from the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development was addressed to the Chief Administrative Officer, a political appointee. He had been instructed to mobilize and come along with, among others, the district youth leaders. That angered the youth. They wanted the invitation to be directly addressed to their leaders, who they had elected through a democratic process.
They were also miffed that their parliamentary representatives had been left off the guest list. “How does this happen??” they demanded, “When these are the people through whom our matters of national interest and importance are addressed!”
Another on their list of grievances was the fact that the invitation cards, which I gather, were distributed 24 hours to the Friday event, clearly stated that President Yoweri Museveni was the chief guest. But he had more important matters to deal with: “…Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know…” (from Henry Barlow’s poem ‘Building the Nation’), and had sent an envoy “by the names of” Ali Kirunda Kivejinja, Al-Hajji. The youth were incensed by the presence of this fossil whom they accused of being out of sync with anything youthful.
A young woman in tight green trousers who claimed she funded her trip from Jinja district in eastern Uganda, said she had wanted to personally inform the President that they were not benefitting from any of the plans he had for them, and that his ministers and officials were chewing their money. She cited the Youth Livelihood Project started in 2014, as an intervention (God, how I abhor that word) of Government in response to the high unemployment rate and poverty among the youth in Uganda.
They also griped about the fact that the ministry was launching a national policy for youth and yet none of them had any memory of ever having been consulted on matters that concern them. That how do 70-plus year olds decide what is good for them? That they can speak for themselves and don’t need ancients to design policies that benefit the youth.
One young man yelled that 70% of the participants were not in the youth age group.
They also wondered what the budget for the youth is this financial year. “Nobody ever tells us!” they wailed.
And… that they had been sitting on their little butts from 10am and were being constantly fed on bottles and bottles of Rwenzori mineral water. It was now 4pm and they were famished!! Whoever coined the phrase “A hungry man is an angry man” was on point.
And where was their transport money? Eh? Si if the organizers could afford to take the event to a glitzy venue like the Serena, then SURELY, they could afford to pay for a bite and provide a refund of sorts.

As protocol demands, the state minister for children affairs in her purple outfit (which was her second for the day), would introduce the guest of honor after her few remarks. At about 4:30pm, she walked the few steps to the podium from her seat. But as she leaned forward calling, “The youth, are there?” the way a DJ says, “testing, testing, one,two!”, the noise started. First as a low murmur, then it grew bigger and finally crescendoed. Shouts. Clamor. Babel. Pandemonium. Yelps of “No! We refuse you to address us! Get off that stage. Go!!”

Startled, she quickly retreated to her seat on the safety of the stage, looking around her wildly, just in case a bottle of mineral water came flying from nowhere and connected with her head. Not knowing what else to do, she hastily arranged the papers in front of her.
State Minister for Labour Kabafunzaki grabbed his phone and made some frantic calls probably for “send help from the command center!” He looked mortified and wished that the ground could open and swallow him.

Al Hajji’s face had turned as yellow as the big tie he was wearing. His eyes darted around the hall as he feebly waved his hand for the enraged youths to calm down. His bodyguards stood close by. When the coast had cleared a bit, he beat a hasty exit. Up the steps he scampered like a scared rabbit, and into the protection of the VIP lounge. Some of the youths made as if to give chase, but were blocked and nearly pushed down the stairs by the mean-faced cops.

Someone on the microphone frantically called for, “Security please? Hotel security, where are you? We need you here please? Hotel security!!” But there was no response. So he hollered for the dancers. “UYDEL dancers! Can we have the UYDEL dancers please, we need you on the stage please?” They came running and arranged themselves ready to pull off some moves, hoping this could cool down the heated atmosphere. But the DJ did not even start the song because at that moment, the chaos vomited itself into the main part of the hall.

Durrrraaamaaaa!

Over at the podium, the Hotel Security caller had fled his post, and a youth had taken over the microphone, declaring the event closed. At the front of the room, there were bodies lying on the floor, others writhing in mock pain, wailing loudly about how “this government has betrayed and abandoned them who make up over 60% of Uganda’s population!”.
Where the ministers disappeared to, only God knows, because their seats had been occupied by some protestors. One was swinging in the comfortable chair, a bag on his back, declaring loudly as he sipped from a glass of water. “Let me drink my money. Bino bya kifeere, bano bayaaye buyaaye!! Ffe tukooye!!!!”
Meanwhile, the police was engaged in a near-fist fight with another lot who were hurling all sorts of insults. They were making gorilla-like gestures- the ones of beating their chest when faced with confrontation. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and dirty insults flying around (even from the coppers).
Others were running around in search of any camera they could stick their head into and wag their fingers at as they ranted about how disadvantaged they were feeling.
One young man in a light-pink shirt and cream trousers, who troubles had aged him so much that he looked like he was going on 50, was turning round and round in circles, evidently bewildered.
A couple of red-faced diplomats scurried down the stairs towards the open door behind the stage. A young man was hurrying beside them, trying to keep up with their pace. “This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen!!!” he shouted. They didn't say a thing or risk a glance in his direction, though one of them gave little, quick, nervous nods as he rushed along, most probably wondering when the hell “this little bugger would bugger off!!”
Four or five hapless looking policemen in black were attempting to arrest the suspected ring-leader, chasing him around the hall, but their attempts were thwarted because he was so quick on his feet and there was a huge crowd following him around so that whenever their hands closed on him, the crowd pounced on them and they let go. “Where are you taking him??!!! they roared.
In another corner, someone was addressing an impromptu press conference. “When we go to the Gender ministry, they throw us to KCCA. KCCA says they know nothing about our matters and we should go to the National Youth Council. The National Youth Council refers us back to the Gender Ministry! We have come here to see the President because we have issues we want him to address! But he decided not to come! We are angry and disappointed because we do not know where we belong!! We are tired of being used for their two billion shillings budgets!!! ”

Bedlam!

After about half an hour of mayhem, the hall starting emptying, with a few people hanging around as they waited for the chaos to subside.

Outside, Kabafunzaki, a microphone thrust in his face was confidently telling a reporter that, “…The National Youth Policy itself is good. There’s no doubt about it. But I think it became a bit political because of maybe some individuals from Kampala. Youth who were propagated by some politicians to disorganize it. But the policy is good.”
(Okay, so politics had finally crept in. But I didn't see Besigye anywhere in the vicinity. Maybe he was in the kamooli.)

Those phone calls he made earlier, probably to the “command center” had borne fruit because three huge guzzlers from the ministry had arrived and all the stationery, banners and equipment, and whatever else, was being quickly loaded onto the cars.

By the way, this coup played out live on national TV. In the hallowed ground that is Serena Conference Center Kampala. The desecration. The defilement! The violation and dishonor! Oh!

#badapples

Twenty-two years ago I gave birth to my son. 3.9 kgs (P.S. for those of you who asked where he is today, from my last post- he is a law student now). I went to Mulago hospital. Old Mulago section. I was a young woman with no money and there were free services- tetanus shot, height, weight, pressure measurements- but they came with a cost.
The day came for the great arrival and I carried my ka-bag and walked all the way. There were plenty of women in the ward that day- about 16. And then me. With two stressed, over-worked midwives on duty. At one point the births became back-to-back. One woman’s child popped out and she fell to the floor on her knees with the baby’s head stuck between her legs. Before I fled from the ward, the midwife was yelling, “Oli musiru! Oyagala kutta mwana wo? Lwaki bwowulidde nga omwana ajja tosituse??!! (Foolish woman! do you want to kill your child? Why didn't you get up when you felt the baby coming??!!) And the woman was crawling around in circles moaning, “Musawo jangu onyambe! Musawo jangu onyambe!” (Nurse, please help me, Nurse, please help me!”) repeatedly.
When my labor pains started showing me touch at about 6:30pm, I decided that there would be no repeat scenario of what I had witnessed. For me I wasn't going to be yelled at. I got the plastic sheet and bag of gloves, cotton wool etc and raced to the delivery bed. I hoisted myself up, not even knowing how to lie down.
By this time, there was only one midwife on duty, busy grumbling about “Bakazi mwe muntamye!” (I’m fed up with you women!) She was working on a woman who had been in labor for three days (I managed to hear that gossip in between my contractions) and who had nearly puked all her intestines out. Even when she was pushing out the baby, she was heaving. Big dry heaves. Anti she had been drinking only black tea for three days but it long been ejected. (Someone please tell me how black tea helps the birth process). The baby was eventually born. Then it was my turn. I have no idea if the midwife shouted at me. All I remember was pain from the tips of my toes to the tips of my hair, then a baby and stitches. Then I jumped off the delivery bed, shaking like a leaf.
Twenty-two years later, many of the Mulago staff are still a grumpy, surly lot. I have tried to put myself in their shoes so that I don’t come off as being unfair, unfeeling, prejudiced. I understand that they want more pay, that their working conditions may not be the best, that they see a lot of blood and broken bones. And that can be stressful.
But take for example the Cancer Institute which we have been attending for a year and a half. The doctors are okay. Nice and polite. Listening.
The nurses…
A middle-aged woman with breast cancer, who had been waiting nearly the whole day, braving the mid-morning rain and the cold, and who had not been attended to, meekly approached the nurse who was taking the weight and pressure measurements. The nurse had taken a ka-break and was standing behind an old, empty counter of sorts.
“Nansi, mbadde wano olunaku lwonna naye temunyata failo yange.” (Nurse, I have been here the whole day, but there is no mention of my file.)
“Kati oyagala nkole ki??” (What do you want me to do??)The nurse barked back.
“Mbadde mbuza bubuza. Oyinza okunyambako ojinfunire bambi?” (I was asking if you could help me locate it please?) There were tears in her eyes.
The nurse looked right through her like she wasn't there, the way some children look at visitors when you say “hallo” and you don't have a sweet for them.
After a few minutes of being ignored, the patient made another feeble attempt, “Nansi, nsaba… (Nurse, please…) ”
She shouldn't have. Because Nansi suddenly metamorphosed into an animal of sorts.
“Nkugambye oyagala nkukolere ki??!!! (I have asked you what you want me to do for you!!), she screamed, her eyes blazing and the veins in her neck standing out. She hit the counter top with her palm. “Kati okaba. Kale ffembi katukabe, tulabe ani asinga amaziga!!
The woman dissolved into more tears, reached into her hand and pulled out a big hanky, then retreated to the corner like a mouse where she cried her eyes out.
The girl at the front desk is no better. She has big sad eyes and can only offer one word answers. “Ye”. “Nedda”. “Wali”. “Awo.” “Eri”.
What went wrong? What is the matter? Why is their moral so damp? How can they be motivated? Are they motivatable? Do they love their jobs? Clearly not. I know their code of ethics demands professionalism and mutual respect, but does that include yelling at people and refusing to help?
By the way, its not all of them, just a few bad apples spoiling the rest.

#moneyishoney

Money is honey, my little sonny,
And a rich man’s joke is always funny.
Couplet by Thomas Edward Brown, the Manx poet.

Many times I have studied how some people act in the presence of another individual with power, money, or beauty. Askaris stationed at door of the bank will bow and nearly scrape when a “rich” man parks his Range Rover at the bank’s entrance. In a space that is clearly marked “No Parking”. And when he shifts his pot-belly out of the car and strides up to the bank door, the askari shoos away all the nyama-ndogos and ushers the big man in without even checking them.

When the President tied his jerrican on a new Raleigh bicycle and went to fetch water, it was drawn from a dirty pond by his handlers who then bound it onto the bicycle. The handlers went trotting after the bike and holding on to the jerrican so that it wouldn't fall. And yet they had fastened it tightly with ropes and were holding onto the bike. When he stopped they stopped, when he hurried along, they ran, when he smiled they laughed, and when he said something they didn't hear or understand, they pretended to be fumbling with something on their boots.

When Obama was planting a tree at Mahatma Gandhi’s memorial at Raj Ghat, two grown men nearly fell over themselves as they strove to hold on to the plant and then stealthily steal a pose for a picture as the world’s most powerful man squatted on his haunches to water the plant.

In Uganda, there’s someone to hold the hoe, someone to tell the holder of the hoe to hand over the hoe, someone standing close by with a green watering can, someone to hold the can when the minister is done, and then 30 pairs of hands to do the clapping and smiling in a silly way when the seedling is finally in the soil.

What about those who nod at every opportunity. They can nod through the whole speech, and their necks hurt when they get home. Even when the speaker is not making sense, they nod vigorously just so they can be seen to agree. Then they laugh very loudly when he makes a joke and look around the room to see if everyone has seen them laughing.

#bappasita

Scores of people line up outside Pastor Samuel Kakande’s Synagogue Church of All Nations at ku Bbiri roundabout every Sunday.
The lines along Gayaza road are long and winding, even stretching up to a kilometer sometimes. There must be something special here because of the sheer number. And they line up as early as 3am, arriving in their droves and standing in the file. 
They carry plastic jerrycans of all sizes- five liters, ten liters, twenty. Yellow, green, purple, white. Some hawkers walk up and down the queues selling more jerricans.
I have heard that there is some holy water here. That Kakande promises them blessings and eternity in exchange for their loyalty. That the water must be sprinkled on everything that seems to bring them bad luck- if its at your market stall, if its your finger that needs to wear a wedding ring, if its your husband who’s not living up to his patriarchal duties, if its your child’s head that is not kutolaring at school, if its your chronic backache.
I used to live on Mawanda road before I moved to the Mansion. There was a couple who lived in the servants’ quarters for whom bad luck seemed to follow everywhere. The guy had been thrown in prison for something he didn't do. Two months after they were married, a "kiwempe" church in which he was praying, came down in the rain and he ended up with two broken limbs- an arm and a leg. And they couldn't find work. Which means that money and food were scarce. But they were very cheerful even as they suffered.
One day, after enduring this state of affairs for one and a half years, and with the landlord breathing down their necks, the man of the house announced that he was going to start up a church in Kyebando. That since there was no work coming their way, then his only option was to become a pastor because it was a quick way to make quick bucks.
Within a week, they had moved out, their belonging loaded onto a small Datsun pickup.
I did not hear about them for a while.
But I met them in town one afternoon. They were walking to the Old Taxi Park carrying their shoppping in Capital Shoppers plastic bags. The wife was pregnant. A third one on the way. Mister was dressed in an oversized suit.

#thebeggar'slunch

credit: www.itsamazed.com

He had begged for enough to afford a good lunch.
A plate full of rice, a slice of ugali, beans, two pieces of beef and a wedge of avocado.
He sat at the side of the road, that road above the old taxi park that is so dusty as contractors repair its potholes. A youngish man, probably in his early twenties.
His umbrella, sitting at his side, was obviously forgotten as he hunched forward and munched away, savoring each spoonful he shoved into his mouth, blowing on it because it was so hot.
The Baganda say that “Omufumbi yabadde ayomba.” That the cook must have been quarreling as she cooked, because the food is so hot.
And he ate with such art, carving the meal into small portions on the rectangular plate. He started with the side farthest from him, shaping it into a little ball with the spoon which he then lifted to his mouth slowly and carefully.  He chewed with relish. He moved to another corner of the rectangular plate. Then the left one closest to him, and then the right. The process was repeated continuously.
He was in love with the food and did not want to see it go, but his hunger commanded that it was better off in his stomach.
The lunch was soon gone, devoured with quick small sewing machine-like bites.
Sitting at his side was a mini-sized bottle of Coke.
Today was a good day.

#singingpraises

Lordy Lord!!
Guess who I bumped into on Sunday? Yes, you guessed right. Ma Lihanna. In the flesh. With blood red lipstick slashed across her mouth.
I had been driving home from church, feeling very holy and singing the chorus of “It is Well With My Soul” very loudly, when I spotted a familiar figure. Carrying a green kaveera full of Sunday lunch shopping. She was turning into the road from the butcher’s. Goat's meat. There was no way I could not stop. I mean, I was in Good Christian mood. Halleluyah!!
She jumped in and I asked her how the kids were. I had not seen her in a long time but I said had occasionally seen the kids playing in their compound. They play alone, not with other children and they strike me as very lonely. Anyway, who’s to say.
In the few minutes we were together, the conversation started with children, jumped to business, revolved to the weather and finally veered to the topic I had been dreading. The maid.
“Eh! I tell you, God is good!” She started. “This one who I got is very nice. She looks after the children well. And she even washes my clothes.”
I fixed my eyes on the road. I didn't want to be shaking my head in whichever direction. In agreement. Or disagreement. No.
“Kale, she’s a staunch Catholic. Namugulira ka radio because she told me listens to Radio Maria and Christian music. Do you know she wakes up early and says the Ssappuli?”
I decided I couldn't keep quiet any longer. “Eh?” I turned my head slightly towards her. There is a way that "eh?" makes people's tongues (especially lugambolists) looser.
“Munnange, nga I have suffered with bu-gals." She lowered her tone and yet it was just the two of us. "Oba who grows them? And then they come to Kampala and feel very nice on you! Stupid!” That last word was delivered with a lot of venom and I pitied the “Amasanyalazze gaweddewo” girl for whom it was meant. She was the one who had worked before this “Kabulengane Reloaded” was recruited.
Thank God we had turned into our dusty road and I dropped her off to go and fry her goat’s meat. She left my dear UAH smelling like a vat of perfume. Like she had dipped herself in it, and not wiped it off. Kasita it was not a cheap mix between an insecticide and Indian incense but a sweet fragrance of flowers and honey.

#16daysofactivism

Today, 25th November, marks the start of 16 days of activism against gender based violence focusing especially on women and girls who are physically abused.
I hope and pray that in Uganda this campaign is taken out of the luxury four-star air-conditioned hotel in Kampala where it was launched, away from the placards and parades from Constitution Square to Parliament.
That it is taken to that woman who dreads the moment her drunk and heavy-handed husband hammers at the door.
To the woman who is battered in front of her weeping children.
To the woman whose hands have been chopped off in a moment of temporary insanity.
And to the woman whose jealous husband has hounded and attacked her at her place of work because he suspects she is having an affair with her boss. And she isn’t.
I recently heard an Australian politician weep in Parliament, as she painfully recalled her mother’s suffering at the hands of her physically and emotionally abusive drunkard father.
But away from stories of violence against women, I want to see and hear from the men who also suffer at the hands of Eve.
The men who are too ashamed to admit that they have been slapped around, that their ears are raw from nagging, men who have been branded with a hot iron and men who have been banished from their homes for no valid reason.
I have heard several experiences of domestic violence - women in India being doused in paraffin and set alight because their families have not paid off the dowry; girlfriends who are boxed in the face because their boyfriend feels that her food should taste like his mother’s; a woman whose eyes were gouged out with a broken beer bottle because she couldn't have sons.
Relationships experience other types of abuse- emotional, psychological, verbal, sexual.
Partners are stalked, their mobile phone messages are checked, they are humiliated in front of guests, they are monitored endlessly.
And more often than not, people are too ashamed to speak about their experiences for fear of being victimized or being seen as “the bad person” and for the “shame” that comes with being abused.
I stand with all victims of violence, with all those who have been strong enough to walk away, pick up the pieces and start a new life.

#planeblankets

I want the secret of how people reward (I can’t use “steal” ‘coz its kinda rude) themselves with Ethiopian Airlines blankets. Or are they shawls? The blue and green mixed with yellow ones. Those of you who have travelled Ethiopian Airlines know what I’m talking about.
Do they want to keep them as souvenirs, or is it a matter of “Lemme take, they won’t miss it?” Maybe they argue that its included in the airfare. If I asked perhaps, would those pretty ladies who speak Amharic give me one? The thought of taking one without permission crossed me once. The body was willing but the heart and mind said no.
So, how do these travelers take away these blankets? Do they ask for one the minute they board and strap on their seat-belt, even before the plan taxis? Then they gesture to the smiling stewardess and make the shivering body sign? Then ten minutes into the journey they whip off the scarf and stuff into their hand luggage and wait for another stewardess to come sashaying down the aisle and then gesture to her and make the shivering body sign again and get her to bring another blanket packed in a see-through plastic shrink-wrap.
Then after they have done that thrice, and packed away two blankets, they settle down and wait for the hot spicy airline snacks.
Maybe if the blankets had a kind of tag attached to them along with software which beeped when some unlucky passenger trying to make off with the blanket went through the airport’s security system. Maybe then, Ethiopian Airlines wouldn't be making so many blanket losses.

#ofinstantlyfamouspeople

Bukedde newspaper has had a field day with the Kanyamunyu- Akena saga. They have interviewed “witnesses” who “saw the altercation start at Legends Bar in Lugogo”; they have dug up the bones on Kanyamunyu’s haunts- like the “fact” that he “takes his own clipper, bulaasi (brush), cape when he goes to cut his hair at Sparkles salon and they have faithfully kept it as front page headline from the time of the incident up till today. But away from that, this unfortunate incident has unearthed a few things. For me.

1.
That the law can be interpreted in so many different ways, to suit the situation or the person. Like the perennial thief who says he steals food because he is hungry. This case has transformed ordinary citizens into lawyers of sorts, interpreting the 48-hour detention rule in so many ways and most of them finding it extremely weird that the suspects were kept locked up for more than 216 hours, and yet the law says…

2.
Kaweesi, the police spokesperson, wondered why there have been so many hushed whispers and finger- pointing at certain tribes and why people are “debating this case on ethnicity...". Kaweesi, it is a fact that most of us never want to admit it in public, but we still go back to our houses and say “Ako a’kaT…...., Eki’G…... ekyo e'kiS....... Tribal banner, tribal banter.

3.
Only Matthew and Cynthia know in detail what really happened that evening. Whether it was assassins from Burundi trailing Cy, whether Akena “scratched” Kanyamunyu’s car, why they took it in their stride to take the shot man to hospital, whether they know something about the murder weapon, why they didn't go to Police first and yet their lives were in grave danger.  There are so many versions of a story but only they and their God or gods know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This public can really judge.

4.
There’s been this criticism about the demeanor of the suspects when they finally appeared in Nakawa court on Tuesday. The fact that Joseph, Matthew and “girlfriend” Cynthia were wearing wide smiles, bongaring like Rastafarians and mouthing “hi’s”, when a grave charge like murder was strung around their necks, has raised anger and debate. Mbu they should have been somber and sad, hanging their heads in so much shame and remorse, wearing sackcloth and ash in their hair. Hey, they are just suspects, remember?

5.
The emergence of body language experts who have no idea about what course or class to take to qualify to be a body language expert. When Cynthia arrived at the court in the police truck, she was smiling from ear to ear (some people called it “teething”). She had carried along two bags full of God-knows-what. As she was hurried along to the court's holding cells, she dug her hands into the pockets of her pants. Whenever she had a chance to stand or walk, she was pocketing. Uganda’s keen body language experts have already interpreted it to mean that it was kamanyiiro, and “did she think she was on the catwalk?”. However, a quick google search shows that pocketing in times of trouble can indicate “ defensiveness, indifference, reluctance, mistrust, nervousness”- the list is long. Also that “Studies show that smiles are based on many more emotions than happiness or contentment. A smile is sometimes based on conceit, embarrassment and shame, deceit, grief, tension and uneasiness.

6.
Then there are the “Kale me if I was Cynthia” types. That “I would cave in, become a state witness, record my testimony and flee the country  never to be seen again. How can I suffer and be humiliated like this?”. Because I am just a girlfriend, taking bullets for a man who might replace me with a chic he finds in prison.

7. 
I now acknowledge that you can become instantly famous for all the wrong reasons, and that people can actually replace a certain action or situation with your name. “I will Kanyamunyu you if you sit on my chair!” or “The city vendors were done a Kanyamunyu by KCCA goons.”

8.
Then there are these prophets of doom. No, not like that South African pastor who was Dooming his flock. But these ones who are like “We saw Amin’s Nubian flared-pants, goggle-wearing goons torture people. Where are they now? The tribe thing raising its ugly head again.

9.
I have seen a proposal for the Cynthia challenge. I wonder when it starts. It is premised on the fact that the first picture we saw of her, in a blue dress, sitting in the backseat of what looked like an expensive ride, and her appearance at court with her hair looking bedraggled are very different. One is of “Factory Settings” and the other is the riyo riyo her.

10.
But above all, what I am sure of is that you can plan your day to the minutest detail, but God is the master-planner. Like I said in my facebook post, I envision a story that starts thus… “Saturday the 12th of November began like every other Saturday. Little did Matthew Kanyamunyu know that he would be spending a cold night in a grimy police cell. Arrested on suspicion of his involvement in the death of Kenneth Akena Watmon…”

#mercedesbenzdriver

                      

I credit my father for teaching me how to drive after about 300 on and off lessons with four different instructors and not just not gerringit. And even now when he constantly reminds me to dim the lights for oncoming cars and allow other drivers to pass, and my ears are raw with hearing about good manners on the road, I say, “Yes Daddy.”
All vehicles are supposed to be driven with some level of finesse. Pardon our taxi drivers who drive like they are carved from the same piece of wood. Bad wood.
So whether you are driving UAH (like mine), Mini Minor, Premio, Nuuwa, BMW or Vitz, its prudent to treat cars with respect.
And then there are the likes of Mercedes Benz which are respected in the family of cars, like Lion, King of the Jungle. Whether it be a 1926 model or 2017 CLA class, you just CANNOT take it hurtling down a dusty village road, driving like a bat out of hell.
Yesterday I nearly crashed into a tree when I encountered a racing white Mercedes whose driver was showing off like a two-year old imagining she was doing the Mukono Festino Cite on her tricycle.
The road to my home, after you branch off the main road is very dusty when its dry. It also has some pretty deep potholes in many places so you have to be really careful not to fall into them. 
I saw him coming from a mile away, doing about 80 kilometers per hour, a brown cloud following him. I could have driven into the tree. As he passed me and all the other gazers on the road, his eyes kept moving from side to side in “do you see me?” style. His right arm was hanging out of the window.
Now, I get to the part where I ask myself if I am being judgmental. Do Mercedes Benz owners allow their arms to dangle out the window? Which Mercedes Benz owner in Uganda takes his machine for granted and treats it like a contraption of sorts? Which Mercedes Benz owner in Uganda wants to look like a rally driver on the Festino Cite? Was he really the owner? Or was he a mechanic taking the mugagga’s car for a spin?

#inflagrantedelicto

Our dear Lord Mayor called it “In Flagrante Delicto”.
That was the tight corner Ma Lihanna’s maid was caught up in when I delivered the wash that had flown over her wall and into the Mansion’s backyard.
The neighborhood is usually quiet on Mondays because all the kids have gone to school. I’m off work, so its cleaning up, brushing, sweeping, mopping, washing - everything.
As I took my washing out, I realized that Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and a nightie had landed in my backyard. I told myself that I would return to owner later.
And so when I was done, I walked over to Ma Lihanna’s house. The gate was slightly open and so was the front door. No loud music. Just the TV with some translated ki-Filipino at a low volume. And some muffled giggles.
I knocked lightly and before Ma Lihanna's maid could answer, I drew the door open and stepped in. Like a good neighbour. My eyes landed on a male face. A Sudan boy. In a red shirt. The Sudan boy was sitting with half his bottom on the chair, leaning forward. He started when he saw me.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was sunken deep into the sofa near the door. She is of slight build so I hadn't first seen her. She was facing the TV, giggling. She turned her head sharply when she saw me and leapt out of the chair. In her haste, the maroon T-shirt she was holding to her chest fell away and her huge breasts were sprawled out. “Oh Mama!!!” she yelped, as she bent to pick the discarded piece of cloth to re-hide her modesty.
She was wearing a mini skater skirt, with the zip halfway done. I didn't want to look at her. I wanted to throw Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and nightie at her and get the hell out. But I couldn’t. I shifted my gaze to the chair. Her huge white bra was sitting there. I knew I had interrupted a session. I had barged in on something about to go down.
She snatched the clothes from me and dashed off to the bedroom shrieking loudly, while I stood there like a fish out of water, transfixed in one place. Then I heard the door slam.
The Sudan boy was in a fix. He stared at the floor for all the time I was there.

 credit: www.madanque.com

The whole scenario was too much for me. I left without a word.
I wondered what language they had been speaking. Language of love? Or lust perhaps. Because Ma Lihanna’s maid, who is from West Nile, cannot speak a word of English. And the Sudans only speak their language. Nuer or Dinka. I remembered that I had seen Sudan boy lurking around the estate some days earlier. His short chin and all. He was always in that red shirt. With white on the shoulders, like a cowboy's shirt. Had he been on the prowl? Had I now snatched his prey, his mealie-meal, just as he was about to pounce?
It was just as our dear Lord Mayor had put it. In flagrante delicto.

#behindthefish...

What comes to mind when you think of Kalangala? Holiday resort, deep-fried crispy tilapia, white sand beaches, hammocks, sun loungers, jet-skiing, lots of water… ?
I don’t want to be the spoilsport here…. Yes, there’s plenty of beaches, white sand and fish, but Kalangala also has plenty more that we never see.
I’ve spent a week in the district, on the main island of Bugala. I ate fried tilapia and oily chips on the night I arrived, and that was it with the fried fish. The other days were spent traversing the different islands, speaking to the people who live there, and seeing what business they do. And I also found out a lot more. By the way, I have tried to find out why they are called Ssese Islands and the only answer that came close was that they once upon a time had lots of tsetse flies and trypanosomiasis once a upon a time (don’t know how true).
Did you know that Kalangala is made up of 84 islands, Bugala being the biggest, the one where the ship from Entebbe and the ferries from Bukakata arrive and depart.
Of the 87, 64 islands are inhabited by humans. The other islands have lush green forests and are a habitat for birds and insects.
Some like Nkose are so remote and yet they are heavily populated, mostly by a nomadic fishing community who come and go depending on the fishing seasons.
Some of these islands have no schools and yet there are many children who have been born and bred on them.
Others have no health centers and because of the remoteness of some of them, no medical outreaches ever come here. So, if the medical workers do come, make an appointment with sickness, or short of that, never fall sick.
A group of 13 years olds doing their P7 exams told me they had never watched TV. They had heard of something called TV, but they have never seen a box or a set.
People living on these inhabited islands come from all parts of Uganda.
Transport to the mainland and back to the island is one of the biggest challenges the people face. One of the means of transport is called “ekinaala” which can carry all sorts of things from bales of dry stinky fish, cows with their legs and horns tied up, to sick-with-dysentry children,  swearing fishermen and women in advanced labor. Depending on the length of your journey, your fare could range from between 10,000 and 20,000 shillings.
By the way, there are no toilets on the ekinaala. So, if you want to do your short call, or if you have diarrhea, then you are in deep s***. And that journey is not short- four hours at least. Imagine “tying dios” for that long!! Men pee in the water. Women???
A “special-hire” boat sets you back at least 160,000 shillings. You have to pay the coxswain, pay for his engine and pay for the fuel which costs 4,000 shillings per liter. Most times people avoid using special-hires because of this expense, and opt for the cheaper means- the ebinaala. But when cases of severe illness or expectant mothers with complications arise, then one has no option but knock on his neighbors’ doors for donations.
There are no cars on most of these islands. However, there have been cases of cars that have been transported on big canoes. I didn't get the chance to see any, but it would have been one of the best stories I’d have returned with.
There are times when the winds are so strong and the water so rough, and travel is virtually impossible. And when the fishermen refuse to go out on the waters, then be assured that is a really, really bad storm coming on. Now imagine if you have an emergency.
I did not see a single mobile money stall on any of the islands I was at. Teachers and nurses/ health workers who are paid through the bank have to jump on a boat to pick their money from the mainland, Masaka or Entebbe. Now, that comes with a hefty cost. On a government salary!

#getalife...

A self-help guru (now why do they call themselves that?) once asked me what my dream car was.
You shudda seen my face! I had no idea. I just said, “A big car.” I think some people at the conference laughed. At me.
Not wanting to embarrass me further, he moved on to the next person.

So today I was walking out of the Serena when I was accosted by this black monster of a car cruising up to the entrance. “Now, this is my dream car!” I thought to myself. I made sure to check. It had Jeep written on its left side in small letters. There were no scratches on its body, the paintwork was still intact, bumpers tight, tires treaded.  Now these were WHEELS!

The driver of the UAX had drawn up the tinted windows so I couldn't see inside.

I thought of my UAH under the shade in the lower parking area and I laughed. Where do people get money to buy such luxurious rides?

I thanked God for UAH which has taken me on many a journey, with my nieces and nephews to the zoo, gone flying with a screaming woman in labor to the hospital, carried sacks of maize from the garden, and faithfully brought me to the office in the mornings. I cannot give up UAH for anything right now.

Many times you hear someone sigh about her husband who is so boring that he can’t even laugh at his own jokes. So she goes and flirts with her workmate, offering to make him cups of tea which he doesn't even want to drink.

Then you see Sarah’s hair, a long, straight, black mane. You go to Gazaland and buy a cheap weave so you can look like her.

You lie awake at night thinking about your cousin’s double-storeyed house project which is now entering the roofing phase. He must be stealing, you say. So you go to the bank and get a loan on your few thousands per month salary.

You want Jane’s legs. She looks so nice in short straight dresses, and black tights. Why can’t my thin bony ankles be like hers? So you condemn yourself to the prison of wearing trousers so no-one can see your pins.

That presenter who rolls his R’s and abbreviates his greetings like “Sup guys!” becomes your role model. So you also go rolling your tongue and putting R’s where L’s are supposed to be.

These days every guy is checking out Kim Kardashian’s assets. No one is looking at your blackboard. So you Google a butt implants doctor to fix it. The results say he is in Thailand and off you go. Two months later, your butt has drooped to unimaginable depths.

You open the papers and there is a picture of your ex with his new bride draped all over him. They look so happy, smiles pasted all over their faces. Your wedding is coming up next year and you swear that this one will “break trees” (as Baganda say). So, you start calling daily wedding meetings and people soon get tired of your invitation SMSes.

That woman upstairs is always gushing about her clever children who go to an international school. You go home and look at yours and feel disappointed. You wish you had more money so that you take them out of those gumbaru schools where the English is “is” and “was”.

Your workmates eat pizza  for lunch every two days of the week. Tuesday and Friday. Nga for you, you are feasting on tea and groundnuts and pining for a slice. Bambi, remember that that pizza is just baked dough with unhealthy toppings that make people fat! (oh, do they really?)

You feel ashamed when someone offers you a lift. Kwani its only you without a car? Do you even know how much people are spending on those guzzlers? And some of them are on loan by the way.

You lust for a man with a six pack. Those tight abs look so good. Your boyfriend is a fat lazy slob who has never heard of a gym and calls press-ups “preshups". Do you know that not all that glitters is gold? That clothes don’t make a man and that you can’t judge a book by its cover? It may just be the abs that look good, empty shell inside.

You yearn to be appreciated. You yearn to be in the limelight. You hang out with the celebs, even if it means carrying their handbag, or running to get them chips and chaps for supper. Do you even know what stress those celebs have to get through with the tabloids writing about them. On the toilet. Who they’re cheating with?

Get a life. See the value in you.

#envirizanacho

Women are ACTUALLY paying money to have African kaweke sewn onto their heads. You know, like a weave? Like extensions? The natural hair craze is upon us and its now fashionable, “healthier” and “African” to wear your hair nacho.
The kinkier, coarser and shaggier it looks, all the better. But they selfishly still want to keep their chemically-treated hair underneath, just in case of a rainy day when they need to go to a wedding or a baby-shower, or something like that.
I joined the nacho hair family—— Ta-nta-ntara!!! Drum-roll!!!—— a week ago. Not for fashion, or health or for more African-ness than I have in my blood.
I had worked the whole day and was exhausted when I eventually got home at 11:30pm. I had supper, then got the biggest pair of scissors I own, sat in front of the mirror, looked at my curly do for the last time and started chopping away. No. It was not a moment of madness.
Sides first. Front next. Then the middle. Then the back. And when I was done, the floor was peppered with small tufts of black.
When I came to the office on Tuesday, my boss asked if I was okay. I wondered, “Okay in the head? Okay-healthy? Okay-not-missing-my-hair? Or simply okay-okay?”
My Dad said I looked like my little sister.
Mum said “You look nice, you did a good job”.
This got me thinking of two things. That I can be a barber in my retirement. And two, what’s this obsession with women wanting to look young? I also started thinking I looked like Omulokole Omuzuukufu.
Some of my workmates looked at me in disbelief. I’m sure they had always thought me Ethiopian or Somali, or a misplaced mulatto. Now, they were seeing the real me.
Others have not said a thing and yet I know that my appearance has undergone a dramatic rebirth.
Now my small head, with the kaweke- and those small tight curls at the back are there for all to see.
I look in the mirror and like what I see. My real black hair for the first time in I do not know how many years. Some little grey. And I am happy, so happy.
Because now I don’t have to style my hair in the morning. Just comb out the stubborn kaweke. Once. No patting-patting.
Also, my pillow is safe from being clogged with hair oil.
Out with the elasticized hair-net that would not let me sleep like a baby.
No more five-hour trips to the saloon. Washing, chemicalizing, shampooing, rollering, towel-on-head- dryer.
Saving on the thousands of shillings for saloon, hair oil, treatment, shampoo, sijui conditioner.
No more worrying that I will get off the bodaboda looking like my head is misshapen.
Finally free of these things of breaking, split ends.

#thatpinkdress

I hit my hand on the bed-post before I was fully awake. Bad sign. My knees were itchy. I left home late and got stuck in the mother of all traffic jams at Kalerwe. I yelled at a taxi driver who was trying to cut in front of me. All this in spite of the fact that I was up at 5:30am. 

I had got my clothes for the day ready last night- a pink dress and brown jacket. 

After bathing, lotioning and Vaselining, it was automatically time to dress up. I guess the bed-post incident had set the bad-mood ball rolling. Suddenly the pink dress seemed too cheery for my mood. The brown jacket had become too officious. 

I dived back into my wardrobes, riffling through the hangars. “This one? No. What about this? Maybe. Ate gwe?” I had started talking to the clothes. “Not, you. You’re so going nowhere!”

In the space of about three minutes, my unmade bed was strewn with all manner of clothes. Skirts, dresses, blouses, belts, trousers, petticoats. 

Then the trying-on process began. Dress after skirt after trousers after blouse. Tug it on. Look in the mirror. “No, this one makes my bust look humongous.” 

Trousers. “Too baggy, I feel like a baby whale.” This blouse. “ Too tight, will I be able to breathe after lunch?” 

The purple skirt. “Naaah! The waistband is too high.”

10 minutes. 20 minutes. Half an hour. 40 minutes. Nothing seemed to be working. I sat down on the bed, head in my hands, feeling very disappointed and weary, contemplating calling my boss and pleading a sudden headache.

In the silence, I heard someone open the gate and my neighbor’s kids calling out, “Bye Auntie!” (anti their mother is never around). 

“Gosh! What time is it?” I leaped up and hastily pulled the curtain aside. 

Maaaaamaaaa! The night had disappeared and the sun was out of bed. 

I grabbed the garment nearest me. It was the pink dress. The original idea from the night before. And the brown jacket.

#domestic violence...its real

Bannange, what is this I hear? That the minuscule MC Kats was nearly ran over. By his girlfriend who weighs twice as much as him. That she was angry. Over what? Only they know. Era, the William Congreve line comes into play again—“Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.” Mbu at the time she was ferociously revving the engine, putting pedal to the metal, she was blinded to the possibility that she could end up behind bars, and he, the father of her young child, dead and cold in Mulago mortuary. The “fight” left him looking like an unwashed little lost dog with his mouth full of dirt an his upper lip looking like it took a good upper-cut. Anyway, the theories are many, but whatever it was Fille Mutoni munnange, you are still young, your one-year old daughter still needs you and she can’t have people whispering about her “Mum murdered Dad”.

Violence, domestic violence to be exact… is real. You forget these our people who sit in air-conditioned hotel halls and discuss figures and percentages, and 'ooh!' and 'aah' when they hear that men are also battered. We all know that some men are slapped around on a daily basis. Domestic violence is REAL.

Like the case of that man, my neighbor, who had been standing under the mango tree outside the gate for about an hour after the rain stopped. He seemed aimless. I knew I could not avoid him and I needed milk from the shop, so at about 6:30pm I ventured out.

You know, he is usually not around. He has been doing some sort of trade in Juba. Tomatoes and bogoya which, in spite of their delicate nature, he has made some money off of. Enough to maintain his wife and two kids, and a mistress --- with twins on the way.

After we exchanged greetings, me feigning surprise at his presence, Taata Rachael said to me in a low tone, “Leero nsula Luzira!” (I will spend tonight in Luzira prison!)

“Wanji?” Now I was truly surprised. This man knew how to get my attention. “Kiki?”

“Nkubulire neyiba, omukazi wange antamye. Buli lwenzira awaka, abeera antulugunya! Omukazi ammazeeko emirembe. Ndi mukoowu!! Leero n’genda kukuba mukazi oyo!!!!” (I tell you neighbor, I am so fed up with this woman! Whenever I return home, she is out to torture me. I have no peace, I am tired!! I will beat that woman black and blue today!!)

He spoke through gritted teeth. I was taken aback. Like being hit by a wave of heat. I did a mental stagger.

“Eh, nga kibi ekyo!” (That’s not good) I didn't want to say much. I mean, Mama Lecho was my neighbor. Did she know she was in for the beating of her life tonight? Should I alert her?

I hurried on my way. The kids would still need their milk for breakfast.
When I returned, Taata Lecho had left his post.

True to his word, Taata Lecho acted on his promise. At about 10pm, I heard commotion from my bedroom. Loud voices carried by the night air. “Tomanyiira ssebo! Wano tolinaawo maka! Nawe weeyita musajja? Tomanyiira!!” (Who do you think you are, you man? You do not have a home here. Do you also call yourself a man???)
Taata Lecho must have dealt her a hot slap then. Or was it a karate kick?
“Wuuuuiiiii! Wuuuuuiiiiiiii!!!!! Omusajja anzita, mujje munyambe!!” (Yelling. The man is killing me, come and help me!)

This was not a matter for peeping out of windows. I had to see the action. Taata Lecho making minced-meat out of Maama Lecho.

The commotion as the padlocks on their front door were slammed into place was for World Cup. The din, with children wailing. The racket as Maama Lecho and Taata Lecho’s voices competed for superiority, uttering expletives that would make Donald Trump blush. The clamor as cups and plates crashed noisily to the floor. The dull bumps and thumps as flesh and bones collided with walls.

That racket went on for close to twenty minutes. All the while, the ear-piercing yelps and shrieks could be heard as the two kids and the maid ran from room to room to escape the thrashing from Taata Lecho who it seems, had gone quite mad, and was striking any living and non-living thing within his reach.

A crowd of lugambolists (gossips), women with their hands held to their mouths, others holding their heads like they were in mourning had gathered outside the house. Others were pacing around like they were in the labor ward. No one dared go near the sitting room window.

“Agenda ku mutta leerooooo! Maaaaaammaaaaa! Agenda ku mutta yaaaayeeeeee!! Tufudde! Mama Lecho leero bamumaze!” (He will surely kill Maama Lecho today. She is finished!) Loud whispers.

Suddenly, there was a clanging on the door. The women scattered like chicken in all directions. The maid and the two bawling kids bolted out of the house like rats running from a fire.
It seems they had made a quick getaway as Taata Lecho pounded Maama Lecho in one of the many rooms in the house.

A kindhearted neighbor called to them to her house. “Kale musirike. Musirike temukaaba!” (Shhhh! Quiet, quiet now. Don’t cry. Everything will be okay. Come!)

With the wails and sobs out of the way, our concentration returned to the popcorn inside the sufuria. The door had been flung wide open, and one brave lugambolist cautiously stepped on the verandah to see if she could get see more of the drama to supply to the other lugambolists.

Her bravery was short-lived. Taata Lecho came careering out the front door. In his haste he charged into the lugambolist throwing her to the ground.

“Munviire!!! Muve wano!!” (Get out of my way!!!) he roared, adding an expletive I cannot utter. But The women had already scattered.

I jumped to the safety of my verandah. From where I was, I could see blood. All over his tattered shirt. His right sleeve had gone missing. Most probably ripped off in the melee. His trousers were undone and he was holding them up as he strode up and down, breathing hard like a horse on a racecourse.

I must have probably been the sane one of the group, the one he had confided in about the mega thrashing he would deliver that night, because he suddenly bellowed at me, “Mpa amazzi, njagala’mazzi!” ( Give me water, I need water!)

I rushed to the kitchen and brought out a five-liter jerrican of water from the fridge.

He guzzled from the jerrican, sitting on the wet ground. I promised myself that it would not be returning to my house again. Sagala bisiraani.

Maama Lecho had bolted herself into the fortress. She was in there yelling about how she had chewed  off Taata Lecho’s ear and thumped him to pulp, and that was why he had fled from the house.

Yes, the blood was dripping from somewhere on Taata Lecho’s head. His right ear. Maama Lecho had sunk her teeth in deep and given it a good bite, kind of like the one Mike Tyson showed Evander Holyfield in 1997.

She flung one of the front windows open, calling out to the maid who had deposited the children safely in the Good Samaritan’s house and had fearfully come to see if her boss had been finished off.

“Jjangu wano gwe Allieti (Harriet)! Genda ondetere ka airtime ka lukumi nkubire ab’ewange! Nze sisobola kubeera wano kugguundibwa nga nte!” (Come here you Harriet! Go and buy me some airtime for 1,000 shillings so I can call my relatives! I will not stay here and be flogged like a cow!)

Taata Lecho yelled something incomprehensible from his seat on the ground, like a warning that if Allieti even dared go to the window, she would be dead meat. She backed off, shivering and whimpering.

The lugambolists were now looking on from the safety of the dark. Somehow, one of them managed to send Maama Echo some airtime.

The storm had lasted for about an hour and we all eventually trooped back into our houses, the lugambolists speaking at the tops of their voices as they faded away.

“Bannange, obawulidde bwebadde beevuma. Hooo!”
“Kyokka Maama Lecho alidde okutu kwa Taata Leecho, takuleseewo!”
“Naye bambi, abakazi. Lwaki olwana n’e baawo?”

Taata Lecho spent the rest of the chilly night huddled uncomfortably in one of the unfinished houses in the next plot. He could not sleep as he suffered immense pain from the bitten ear, a piece of which was hanging down like a torn piece of cloth. The man was a sight to behold in his blood-spattered shirt, dirty feet, and equally dirty trousers whose legs he had folded to the knees.

The maid returned with the kids in the morning to clear the battlefield. The house was the definition of “MESS”. Cups, plates and cutlery strewn everywhere, food on the walls as well (the fight had happened right after supper). The TV had fallen on its face. One of the chairs of the Johnson set had a leg broken in two. The fight had even spread its vicious wings to the kitchen and the water pot lay on the floor shattered into a thousand fragments.

Maama Lecho’s brother and two sisters rushed to the scene of crime at dawn, hoping they could repair the relationship between the warring couple. This was not to be. Taata Lecho packed a few clothes in a black PIL kaveera and left.

I met Taata Lecho in town today. He looked well and recovered from his Saturday night ordeal. His ear was healing well, he said. It was covered in gauze and plaster. He told me he had moved to the mistress’ home in Kyanja and would not be returning to the kkomera (prison) any time soon. He said Maama Leecho was very unstable, always suspicious about his moves, insecure and commanding, controlling like an army general. She had smashed two of his mobile phones with a brick. Another time she had pinched his wallet, picked out his ATM card, broken it and thrown it into the jiiko (charcoal stove) to burn. She never gave him supper or breakfast. She said he had done nothing to earn it and yet he was the one paying the rent and the children’s school fees.

#mentalillness

I have been feeling very “unexercised” of late and so decided to take an evening walk around the estate.

Phone. Check. Earphones. Check. 500 shillings for sweet pepsi. Check. You know, those green minty sweets? Yeah, those ones to keep me company. As “luck” would have it, my slipper strap broke just a few steps away from the shop where I bought my sweet pepsi. The evening walk was immediately aborted and I took the earphones out as I hobbled back home, tail between my legs. I mean, how could you have earphones in when one foot has no shoe?

As I approached the gate to the estate, I spotted my elderly neighbor sitting on a mat in her compound. There was no way I couldn't ask after her, even with the broken slipper in my hand.

“Osibye otya nno nyabo?”
“Ehhhh, ndabira wa? Gyendi muwala. Nga obuze!”
“Ah, gyendi. Mbadde busy nnyo these days.”

So I sat down in the grass.

She had been seeing and hearing voices. Strange people. Strange voices. Last night was so bad that her body was black and blue the whole day. Some men had come to her. Two were holding swords. Two others held her down, pushing her into the mattress. Another two grabbed her feet. One of those with the sharp knife, the sword, was shouting, “So you thought that praying would help you. Don’t you dare joke with the forces of darkness!!” Then he bared his teeth in a menacing laugh. She had pulled the sheet over her face, willing them to vanish. She was shaking uncontrollably with fright. She did not get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night.

I listened, nodding along as she narrated her ordeal.

“Another time I had taken the rubbish out to the back. When I returned to the kitchen, I heard a noise. I thought it was the cat. But then I remembered that I had left the cat rolling in the grass outside. The noise came from the sitting room. I walked towards it. Then I saw a man, wearing olubugo across his loins. He was bare-chested. He was a young man. With a bushy beard and very long black hair. Very long. His red eyes flashed from side to side. When he looked up at me, I fled outside. I was shivering. Tears were running from my eyes. I stayed outside the house the whole day, waiting for one of my sons to return from work. However, when it started getting late and the mosquitoes were attacking me, I summoned the courage to return to the house. I switched on the light. The man had disappeared.”

“Where did he go?” I asked, mesmerized.

“I have no idea. He just vanished. I do not know where he passed.”

She looked so troubled.

“I tell you, whenever I try to tell my husband, he dismisses me. My children do not want to listen. I do not know why. Maybe they think I am pretending.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes, I have been to Mulago hospital. The doctors told me I had high blood pressure. They also did a number of tests to check if I had a heart condition. What do you think?”

I had already started to diagnose her condition. I am not a doctor but I have heard, and read about something like this. Hallucinations. Schizophrenia. Delusions. I would have to be extremely careful with my answers.

“Ummmm…” I began. “You know, there are what are called ‘infections of the brain’. Have you heard of them?” I was avoiding her eyes.

There is a stigma about mental health. It is taboo to talk about mental disorders. I do not know why. I gingerly started on the subject.

She shook her head vigorously. No, she didn't have a sickness of her brain.

Hard paper. But I had to be tough.

“Okay. So you said you had been going to Mulago? They have a mental health department there.”

I didn't say “psychiatry ward” because I don't know what its called in Luganda. The next line was hard.

“You can also try Butabika. They have doctors who deal with such infections. And they are free of charge.”

“I have told you this is not a sickness of the brain. Actually, I think these are evil spirits. They must be. Do you know that whenever I swallow the tablets, they get stuck here.” She pointed to her chest, somewhere just above her stomach. “They sit there for hours and I cannot swallow anything else. I cannot vomit them. I am uncomfortable. I cannot sit down. I find it hard to lie down.”

“I understand. But you really need to go to Butabika. Just so you know, people associate Butabika with madness, with mental disturbances, which society thinks is a bad thing.”
I was looking straight in her eyes as I spoke.
“But mental illness is illness just like any other. It is a sickness of the brain. Just like you can have a cough, which is a sickness of the chest.”

I was willing myself not to lose track of what I was saying. I had to make this as simple as possible.
“I know those doctors will find you some good medicine.”

She fixed me with her gaze. “I am not mad. This is not a sickness of the brain. Someone told me to go to Mama Fiina. But isn’t she expensive? You know, on Saturday, there were doves circling my head, wanting to peck my face. They were so many. Big black birds.”

I was determined not to lose the fight.

“Okay, some people say Mama Fiina deals with evil spirits. I am not sure what she charges. But I know she will first ask you for a baluwa from your doctor before she can ascertain what misambwa she is dealing with. Just ask your son to take you to Butabika. The doctors will check you.”

“I need prayers, my daughter. I need prayers. The other day I heard a child calling to me. I followed the child to that swampy area you see behind my fence. The child kept beckoning me. I got to a small thatched hut in the middle of the swamp. The door was locked. I knocked hard. No answer. I knocked again. Suddenly the child started wailing very loudly! I was very scared and ran away. When I got home, the voices told me that I was lucky I did not open the door to that house because they would have killed me!”

At this stage, I didn't know what to tell her. My heart went out to her. I told her I would pray for her.

What I know is that she needs to see a doctor. And that she needs someone who will listen to her. Especially her close family. And that they need to let her know that she will be okay.

That this could be a condition known as psychosis.

And that there are treatment options.

#thequietpreacher

Asio Jane is not like other preachers who shout in your face and ears, forcing you to “embrace Jesus Christ as your Lord and Personal Savior!”
Asio Jane is not like the street preacher who bakes in the sun all day pacing up and down the long lines of traffic as he brandishes his Bible at motorists who roll up their windows when they see him approaching.
Asio Jane does not deliver her sermon to a taxi packed with frustrated business-people tired after a long day of work and no customers.
Asio Jane packages her message differently.
In the taxi I took to work today, Asio Jane was in the seat in front of mine; that one that is two seats behind the driver. She reached into her bag and took out many folded A4 papers. Like school newsletters. She handed one each to the two young boys sitting in front of her, then to the girl next to her. I thought, “Oh, those must be her kids she’s taking to school. Then to the conductor. Eh, this was now getting interesting. He looked at her and shook his head. Then she turned behind and handed one to me then about four to my neighbor. The Hajj sitting in the corner ignored any attempts to take the paper.
I had thought maybe she was advertising a school. Or herbal medicine. Or a business of sorts.
But Asio Jane was delivering her message. Readings from the Bible. Seven verses from the New Testament. Messages on knowing God- our Maker.
Asio Jane then quietly told the conductor “Mu maaso awo”, and disembarked.
I do not know Asio Jane but I was grateful that she did not shout in my face and ears, forcing me to “embrace Jesus Christ as my Lord and Personal Savior”.

#angeltotherescue

I had to be home by 10pm last night. This man Besigye was going to be on two screens and I didn't want to miss the action. I ended up watching the screen where he was sitting on a high chair, surrounded by a number of people, two of them his sworn adversaries. And whenever he made a point, he would quake with laughter, even if no-one else was laughing. The show didn't disappoint.

At midnight I felt I’d had enough, and started getting ready for bed because I had an early morning. As I ran my bath, there was a loud knock on the Mansion’s front door. It sounded urgent. I was alarmed. Who could be knocking at this ungodly hour? The Poooolice (like Besigye calls them)? Had they heard me shouting “Otyo!", as the good doctor went on and on about his being-snatched-off-an-airplane ordeal? Was it Ma Lihanna’s maid again? I had already had my fill of drama for the week. I didn't need any more.

“Who is it?” I asked cautiously from behind the closed door.
“Neighbor!” came the male voice.  It didn't sound familiar at all. I remained quiet.

He rapped loudly again. It was either that or... I threw all caution to the wind, and unlocked the door.

He reminded me that his name was Gata. He had a problem and needed my help. At half past midnight? I rolled my eyes. Now what?

Gata started gesticulating wildly, showing me his wallet. “Money, I have money. We go.”
We go where? Kati, me I was so lost. What was a drunk doing on my doorstep?
“Wife. Wife.” He was making the sign of a swollen tummy. Waving the wallet in one hand and making the sign of big stomach with the other at the same time. My mind was beginning to clear.

“It is there! There!” He pointed to a dark spot in the compound, near the wall. I could make out a figure. Bent over. In obvious pain. It must be the Madam.

I remembered my encounter with her. When I had cautioned her that this was not the old Uganda where women slapped anyone’s kid. She had jeered at me when I told her she could be taken to the police. Maybe that's what they did in South Sudan.

She whimpered softly as he called to her to draw nearer. This was a woman in labour. Advanced.

I grabbed my handbag and opened the car. She slid into the back seat. Her face was scrunched in suffering. There was a second woman wrapped in something that looked like plenty of sheets. Gata jumped into the front seat next to me.

The car clock showed 00:34. I kicked the accelerator.  Angel to the rescue. Ambulance driver. Super Woman.

When we got to the main road, I asked Gata what direction we should take. He gestured towards Kasangati. As we approached the Shell fuel station, he tapped my arm hard. The wallet was back in his hand. “Money! Money!”

I ignored him. My immediate concern was where we were going because the whimpering had risen to a crescendo.

After a series of wrong turns and nearly reversing into a row of shops, Gata tapped my hand again and made a thumbs up sign. “It is here.”

By this time, the Madam was lying in a contorted position I had never imagined could fit in that back seat. Her right arm was pulling down on Gata’s backrest as she groaned and tried to rub her back with the other. Bannange!

I drove down the dirt road like there were a thousand wild dogs after me. And also hoping that Gata had finally got the road right otherwise…

Suddenly Gata shouted, “Here. Here. Now!!” and I braked suddenly.

Madam was now in the yelling phase. In a tongue that I have never heard. I feared that the baby had come.

Gata had already flung open the back door and was pulling her out of the car with no finesse whatsoever. She fell to her knees, unable to walk. The clinic looked closed for the night. I ran to the door and knocked. “Abe’no! Abe’no!” No answer.
I sprinted to the back. The place looked dead.

Kati, I started trying to recall the lessons about childbirth. Was there a lessu? Oh, the other woman had plenty of sheets wrapped around her body. We could use those. Razor blade? Gloves? This was a hard paper.

Madam’s blood-curdling scream brought me back to the real world. I dashed back to the scene of drama. We had to get a midwife.

“Give me the number of the midwife!”
“Eh?” Gata had no idea what I was talking about.
“Doctor! Telephone!”
He threw his hands up in despair. We were the definition of the word “cooked”.

Someone had heard the commotion and came to inquire what the matter was. The midwife lived close by, he said, and dashed off into the night to get her. I have never been so relieved.

Midwife was obviously already out for the night but she came running with her hair-net still on. She unlocked the two big padlocks on the door to the clinic. Madam crawled inside and was hoisted on to the bed screaming. “Woiiiii Woiiiiiii!”

“We go!”
What? Gata could not be serious. Here is your wife about to have your baby, and you are making to flee? Even before the midwife begins to check?

Anyway, “flee” we did. We traveled back without a word. 01:58.

I met him again as I left for work this morning.

He put up six fingers. “Girl.”

#veinsonherbreasts

I see her from across the road. Tight black t-shirt with a Barbie doll face on the front. She has stuffed herself into tight purple “jeans” (those ones mass-produced in China’s made-for-the third- world markets). Her body is slight. Petite in other words. Her lips are painted a vicious blood red and her hair is braided in a mix of black and purple.

But something does not fit. 

What is a mzungu doing, coming from that part of the village, where houses have no addresses and the only way you direct a visitor to your home is by telling them “pass here, pass there, then you meet a fat woman frying cassava", or "pass the tree with two branches where bodabodas repair their machines from”?

Then I get it. Gosh! This is not a mzungu. This is a little black African girl bleaching the black African out of her.

At this moment an empty taxi arrives, and I hop on and into the back corner seat. “Kampala nkumi bbiri”, the conductor announces menacingly. I ignore him though I am aware I am being fleeced because this journey usually costs 1,500/=.

I throw open the window and turn my head to return my stare at the Black Girl- turned - Mzungu who is still across the road waiting for the many cars to pass so that she can cross. She waves agitatedly at the taxi driver. Luckily for her, he is also mesmerized by this “fair-looking” maiden.

Ho! As fate will have it, she plops herself right next to me. I pretend to be looking the other way. From the corner of my eye, I see her pull her phone out of her big bag and the earphones are pushed into her ears.

As she busies herself with this ritual which I have seen several young ladies do the minute they board a taxi (that is, if they are not on Whatsapp), I steal a furtive glance at the creature sitting next to me. The traces of white powder near her hairline are apparent.

Bannange! I can have a heart attack right now. Her complexion is so light and her skin so thin that I can see veins criss-crossing under the skin on her tiny hands.

“Ohsssshhh!” I mutter under my breath, “What the hell is this?”

My mind starts running, all sorts of ideas going through my head. Does she have friends? Does she have parents? Why can't one of them be kind enough to advise her? Is it a boyfriend she is trying so hard to impress? What creams do these Chinese manufacture, and from what? Hasn’t she heard that bleaching causes irreversible damage to your skin? That this so- called “beauty” is only momentary and then she will become this scarred, scary- looking beast that no-one will even want to look at? Does she know that she has effectively turned herself into a tourist attraction? I mean...

Another sly peep lands behind her right ear. On an area that she has “forgotten” to bleach, so it still has her original color. Over on her cheek there's a red blotch. The unnatural color makes her eyes look big.  Frog-like actually.
Another discreete “Bannange!” escapes my lips.

Our journey goes on and as we approach the city, I chance upon her chest. She is wearing a push-up bra and yet her breasts are really small. Now I nearly scream. Because there are two very visible black, pulsing veins on her cleavage!!!

“Woiii!” I turn my head away.

“Nvaamu ku KPC” she announces to the conductor.

As she makes to alight, she pulls her t-shirt down to cover her behind, like these shameless women with ample behinds stuffed into tight jeans, “jeggings” or “leggers” automatically do when they are jumping off taxis, or when they are on boda-boda.

But my quick eye has already seen the red splotches on her back.

#designerpossessions

The last handbag I bought before the Hermes designer one I carry nowadays started peeling even before the week was over.

I remember getting tired of my old black one, whose straps had started fraying and peeling and making me want to hide whenever I laid it in my lap in the taxi, or the tables at executive meetings. It JUST did not portray me.
I am a one bag person. I buy one handbag at a time, not 10 bags to match every of my outfits. I have bought bags of quality and bags made in China and I properly know the difference.
I love black and brown. I am not the sunshine yellow, luminous green, neon blue typie. And I like something roomy. No, not the huge sacks which carry weekend clothes to the boyfriend's but one where my wallet, phones, Vaseline, crisps, comb and sweets can go. Oh, okay, and a pair of casual sandals in a black kaveera sometimes. 
So, this last bag.
I borrowed the services of a good friend who had a friend who owned a handbag shop on some mall in Kampala. B12, C30 shop numbers. The shop attendants were nice girls. One sat on a tall wooden stool with bright colored underwear (read panties) laid out prettily in front of her. Another was hidden behind the counter sleeping on a bright shawl that she had spread out on the floor. I approached the one who was busy arranging her fake gold chains and bracelets.
The bags were seated on the shelves around the room. Mirrors provided the backdrop and lights that had been cleverly fixed made the whole atmosphere surreal. Drug things...
The introvert in me demands that must be either black or brown, like I said, will nicely do for me.
The chic started off by presenting me with a green bag with yellow studs. I nearly choked.
She got her long wooden stick and picked out another from the top shelf.
Light blue with luminous orange zips all over it.
No.
The look she gave me read like "Ono kasitoma ali difficulti!!"
But hell, you haven't even bothered to ask me what kind of handbag I want. Kasta the money was still safely in my hand.
Mistake number one. You need to let the customer feel free to have a look around and then start probing, not pushing.
“Black or brown.” My voice was firm. This was after the counter had started looking like a rainbow of sorts. Littered with all manner of carryalls, purses, duffels, satchels, clutches, envelopes, hobos. In all shades of purple, green, orange, yellow.
I looked on the shelf again. "Mpa eyo. Nedda, eyo e'ya dark brown." She deftly used her stick to reach for the bag with beige piping. I examined its insides carefully. Then I paid  my hard-earned cash after my bargaining refused to have an influence on her.
I was glad I had something new, something that would complement my "hide- in-the-shadows" colours.
A surprise was lying in wait for me.
Like I said, hardly a week after this hard purchase, the piping started showing signs of fraying.
I was alarmed and I passed by the shop where I showed it to the bu-girls.
"Sorry Madam. Anti you know mukwano, we are not the ones who made the bags." That was all they could offer.
I marched out fuming.
This bag disappointed me in all ways.
Very soon the insides started coming apart. The straps frayed like crazy. The bag refused to sit up straight but would flop to one side like a tired cat. The catch at the front fell off.
Finally, after about a year (only God knows how I could survive such torture), I decided enough was enough. The bags in the shops looked good but were not to be trusted. Just like girls who put on too much war paint. Wash it away, onolaba!!
It was time to go downtown.
I was confident that I could get me something that was worth my money (never mind that it belonged to someone else before me).
I said my prayers before I hit the market.
The bag made for me was sitting cheekily in a pile of others, all choking on cardboard paper.
I loved it the minute I set my eyes on it.
I picked it up.
I checked here, checked there, checked up, checked down, checked the front, checked behind, checked sideways, checked upside down, checked inside, checked outside-in.
A beautiful Hermes. Made in Paris. France.
Burnt orange and brown.
No zips.
Short comfortable straps.
I didn't even care that it was some shade of orange, I just knew it was mine.
And I knew God had answered my prayer as I paid the seller and strutted off with my newly-acquired designer possession.