#pokomatherisktaker

Pokoma is no more. He lost his life when a car smashed into him two days ago. The impact caused his back and limbs to break in several places. His head slammed into the pavement, disfiguring his face.

Pokoma was a risk-taker. He loved to cross the road when an oncoming car was a few meters, a few seconds away from him. He said it gave him an adrenaline rush. He had caused several drivers to slam on their brakes, leaving them screeching in fury as he sprang out of the way, the car missing
him by a few inches. He would emerge on the other side, chuckling to himself, and mentally patting himself on the back. “Whew! that was a close shave! It’ll be even closer the next time!”

This risky game started when Pokoma was about nine and still in primary school. Together with his little brother and sister, they walked to school in the morning and back in the evening. To get there, they had to cross a busy road, a highway in fact. As the cars zoomed past in both directions, Pokoma and his siblings sometimes waited for 10 minutes when the cars were fewer, or when a kind driver stopped to let them pass. Sometimes they waited in the middle of the road.

When he got older, Pokoma found that he was able to run across a busy road even as the cars whizzed past. He weaved in and out of traffic like a snake. It soon graduated into that mad dash across the road. Then the highway. Pokoma would run across and land safely on the other side without a scratch.

We buried Pokoma yesterday. He did not look like the Pokoma we knew as we laid what remained of him in his grave.
He was just one mangled mess of skin, flesh and bones.

#faddiets

At the bank today, the teller served me as she sipped on a bottle filled with water so hot that it was disfigured (the bottle, not the water). Out of curiosity I asked why there were no tea-leaves. “Cutting fat”, she said very matter-of-factly. “Amazzi agokya gasala amasavu.”
There are so many fad diets today- juicing, fruitarianism, detoxing, non-salt diet, water-only diet, lemon water diet, no sugar diet, carbs, proteins, vitamins, morning banana. Ayi mama, won’t we just diet ourselves into oblivion?
Someone I know, carries a brightly-colored plastic bag filled with lunch-boxes of all sizes to work. Sometimes it is green tea, cucumber and beetroot slivers - to “moisturize the skin.”
Tomorrow. Hot lemon and ginger for “digestion and, y’know it increases blood circulation.”
On Wednesday. “I’m drinking apple juice to strengthen my muscles and improve my eyesight.”
She also has a food diary. I want to scream.
Last week I asked about her progress but I discovered that she doesn't know if she is just watching her weight, or wants to slim. And when she starts with the calories, I want to hide under the table.
I am so tempted to tell her that we all have a body-type- - - figure 8, figure 11, some of us are apples, bananas, water-melons others are inverted triangles. I want to let her know that this dieting can be expensive and requires more discipline than the US navy has.
Naye, her eyes nearly popped out of her sockets when by chance, I was at the Nakumatt Oasis on Saturday afternoon. She was at Javas wolfing down a sizeable piece of juicy fried chicken, and from the heap of bones on the side of her plate, there must have been plenty more. There was also a half-drunk bottle of fruity Fanta.

#Koffi:thebriefestshowieverhad

PS: Read footnote first... bottom of page

The name is Koffi. Koffi Olomidde to be exact. My parents named me Antoine Christophe Agbepa Mumba at birth but I like to use Koffi Olomide. I am 60 now, and in all my life, I have never been so embarrassed and ill-treated as I was in Kenya a month ago.

Well, the long and short of this tale is that I fell from grace. There. It is has been hard to accept, but yes, I did. I fell so hard that I don’t know what hit me. One minute I was doing my thing in front of the paparazzi’s cameras, the next- I was standing in front of a judge in a dusty courtroom in a totally different country. All in the space of about 30 hours. The blurring has cleared from my mind now and I can tell my story.

My swift descent began in Kenya on 22nd July where I was booked to do a show for my Ekotike hit the next evening. By the way, the song is called Ekotite, not Ekotide or Ekotike, as I have heard some murderers say. The venue was Bomas of Kenya.

As usual, I flew business class. The waitresses swooned over me, asking if I was okay, if I needed a hot towel for my hands, if I would care for a cup of coffee, if they could push my seat back, if I needed a blanket and extra pillow. Hell! All I needed was good food, a strong drink and to perhaps pinch the bottom of the prettiest one.

My crew were holed up in Economy, most of them sleeping off the exhaustion from our show at home in DRC the night before.

We landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport at 12:10pm. I was looking sharp, having freshened up and changed into a tight black long-sleeved t-shirt and my signature pants. The kind of statement trousers with a low fly that hangs around my calves. I was excited. I wanted to see Nairobi - ville verte au soleil- the city in the sun.

Two strong drinks in the VIP lounge later, my manager Sofoki approached me to discuss our itinerary. I told him it could wait as I would first speak to the pack of paps whose cameras were already going into wild action even before I emerged from the lounge. 

This was it. The high-life. The center of attraction. Me. The usual blah blah questions.
 “Koffi, karibu Kenya. Are you excited to be here?”
“Koffi, what something special have you carried with you this time?”
“Koffi, anything different for … ”

Suddenly I distracted by some commotion behind me. Raised female voices. Yelling in a mix of Lingala and French. I swung my head around. There they were, my dancers. Shouting. Catfight? I did not hear the rest of the pesky paps’ questions. I needed to find out what the matter was. This undignified market-woman kinda yelling. As I approached, Cindy- my sweet favorite, dashed away, tears streaming down her face. “Quel est le chéri de la matière ??”

I didn’t wait for an answer and I did not ask any more questions. I had spotted the source of the disturbance. The stranger who did not belong in my group. A dark-skinned woman with a cheap fake weave. I lunged at her and she made as if to flee. I strode towards her and kicked.  Hard. My foot connected with her side as she raised her hands to defend herself.
At least that’s what I remember. (I later heard that I had actually karate-kicked one of my dancers and the rest had scattered away in shock and fear).

Policemen standing nearby moved in to stop me, I shoved them off with my raging Spanish bull face and they kept their distance. Cindy was sniffing alone in a corner, her red handbag sitting on her red suitcase. I went up to her, my manager running behind me, pleading with me to return to the interview. I returned in the direction of the paps, flashing my best smile. “Okay, where were we?” but they were already packing up, some walking away.

But just then, Sofoki told me the limo taking us to the hotel was ready.

“Make sure the crew gets to town safe!” I barked at him as I entered the limo, Cindy following closely behind.

As promised by the events organizer, a country-mate, the limo was sleek, black, air-conditioned and drinks were on hand. I quietened the sniffy Cindy with a glass of orange juice. She told me there had been an altercation between her and another dancer and that was the reason for the commotion.
“Shhhh… baby… it will be alright.” I rubbed her back and pecked her on the forehead. “Wipe your face now and put on some make-up, you know the journalists and their cameras will be at the hotel. Okay?”

Then I got back to the free bar and whipped out my phone to take the selfies that I would post on my Facebook page. 

Twenty minutes later we drove into the gates of the grandiose Villa Rosa Kempinski hotel. My crew were already there. A valet opened the limo door and I jumped out, a refreshed Cindy, looking sheepish by my side.
“You are welcome Mr Koffi!” The valet, beaming with a wide smile, could have tripped over himself as he took her hand.

Sofoki informed me that hotel was finalizing arrangements for my room. I was irritated. I needed to lie down and get this excess mix of drinks off my head. Didn’t they know I was coming? Koffi Olomide? Ekotite? Hello???!!

The hotel manager, a middle-aged man in a grey suit came running towards me, “Mr. Koffi, we have your booking ready, we will be leading you to room in a few minutes. Please sit down Sir.” He herded me to some plush, black leather seats. I sank in. They were comfortable. A waitress carrying a tray with glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and handed me one. I took a sip and handed it back.
“Take it to my girls over there,” I said, pointing to where my dancers were sitting in another side of the foyer.

I flipped open my phone.It was time to post those selfies with the drinks in the background. I had to make sure that people knew I was in town. I had several whatsapp messages. At the moment, Sofoki sat down next to me, on the edge of the seat. He looked worried.

“Eh, boss,” he whispered in French. “Things are not looking up.”

Now, what the hell? Was he talking about the weather forecast? Was it the special water I had ordered for my room that could not be found? Was the presidential suite taken?

“Speak up man!” I shouted and heads turned to look at us. “What is the problem?”

“Um… we are getting some very bad press. It is all over Facebook, Twitter, whatsapp…” His eyes were trained to a spot on the polished wooden floor.

I turned on my phone. Oh! Oh! Oh! S****! Blistering barnacles! The buzz about me on Facebook was crazy. Pictures of me, my leg in the air, lunging at my dancer. All sorts of crazy captions. “Koffi kicks girl”, “Koffi attacks dancer”, “ Monkey-eating soukous crooner sends woman flying with karate kick” and so on and so forth. Oh, so it was one of my crew that I had attacked? How could that be? I remember it was a pickpocket. At least that’s what my memory served me.

I needed to get out of that foyer very fast. Like yesterday. The comfort of the chairs and their smell of fake leather was suddenly making me sick. Very sick. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses.
“Go tell those dratted reception people that I need my room quick!” I shouted at Sofoki. He closed his I-pad and scurried off like a scared rat.

Up in my room, I flopped on the king-size bed. It must have been an 8x8 because it was so big. The room looked like a house of sorts.

I sat up, flipped off my shades and opened my phone. Yes. Sofoki was right when he said things were not good. We needed to do some spinning. Quick, clever spinning, otherwise I was cooked. I lay down on the bed. It felt lumpy. I leapt up and sat in the bedside chair. There was a free bar with cold drinks. They did not look very inviting. My head was racing. I called Sofoki on his phone. I told him to get the dancer Pamela and come up to my room.

About three minutes later, they knocked at my door. “Sofoki” I said breathlessly, “Here!” In hushed tones, we discussed what to do to quell the damage eating at my fast-rotting reputation.

“Pamela, in here!” She walked cautiously across the room. Did she think I was going to attack her again? “Pamela, you are a good girl, you are an expert dancer and very beautiful. You know that now, don’t you? Actually, now that we are here in Nairobi, I want you to be the queen dancer, the one who moves to the front when you are all dancing and then I will give you all the attention. Okay?”
She looked confused and didn’t say a word but nodded her head.  A fast and very silly nod.

“Now Pamela, I want you to understand there is some news going around that I kicked you and people are not very happy. Sofoki here has told me that the news on social media is that people want to boycott the show. That is not good. You know it is not true, isn’t that so, baby? Now, we are going to record a video on my phone, explaining the real story. That I was trying to protect you from a pickpocket who wanted to steal your bag. You know that I love my dancers. Not so now, Pamela? Smile now. Hey baby! ”

Pamela touched up her face. Man, her face was getting patchy. , Then we recorded the video, me holding the phone as Sofoki watched. We did three takes. The second was perfect and it’s the one we posted, Pamela regurgitating what I had convinced her to say. I told the women in Kenya I loved them and I absolutely abhor any form of violence against the beautiful creatures of the opposite sex.
Then I shooed them from my room, ‘silence-moded’ my phone, and dozed off.
Sofoki woke me up two hours later. “Boss, you remember we have the Citizen TV interview?”

I got ready, drowned myself in a mean douse of BB Gout parfum and took the elevator to the bottom. This time we rode in a convoy of smaller cars. We arrived at the studio at about 8:35pm. The girls were looking good, no sign of stress on their heavily powdered faces. Their rouged lips stood out as they took selfie after selfie in the tight white shirts, and even tighter, ripped pale denim pants.

That Lilian Muli woman was not good to me, shooting question after question like I was already a convict. Did I beat my dancer? Did I hate women? With her hand on her chin, like she was Larry King, no smile on her face, even as I sat across from her. The interview was long, and, I felt, very one-sided. The interview started with a strong statement about Royal Media Services “strongly condemning violence of any nature.” Yeah right! Then she also used the word “allegedly” kicking. So why was she condemning violence? Oh, and that they believed every story has two sides and had made an editorial decision to host me and get my side of the story. D’accord!!

Now, come to think of it- her first question was “Why did you do what you did at the airport today?” I squirmed inside. It could not show. Damn! I even forgot what I had to say. I had to buy time. Deny.
“I didn’t beat my dancer. I didn't touch her.” Deny. I recounted the pick-pocket tale. I had only wanted to protect my dancers. Deny. My mantra.

They replayed the kicking clip repeatedly, accusing me of having anger issues, telling me about respecting human rights and refusing to listen to my pleas that I was only here for a show and could we move on. Damn this internet, raining on my parade as I prepared giving Kenyans a good time. Hey, I was not responsible for all the problems women are having. Heck, I was sorry!!! I did not have anger issues.

The girls were invited to the stage so “that they could see the chemistry between them and their boss.” I gave Pamela a peck and asked her to tell her story which I translated because there was no translator. The girls bust some moves to Ekoti

Anyway, this was to be my only performance in Kenya. I was arrested shortly after. Right outside the Royal Media Services offices that houses Citizen TV. Me, Kofi Olomidde, a whole lingala maestro.

“Switch off the engine!” they ordered. “Na hiyo video ali shoot akaweka kwa Facebook ni ya uongo. Kwa nini anadanganya danganya watu ati hakumupiga dame?” They were talking about me like I was not there.

Then they drove me, at breakneck speed to the Jomo Kenyatta Police station. My hackles rose. This didn't look good at all. Why the airport? After several minutes of hassling and hushed whispers, with policemen getting in and out of the office, some occasionally throwing us furtive glances, we were ordered to “make statement”.

That was one of the toughest nights in the life of this rhumba virtuoso, I will call myself that. I am so disgusted that I will not reveal how or where I slept, so you can go and speculate till kingdom comes. What I know, and what you know is that I spent the night in a not-so-clean, grubby police cell with a couple of other “prisoners”.

At about 11am, I was ordered out of the cell. At the front counter were three of my dancers. They looked beat, with tired smudges of lipstick on their faces. The powder had done a disappearing act.

“You will be returning to your country at the expense of the Kenyan government. We do not need women pounders here!”

We were herded out of the station, like a group of unruly donkeys. Straight into a Kenya Airways flight on the apron. “Where’s my passport?” I asked.
“Don’t even ask!”
I had no option but to go board the plane.

I really didn't feel like the invincible Koffi Olomide anymore.

**** The events narrated here are purely from my imagination, some names- like the manager's- are my own creation. ******

#tohellwiththatdiet!!!...

Cold maize will make your stomach bloat, they say
Warm water will melt the fat away.
Do you really want to lose weight?
Then watch that stuff you put on your plate.
Today, “sugar and starch are bad for you”,
Tomorrow, “meat samosas and mandazis too”.
If you’re serious, then cut out bread, eggs and cake,
Because your stomach pudgy, they will make.
They warn that the calories in that slice of chocolate cake
Are as deadly as a flavored milkshake.
Instead, a glass of lemon water and honey,
Will not cost you too much money.
Also, kale and watermelon smoothies in the morning.
Will keep your stomach from groaning.
“And what about some coffee?” I ask.
“No.” They recommend a cup of green tea from the flask.
Yellow bananas, red berries, green peppers and orange oranges.
I am praying this diet will work because the changes
Are driving me crazy
My sight is becoming hazy.
Words like wellness, sijui, the mind, body and spirit,
At this rate, I doubt I can do it.
Weight-loss, low-fat, detox, healthy eating,
Forget chips and burgers at a Javas seating.
Metabolism, BMI, blood sugar, nutrition,
Will these really bring my slimming plans to fruition?
Juicing, slimming fibers, fat-burning, shredding,
No, this alien vocabulary I will not be needing.

To hell with the diet.

#manoutofvillagevillageoutofman

When you can take a man out of a village....but not the village out of a man.

A friend's cousin was visiting Kampala for the first time in his 23 years.
He had grown up in a rural sub-county somewhere and was village all through- from the hair, to the clothes, to the walk.

Of course everything was new to him here- he did not even know how to use a spoon to stir his tea. Anyway, after tea, she suggested he take a bath and rest because he was tired and dusty from the journey. She filled a basin, gave him a towel and showed him the bathroom.

The next they heard was an almighty scream. He dashed out of the bathroom like a madman, yelling at the top of his voice that there was someone who had come towards him, wanting to attack him.

When they investigated, they discovered it was the bathroom mirror that had caused him such anguish...

#thedayafter

10:30am. 12th July 2010.

Police chief Gen. Kale Kayihura barks at a policeman standing guard outside the door leading into the press room at the Media Center. “Wewe Afande, una akili kweli?! Your instructions are to check everybody, regardless of who they are. Even me? What if I am carrying a bomb?!!”
The hapless man hastily drops his salute as the police chief glares at him and strides into the room packed with journalists who will relay the latest on the security situation. This is a special press conference.
It is the day after that horrific incident. When bombs exploded in Kampala, killing 76 people who were enjoying a night out.

Uganda was in shock and rightly so. Everywhere, askaris, gatemen, bartenders, police officers, bus conductors, shop owners - even public toilet “operators”- were jolted into action. They had been sleeping on the job and the time had come for them to be seen to be working.

They dug into every bag, overturning its contents with no regard for delicate items.
They frisked and patted down every human being making an entry into any establishment.
They pinched women’s breasts to make sure they hadn’t padded their bras with cotton wool.
They asked all the unnecessary questions- “Eh, so you are going to see the boss? For what? Where are you coming from? Why is your ID about to expire?”
They searched the car boots, glove compartments, under the sun visor, everything under and over.
The toilet operators asked “Oyagala kipapula kya mmeka? Lwaki?
Woe betide you if were passing outside a police station and stopped to tie your shoelaces.
The taxi parks downtown were a nightmare, the bus parks were even worse. Nga they checked us! At the market, at the mall, at the taxi park. The time had come for them to feel important as they "secured" their country.

Fast forward to 2016. The askari greets me with smile. She is eating her lunch from a plastic lunch-box under the reception counter at the gate. She does not leave her chair. In between munches, she asks me where I’m going. I can see the counter book where other visitors have signed, and the Nice pen tied with a string to something under the counter so that it is not stolen. I tell her where I’m going and she waves in the direction of the office. Go to the First Floor. Then she flashes another smile and I’m off.

So, what has happened five years later? Have we forgotten the events of that day? Are we not aware that danger is lurking everywhere? Why do we only act when something terrible happens? Why don’t we give a damn about that black bag that has been lying under that chair for several days? Why the need to ensure that THAT pen at the reception should be protected from the hands of a stranger, but then its okay for me to walk into a building unchecked?

#phonegoesforaswim 2

In that moment, my head was spinning in a maze of panic. “I MUST save my phone!”

I rushed out, opened the tap and washed my hands. Then I raced back into the stall and peered into the bowl. The phone was still there. “Should I flush again? But if I do, the phone could end up in one of Kampala’s deepest sewers. No.”

I washed my hands again. I don't even know why I was washing my hands.

Then, feeling like Superwoman, I shut my eyes tight and plunged my hand into the toilet bowl. I had rescued my phone but the screen was blank. It felt heavy. And dead. 

I had no time to think. I took off to the studio, sat down and opened the teleprompter. I tossed the lifeless gadget under the table, on the carpet. The bumper was already playing. I went through the bulletin like a zombie, my mind on my dying cell, willing it to come to life in the five minutes I was on air. 

It was still lifeless when I was done. I removed the battery and simcard, and shook the phone vigorously to take the water out. 

I thought of washing it (it had come out of the toilet water…), then I pretended it was already clean.
Google became my best friend. One search recommended dipping and hiding it in a bowl of dry uncooked rice. Another advised on the use of a vacuum cleaner (where the hell was I going to get a vacuum cleaner???). The third said to use paper towels. 

I opted for dry rice. I raced down the stairs to the supermarket which was not open anyway. I bought a kilo from those shops opposite Nakasero market. 

The instructions said to keep it in the rice overnight then switch on after 24 hours. I couldn't keep myself from checking after every three, five, two minutes. 

Anyway, unlike Pam Nax's iphone 5, my beloved blue Nokia Model 3310, which I had owned for only five days, could not be resuscitated. It was zonked out, drowned in a bowl of clean toilet water.

#phonegoesforaswim 1

You know how when…
Your phone falls in the loo! (Reminiscing about my radio days)

That was one of my most memorable mornings on radio. I have this weird habit (c’mon I know many of you do too…) of carrying my phone with me everywhere I go, even to the loo.
It was about seven minutes to 7am, I had to be in the studio at five to, to compose myself to read the bulletin. 

I picked my phone from the desk and dashed to the bathroom for a quick stopover. Business was done in a minute and the toilet flushed. 

I guess I must have been a bit absent-minded when I reached for the phone which I had placed on the wooden box behind the water tank, because I remember that my hand went to pick up the gadget, then something happened. 

Its a funny surreal feeling, when something like this happens before your very eyes and you can do nothing but watch - kind of like the feeling you get when you’re falling and waiting to hit the ground. You shut your eyes and want to stop it but you can’t. 

Anyway, the next thing I heard was a huge plop- as the Muganda in me will say “bwe kata!!!” My new blue Nokia 3310, which I had bought just five days earlier had plunged into the toilet bowl!
No, it was not floating. It was sitting at the bottom, face up, looking at me. 

Now, remember I had less than five minutes to the bulletin and here I was stuck in this stall with my phone inside the loo. Heeeeeehhh!

What did I do?

#ofbigtitles

 People like big titles. Rest assured that if you use them, you will get what you want. Its a form of corruption, just that there’s no exchange of money. Its just a matter of knowing how to get what you want.

Yesterday, after "suffering" for weeks without any functioning flasks in my house, I went out to buy. After weaving through the human traffic, I found myself at Mega-Standard supermarket. The female guard frisked me up and down and then proceeded to peer into my bag. There was a half-drunk bottle of Fanta, the small one.
“You can’t take this in.” She took it out.
I immediately went into war-mode. “Why?”
“I have said you cannot take this in. Leave it at the front counter!”
I was having none of this. How could I leave an open bottle of soda at the counter? Someone could spit into it, just like Toundi secretly spat into the Commandant’s glass of water in ‘Houseboy’.

In a huff, I grabbed my half-consumed bottle and stomped out.
I later realized that I could have… maybe… just maybe... softened her heart if I had addressed her as “Afande".

I have a cousin of a cousin in the village who is a primary school teacher. Some years ago he started volunteering as a community health worker, distributing malaria drugs around the village and diagnosing children with illnesses they didn't have. Now he is a self-styled ‘Musawo’ not “Musomesa”.

Members of Parliament will respond to journalists’ request for a sound bite faster when you address them as “Honorable”.

Male teachers would like to be called “Master” (pronounced “Maasita”) when parents pop into the school to check on their children’s academic progress.

What about the pot-bellied so-called mafuta-mingis dressed in linen high-waited trousers like Pepe Kalle’s? These ones are happy to be are classified as “Mugagga” by the guards at the bank who don't bother to check them, but just let them pass.

And the market women to whom everyone is “Auntie” or “Uncle” when they want you to buy their wares.

And anyone who wears a taqiyah on his head, even if he is a careless taxi driver who doesn't bother to button his shirt sleeves, instantly becomes “Hajji”. A woman in a veil is “Hajjati” whether they have been to Mecca or not.

I have seen, and heard people trying to wangle their way through a deal by calling the other moneyed party “Boss”.

In the year that I have made regular visits to Mulago hospital, I find that I can easily manipulate a smile out of the stressed nurse who takes blood pressure readings when I call her “Musawo”. Not the simple “Naansi.”

The days of men hissing at us and labelling us “Sister” are long gone. These days we are all “Model” (pronounced “Moddo”).

And there’s this thing that bodaboda guys have when they see you approach. They slap the passenger seat of the motorcycle hard and say “Ogenda nyabo?”. Only that one called me “Maaso Glory.”


Any other “BIG” names?

#okusomakuno!

Dear Gavumenti,

Since everybody is singing about "Tusaba Gavumenti Etuyambe", I have also decided to add my voice, as I prepare for my future grand-kids…

Gavumenti, now that you have been in office for about three months or so, I think this is a good time to deliver this my missive. I have had countless issues with this education system for years. From homework for three-year olds, to holiday work, to these classes that start at 6am and end at 9pm, to these byeetaago aka requirements for the term.

Let me start with the most burning issue first- the HOMEWORK. The DRATTED homework. Gavumenti wamma, do you know that the teachers at my niece’s nursery school, she is only three years old- in baby class, are giving her daily homework? Not homework mbu “Go and find this out, or go and pick some stones and dried flowers that we will use in class tomorrow.” No, it is paperwork. Now Gavumenti, you imagine how this child will be by the time she is six, with all that homework, eh? She will be fed up. And yet she still has two more years of nursery school, seven years of Primary school, then six years of secondary and high school, and four long years of university, packed with coursework on all sorts of topics. Gavumenti, please rein in these our teachers who are torturing our little ones with daily homework, which many parents do not even know the answers to and are now resorting to Google to hunt.

The second safari ant in my pant is the Holiday Work. Oh! This matter has frayed my already-stressed out nerves. Let me give you the scenario, especially in boarding school. On the last day of term, there is an announcement at the gate that parents should pick reports from the class teacher. So off you go, child in tow, to see the class teacher, who is sitting in some corner of the classroom surrounded by worried-looking parents wanting to know if their hard-earned money was put to good use.
But on close inspection, you soon realize that they are not worried about the fees they forked out and whether it was really put to good use. What they are really pondering is where they will get the thousands of shillings to pay for the holiday work, which the class Sir or Madam has said "you will have to buy first before you can get your little one’s report". Yes, that is how they torture parents.
And let me tell you something else Gavumenti, the work can cost anything from 20,000 shillings, sometimes 30,000 shillings. Imagine if you have three children in the school. That is 60,000 shillings or 90,000 shillings that is not budgeted for! For holiday work whose charges change every term.
Kati wait-- something more on the holiday work. Aren't- children supposed to have a balance between work and play? You also know that they have to be happier and better adjusted as we move towards a middle-income economy.

So, they have been working the whole term, reporting to class early and leaving late, and the holiday means its time to relax and unwind. That is the meaning of the word “holiday”, unless of course the Oxford dictionary has a new definition which I don't know about. Gavumenti, let me tell you something, when I was in primary school, some few decades ago, I heard of holiday work only once- in Standard Six. And even then, my mother didn't have to buy it. So, why are these schools charging extra for it? Why? Because I have paid fees, and so the homework must be part of what I paid for. So, what are these extra charges?

Kale, now that I am done ranting about homework, there is this issue of the “requirements”, as they call them, at the beginning of term. There is this day school which my nephew used to attend. Gavumenti I tell you, that list was long. Three dozens of 96-pages exercise books, 20 HB pencils purchased from a certain store in downtown Kikuubo, colored pencils from Aristoc, three reams of foolscap paper, 18 ballpoint pens etc etc. For one term. Not for one year!! And I have not exhausted the list.

I tell you Gavumenti, when I looked at the envelope in which the report and other papers was tucked, it was fat. I first read the report, then I read the newsletter which was telling me how the term “had been”- with the sports day, and the P7 pupils who passed in First Grade and Second Grade and the trips to Murchison Falls and Tororo Rock.

I knew there was a list, but I tactfully reserved it for last because I did not want to get a heart attack at the beginning of the holiday. And then hesitantly, slowly, carefully, I pulled it out and let out a loud whoop! My nephew worriedly jumped to my side as I clutched at the piece of paper, my eyes nearly popping out of my sockets, “Mama, kiki? Obadde ki?”
“Bannange, bannange!” was all I could say in replay, shaking my head from side to side like an agama agama lizard.
The requirements on that list alone cost 560,000 shillings! By the way Gavumenti, the fees was 970,000 shillings.
And now that he is in boarding school, the school asks for four huge tubs of Vaseline jelly, five medium-sized tubes of Colgate, eight bars of Nyota soap, two kilograms of Ariel washing powder, not Safi or Nomi or this Omo which I have know all my life. Plus others.
Gavementi, kindly note that I am quoting brand names here. I have tossed and turned in my bed over these brands, night after night. Does my nephew brush his teeth after every meal-even when he has just a snack of groundnuts? Is his skin so rough that it needs to be coated with petroleum jelly all the time? And the soap. Heck, I have a whole household and we use only two bars a month!

Gavumenti, this my letter is long... I will send you the second part tomorrow...

#whentheshoefits

I am never ever again going by the adage “fashion knows no pain.”

In this case it was some red ballet flats I had hankered after for weeks. When I finally got the money, I rushed to the boutique on Kampala road where the shoes were. I had already tried them on twice before so I just paid and dashed home even faster with my package.

The minute I got home, I was in front of the mirror in my room and the shoes were on my feet. A little prance, then a dance, then I walked towards the mirror, then away from the mirror, then I looked sideways, first the right, then to the left, then with my hands akimbo, then the 90 degrees angle, then sway swayed like a model.

I had already planned the outfit that I would wear the next day. It was important to show off my new acquisition and make sure that I drew all the attention to my “beautiful little” feet adorned in so chic and elegant a pair. Blue and white go well with red, and so, like a little child opening birthday presents, I woke up early, donned the new pair and went off to work.

As expected, some people noticed, and those who know how to give compliments, gave the compliments. I even promised one or two that I would take them to the shop where they could eat their hearts out at the variety. “And he has such good prices, eh?”

The morning wore on nicely, and at every opportunity, I would spring from my desk and take a walk, however unnecessary. To the reception, to the bathroom, to the water dispenser, to ask a work-mate a question, to everywhere.

Soon it was lunchtime. Now, I eat away from the office, it’s about a 10 minutes walk. A colleague offered me a lift because it was quite hot, but I politely declined. The shoes had to be put to test. After all? C’mon.

I started feeling the discomfort after a few meters. Not very much, but I know the signs. By the time I was out of the gate, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. I looked down at my feet. They were swollen around the front. But you all know how when “fashion knows no pain” right?

I didn't say a thing, just walked. When we got to lunch, I kicked off the shoes under the table.
But even as I ate, my mind was racing, “Eh, had this man kuferad me? I am a size 37, the shoes were 37 but they feel more like 34. Are they from China?”

When lunch was done, I slipped the shoes back on. They felt tighter. “But I’ll be able to make it back,” I convinced myself.

I hobbled back to the office, my toes on fire. At one point the pain got too much that I even contemplated taking the shoes off and going barefoot.

Thank God I arrived safely. I checked the insoles to make sure that the shoes were genuine and not just pasted on like these downtown vendors do. But they were not Chinese..

I didn't wear them for the rest of the afternoon and I drove home barefoot. A few days later, and my big toes are still numb.

You know how that red shoe really made me see red.

#fraudimaidi

The neighbor’s maid has several gifts and abilities....

“Mama Lihanna (I think the name is Rihanna), tuli wano, twasuze mu nzikiza. Anti amasanyalazze gaaweddewo” (Mama Lihanna, we spent the night in the dark because the electricity got finished- direct translation). I guess what she meant to say was that they had run out of tokens.

Mama Lihanna, a single mother is usually away for a week or two at a time. She’s a sales agent for lipsticks, nail-polish and skin-lightening lotions, and travels as far as Rwanda and South Sudan sometimes. 

I’m off work on Mondays so I was in the kitchen washing up in the morning, when I heard the maid over the wall in their backyard, talking to Mama Lihanna. 

Her baby voice was at full throttle. Y’know how when girls want to be too girlish, or to appear helpless? Yes, they speak in that that high pitched little baby-girl voice. 

My ears are still sharp. I could hear the TV. It was tuned to some ki-Phillipino on Bukedde TV. But here was this girl brazenly lying to her boss that they had spent the night in the dark.

I turned off the tap and listened, my hands still in the soapy water. 

Silence. I think Mama Lihanna was promising to send her some cash through mobile money.
Then the little girl’s voice came into play again. “I-ye Mama Lihanna. Kale Mama Lihanna. Weebale nnyo Mama Lihanna. Kan’gendeyo nzifune.”Conversation closed. 

Then I heard her slippers go back into the house.

A few seconds ticked by. Suddenly the volume of the TV was raised by a number of decibels and VJ Junior was back in action. “Amugambye ‘naawe baby, tugende tulye ku laifu. Laba fala ono!’ ”
 
Somewhere behind VJ Junior, I heard Rema’s Fire Tonight” ring-tone. I guessed the maid's friend was calling because her voice suddenly returned to normal. 

“Hallo? Hooo! Munnange mukwano, agenda kuweereza ssente, era nja kulaba ku wiikendi!!!”. (My dear friend, she’s sending some money. I’ll see you on the weekend.)

You know how when you hear Mama Lihanna’s maid 'frauding' her boss?