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.
Wednesday 26 October 2016
Friday 21 October 2016
#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.
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.
Wednesday 19 October 2016
#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.
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.
Tuesday 11 October 2016
#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.
Saturday 8 October 2016
#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”.
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”.
Friday 7 October 2016
#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.”
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.”
Thursday 6 October 2016
#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.
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.
Wednesday 5 October 2016
#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.
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.
#thenewnakasero
Nakasero in Kampala (not the market) was a really plush area some years back. One of those places where not every Tom, Dick and Harry ventured into. No stray cows and dogs, no groundnut hawkers or toffee sellers. No mangys.
Just rich people, with healthy tabbies, and swings, and barbeques and Sunday brunch.
It was nice spacious houses with tiled roofs, humongous compounds, big old trees and quiet roads (that looked like they got a daily wash with Omo and clean water) for its privileged residents to jog, take bicycle rides and walk their dogs in the evenings.
Today, there are office buildings, casinos, discotheques, bars. And car bonds. Like this Pine car bond which has been in the news of late. That its owner allegedly murdered a woman in one of its dingy offices. Because she owed him money.
Many of the men who sell the used cars at these bonds are well-dressed. They look like deported nkuba-kyeyos. They arrive early, and then stand at the side of the road waiting.
Some sit down for an early breakfast of katogo ka bijanjalo or chips and fried egg and avocado and a slice of cucumber.
7am, 8am, 9am, 10am- occasionally someone drives by slowly and makes like to stop- then they all swarm the car, hoping this is a potential buyer.
“Just checking, sorry.”
Other times they sit on upturned wooden crates or tree trunks, conversing about what and forcing out laughs. Sometimes the day, the week, and even the month goes by, and they have not made a single sale
Just rich people, with healthy tabbies, and swings, and barbeques and Sunday brunch.
It was nice spacious houses with tiled roofs, humongous compounds, big old trees and quiet roads (that looked like they got a daily wash with Omo and clean water) for its privileged residents to jog, take bicycle rides and walk their dogs in the evenings.
Today, there are office buildings, casinos, discotheques, bars. And car bonds. Like this Pine car bond which has been in the news of late. That its owner allegedly murdered a woman in one of its dingy offices. Because she owed him money.
Many of the men who sell the used cars at these bonds are well-dressed. They look like deported nkuba-kyeyos. They arrive early, and then stand at the side of the road waiting.
Some sit down for an early breakfast of katogo ka bijanjalo or chips and fried egg and avocado and a slice of cucumber.
7am, 8am, 9am, 10am- occasionally someone drives by slowly and makes like to stop- then they all swarm the car, hoping this is a potential buyer.
“Just checking, sorry.”
Other times they sit on upturned wooden crates or tree trunks, conversing about what and forcing out laughs. Sometimes the day, the week, and even the month goes by, and they have not made a single sale
Tuesday 4 October 2016
#upthesocial ladder-a parody
I am trying so hard to climb the social ladder but you somehow I can’t past the second rung. Why?
A good racking of the brain offered me some answers.
Speak hard English, using bombastic phrases and big colorful words for small ones but which somehow sound too simple. Quote writers of today like John Grisham or JK Rowling, or some of old like Ernest Hemingway and Roald Dahl. You should also take paragraphs from magazines like the Financial Times or the Guardian and quote them a bit carelessly when in conversation with folks who you think (and know) have no clue about them.
Keep in mind that social media networking is big- don’t limit your circles to Twitter and Facebook, that’s so long ago. Talk Instagram, SnapChat, Flickr (just make sure you memorize that pronunciation well, ok?)
How about alluding to some very clever folks you came across on those networks? Mention bloggers like Sharon Mundua (gotta know her name now) of “This is Ess” Mrisho and Robert Alai and what they confess to and mention how you subscribe their Youtube channels.
Follow “important” people on your Facebook and Twitter pages- people like President Uhuru Kenyatta, Chameleone, Christiane Amanpour, retweet and respond to their tweets once in a while (of course they won’t reply, but so what?).
Stride into the office with a branded mug of hot coffee- like Turkish Airways or Etihad. Actually, you could pass by Javas on your way to work and have them fill a recyclable paper cup with a latte macchiato. (You know you could also always refill that cup as you strut into the office every morning).
It is also advisable to order pizza to be delivered at lunchtime and to make sure that the box comes in just as your pals are about to go out and eat at that same drab place they eat at every day. Oh, that pizza could occasionally be delivered with a milkshake as well. However, when you do chance out for that their lunch, make sure to stroll there and back with the crew that everyone calls the ITs.
On some days you should carry at least five clear (I must emphasize- cute, for the ladies) lunch boxes of fresh fruit. Kiwi in one, sliced apples in another. Then pawpaw, pineapple and diced beetroot in the others.
Don’t be rocking to Ugandan music in your car, it must be some Chris Brown, Justin Bieber or Rihanna’s latest. Do jazz in the evenings, it shows you are in touch with your tunes.
Be wearing jeans brands like Levis, Benetton, Diesel- not some random made-in-China cloth specifically manufactured for third world countries.
And when you’re throwing words around, remember that pronunciation is key so it must be Ayraq not Eeraq (Iraq), Rawte not Ruut (Route) and Feenance not Fainansi (Finance).
Now, when you’re referring to your childhood adventures, the places you’ve lived, if its not “I grew up in Arusha”, relieve memories of the green, leafy areas of upmarket Kampala- the Kololos and Tank Hill Muyengas. Air of sophistication. Aight?
When it comes to countries you can remember visiting——— when someone else starts talking about the parking lot at Oliver Tambo airport in South Africa, dismiss them with a wave of the hand as you gush about the automated lifts that transport your car up to the parking space in Bangkok (Oh by the way, knowing the capital is a must, it somehow sounds so nice when it rolls of the tongue).
The hard drinks you've conquered must be listed starting with Johnny Walker, then Black Label. Like that… in that order… keep off the Beckams and Coffee Spirits of this our “Manufactured in Kawempe” factories.
Make sure you occasionally mention the cars you’ve cruised. Do it like this: “I called the manufacturers of Mercedes Benz when the glove compartment refused to close.” Or define the brands you know with precision. Like this: “My cousin took his BMW X5M to Kabale doing 500mph”. The more single letters and numbers you use, the more up-the-ladder you end up sounding. Don’t be talking Japanese brands like Premios and Noahs and their low gas guzzling abilities.
Javas, Nandos are for fast food like fries (bambi don’t call them “chips”), burgers and generous slices of Black Forest gateau.
And when the situation requires you to sound more world-traveller-like, throw in some “Tamarai, its a Thai place”, or Meditteraneo for Italian cuisine.
You don't just “fwaaly” waste your nightlife dancing at Ambiance- its gotta be Silk Oxygen, Guvnor or the mysterious Panamera.
Exercise at Hilton’s Uzima Body Spa or at Sheraton’s Health Club. It sounds better when you say “health club” actually. It doesn't matter if you're just going to hang out there for 10 minutes, make sure you leave the office looking fabulous in pretty pink gym pants (for the ladies), rattle your car keys a bit, just so the guys at the office know that you’re about to depart for the gymnasium.
Your evening diary should consist of attending fellowships to “map ways” to help the disadvantaged, discussing money in investment groups, or “putting your heads together" for the best baby shower we can give Naggundi.
Talking about baby showers, get an up-market hotel and choose a theme color. Don’t buy (or accept for that matter) cheap gifts like baby potties or packets and packets of clothes pegs. If you’re the expectant mother, write a gift list for Nakumatt supermarket or Quality Supermarket Lubowa where the ladies can buy kiddies tablets, womb sleeping swaddles, car seats and books the bouncing baby will read when they’re six. Y’know?
Who are the neighbors kids you played hopscotch with, and who came to your birthday parties? The Kibuukas, the Habara's and the Kutonsas. That “s” at the end is crucial when you want to sound rich background. Not these our Maama Lihanna things.
Now, where do you hang out on Saturdays when you’re wearing your three-quarter pants and polo shirts. Kampuski kafunda in Kalerwe? Nawe naaah! That’s way down there. Kyaddondo rugby club in an ascot cap (baseball caps are so off), or a fedora.
Its advisable to shop in the early evenings. So that when you park the BMW X5M in the parking lot at Shoprite/ Game Lugogo, you will walk out pushing shopping carts laden with brown grocery bags filled with French loaves peeping from the top.
What about the phone you’re holding? Its okay to aspire for the iPhone 7 but if you have a Samsung Galaxy S6, then you’re on the right path. Just make sure its nothing near a small phone like those Nokia ka-torchis or Blackberrys of years ago.
Occasionally use words like “au revoir” or “subiri” because these are foreign languages, and delving into a foreign language could raise you up another rung or two, especially if the language is from Europe and its many seasons or from Dar-es-Salaam. Don’t be babbling about “kugyenda hari” and “maama nze woooowweee".
Who said Ugandans don’t go on holiday? Go, even if its once in two years, just so you can take some pics of you arriving at Entebbe Airport, you eating spiced rice and scones on the Ethiopian Airlines plane, you seeing the clouds, you arriving at your destination, you sipping mojitos at some random beach, you standing outside an ancient monument and you feeding birds at London square.
Sweetie, when red-carpet events beckon you to Serena, go. Somehow, you could end up being photographed for the tabloids and having a colorful caption giving you some talkability for days.
Now, whatsapp groups are a must. Facebook as well. There’s so much space on the Rich Club Babes or the Gentle Gentlemen groups.
And when the day is done, go to bed tired but not without posting a picture of you having a late night goblet of red wine as you unwind. On Instagram of course.
A good racking of the brain offered me some answers.
Speak hard English, using bombastic phrases and big colorful words for small ones but which somehow sound too simple. Quote writers of today like John Grisham or JK Rowling, or some of old like Ernest Hemingway and Roald Dahl. You should also take paragraphs from magazines like the Financial Times or the Guardian and quote them a bit carelessly when in conversation with folks who you think (and know) have no clue about them.
Keep in mind that social media networking is big- don’t limit your circles to Twitter and Facebook, that’s so long ago. Talk Instagram, SnapChat, Flickr (just make sure you memorize that pronunciation well, ok?)
How about alluding to some very clever folks you came across on those networks? Mention bloggers like Sharon Mundua (gotta know her name now) of “This is Ess” Mrisho and Robert Alai and what they confess to and mention how you subscribe their Youtube channels.
Follow “important” people on your Facebook and Twitter pages- people like President Uhuru Kenyatta, Chameleone, Christiane Amanpour, retweet and respond to their tweets once in a while (of course they won’t reply, but so what?).
Stride into the office with a branded mug of hot coffee- like Turkish Airways or Etihad. Actually, you could pass by Javas on your way to work and have them fill a recyclable paper cup with a latte macchiato. (You know you could also always refill that cup as you strut into the office every morning).
It is also advisable to order pizza to be delivered at lunchtime and to make sure that the box comes in just as your pals are about to go out and eat at that same drab place they eat at every day. Oh, that pizza could occasionally be delivered with a milkshake as well. However, when you do chance out for that their lunch, make sure to stroll there and back with the crew that everyone calls the ITs.
On some days you should carry at least five clear (I must emphasize- cute, for the ladies) lunch boxes of fresh fruit. Kiwi in one, sliced apples in another. Then pawpaw, pineapple and diced beetroot in the others.
Don’t be rocking to Ugandan music in your car, it must be some Chris Brown, Justin Bieber or Rihanna’s latest. Do jazz in the evenings, it shows you are in touch with your tunes.
Be wearing jeans brands like Levis, Benetton, Diesel- not some random made-in-China cloth specifically manufactured for third world countries.
And when you’re throwing words around, remember that pronunciation is key so it must be Ayraq not Eeraq (Iraq), Rawte not Ruut (Route) and Feenance not Fainansi (Finance).
Now, when you’re referring to your childhood adventures, the places you’ve lived, if its not “I grew up in Arusha”, relieve memories of the green, leafy areas of upmarket Kampala- the Kololos and Tank Hill Muyengas. Air of sophistication. Aight?
When it comes to countries you can remember visiting——— when someone else starts talking about the parking lot at Oliver Tambo airport in South Africa, dismiss them with a wave of the hand as you gush about the automated lifts that transport your car up to the parking space in Bangkok (Oh by the way, knowing the capital is a must, it somehow sounds so nice when it rolls of the tongue).
The hard drinks you've conquered must be listed starting with Johnny Walker, then Black Label. Like that… in that order… keep off the Beckams and Coffee Spirits of this our “Manufactured in Kawempe” factories.
Make sure you occasionally mention the cars you’ve cruised. Do it like this: “I called the manufacturers of Mercedes Benz when the glove compartment refused to close.” Or define the brands you know with precision. Like this: “My cousin took his BMW X5M to Kabale doing 500mph”. The more single letters and numbers you use, the more up-the-ladder you end up sounding. Don’t be talking Japanese brands like Premios and Noahs and their low gas guzzling abilities.
Javas, Nandos are for fast food like fries (bambi don’t call them “chips”), burgers and generous slices of Black Forest gateau.
And when the situation requires you to sound more world-traveller-like, throw in some “Tamarai, its a Thai place”, or Meditteraneo for Italian cuisine.
You don't just “fwaaly” waste your nightlife dancing at Ambiance- its gotta be Silk Oxygen, Guvnor or the mysterious Panamera.
Exercise at Hilton’s Uzima Body Spa or at Sheraton’s Health Club. It sounds better when you say “health club” actually. It doesn't matter if you're just going to hang out there for 10 minutes, make sure you leave the office looking fabulous in pretty pink gym pants (for the ladies), rattle your car keys a bit, just so the guys at the office know that you’re about to depart for the gymnasium.
Your evening diary should consist of attending fellowships to “map ways” to help the disadvantaged, discussing money in investment groups, or “putting your heads together" for the best baby shower we can give Naggundi.
Talking about baby showers, get an up-market hotel and choose a theme color. Don’t buy (or accept for that matter) cheap gifts like baby potties or packets and packets of clothes pegs. If you’re the expectant mother, write a gift list for Nakumatt supermarket or Quality Supermarket Lubowa where the ladies can buy kiddies tablets, womb sleeping swaddles, car seats and books the bouncing baby will read when they’re six. Y’know?
Who are the neighbors kids you played hopscotch with, and who came to your birthday parties? The Kibuukas, the Habara's and the Kutonsas. That “s” at the end is crucial when you want to sound rich background. Not these our Maama Lihanna things.
Now, where do you hang out on Saturdays when you’re wearing your three-quarter pants and polo shirts. Kampuski kafunda in Kalerwe? Nawe naaah! That’s way down there. Kyaddondo rugby club in an ascot cap (baseball caps are so off), or a fedora.
Its advisable to shop in the early evenings. So that when you park the BMW X5M in the parking lot at Shoprite/ Game Lugogo, you will walk out pushing shopping carts laden with brown grocery bags filled with French loaves peeping from the top.
What about the phone you’re holding? Its okay to aspire for the iPhone 7 but if you have a Samsung Galaxy S6, then you’re on the right path. Just make sure its nothing near a small phone like those Nokia ka-torchis or Blackberrys of years ago.
Occasionally use words like “au revoir” or “subiri” because these are foreign languages, and delving into a foreign language could raise you up another rung or two, especially if the language is from Europe and its many seasons or from Dar-es-Salaam. Don’t be babbling about “kugyenda hari” and “maama nze woooowweee".
Who said Ugandans don’t go on holiday? Go, even if its once in two years, just so you can take some pics of you arriving at Entebbe Airport, you eating spiced rice and scones on the Ethiopian Airlines plane, you seeing the clouds, you arriving at your destination, you sipping mojitos at some random beach, you standing outside an ancient monument and you feeding birds at London square.
Sweetie, when red-carpet events beckon you to Serena, go. Somehow, you could end up being photographed for the tabloids and having a colorful caption giving you some talkability for days.
Now, whatsapp groups are a must. Facebook as well. There’s so much space on the Rich Club Babes or the Gentle Gentlemen groups.
And when the day is done, go to bed tired but not without posting a picture of you having a late night goblet of red wine as you unwind. On Instagram of course.
#bizinensieno!
The hairdresser who looks at your hair, pinching it into clumps and says “Naye this heyaaa, texture yo nga eri poorrrrrr!” She prolongs that last word with a sort of sneer on her face.
The boda-boda man who first looks you up and down when you flag him down and announces that he will charge you 3,000 shillings for the trip from Serena to the City Square. For a five minute ride.
The waiter who brings you 10 chips and a measly looking pair of sausages for 10,000 shillings, when the picture on the takeaway menu shows something totally different.
The taxi conductor who yells out “Bbiri-bitaano (2,500 shs) Kasangati-Gayaza” on a cold rainy evening because the stage is packed with people eager to go home. When in fact, the journey costs 1,500 shillings every other day.
The cobbler who sticks your torn shoe with superglue, when he initially promised to sew it.
The woman in the downtown mall who lies to you that the dress looks good on you and when you get home and look in the mirror, you have a double tummy.
The Kikuubo vendor who sells you Kiwi shoe polish in a new can when its actually filled with old paint stolen from a building that is being broken down somewhere in down town.
The second-hand shoe vendor who puts a new insole into a UK-looking pair which you later discover to your horror, is actually made in China, and for third-world countries.
The roaming manicurist who pours kerosene into his nail-polish to make it last longer. Then it chips after a day and leaves your nails looking dry.
The builder who steals your cement, stuffing it into his gum boots and pockets, knowing fully-well that the floor he is laying will chip away in a few months.
The fruit vendor who sells you slices of water-melon and pieces of sugar cane that he knows were harvested raw, and are not sweet.
The snuffly woman frying cassava at the roadside who scratches her nose, takes your money and then proceeds to wrap the sticks in a newspaper without cleaning her hands first.
The wig vendor who tells you the hairpiece is from Brazil and yet it is a cheap “Made in China” third-copy.
The girl at the supermarket till who lazily announces that they don't pack bottles of soda in brown bags so that you will have to carry it in your hand.
The rude shawl vendor who yells at you when by chance, you meet an old friend and give them a hug in front of the square where he’s illegally selling his merchandise. “Mwe! Mugende mweyagalire mu public toilet, mbuzi mwe!”
These are our Kampala businessmen and women.
And do you wonder why they go home feeling so frustrated?
The boda-boda man who first looks you up and down when you flag him down and announces that he will charge you 3,000 shillings for the trip from Serena to the City Square. For a five minute ride.
The waiter who brings you 10 chips and a measly looking pair of sausages for 10,000 shillings, when the picture on the takeaway menu shows something totally different.
The taxi conductor who yells out “Bbiri-bitaano (2,500 shs) Kasangati-Gayaza” on a cold rainy evening because the stage is packed with people eager to go home. When in fact, the journey costs 1,500 shillings every other day.
The cobbler who sticks your torn shoe with superglue, when he initially promised to sew it.
The woman in the downtown mall who lies to you that the dress looks good on you and when you get home and look in the mirror, you have a double tummy.
The Kikuubo vendor who sells you Kiwi shoe polish in a new can when its actually filled with old paint stolen from a building that is being broken down somewhere in down town.
The second-hand shoe vendor who puts a new insole into a UK-looking pair which you later discover to your horror, is actually made in China, and for third-world countries.
The roaming manicurist who pours kerosene into his nail-polish to make it last longer. Then it chips after a day and leaves your nails looking dry.
The builder who steals your cement, stuffing it into his gum boots and pockets, knowing fully-well that the floor he is laying will chip away in a few months.
The fruit vendor who sells you slices of water-melon and pieces of sugar cane that he knows were harvested raw, and are not sweet.
The snuffly woman frying cassava at the roadside who scratches her nose, takes your money and then proceeds to wrap the sticks in a newspaper without cleaning her hands first.
The wig vendor who tells you the hairpiece is from Brazil and yet it is a cheap “Made in China” third-copy.
The girl at the supermarket till who lazily announces that they don't pack bottles of soda in brown bags so that you will have to carry it in your hand.
The rude shawl vendor who yells at you when by chance, you meet an old friend and give them a hug in front of the square where he’s illegally selling his merchandise. “Mwe! Mugende mweyagalire mu public toilet, mbuzi mwe!”
These are our Kampala businessmen and women.
And do you wonder why they go home feeling so frustrated?
#KabulenganeReloaded
Ma Lihanna’s maid, the one of the “we don’t have electricity” fat lie was shown the door. I’m not really sure when it happened, probably last week when I was away at work. Anyway, there is a new maid whose name I’m yet to learn. But one thing I know is that Ma Lihanna( bless her as she travels the region on her lipstick and perfume sales), is in for an uphill task.
So, there was a loud disco playing in the area last night at around 11:30pm. The estate is usually quiet, save for the invasion by the Balokole who can sing till 2am, but they’re rather far off, and it is only when the wind carries their voices, that it gets really irritating.
Now, this tonight disco was so loud that even I, tucked into my corner bedroom in the Mansion, awoke with a start and couldn't go back to sleep. I got up and drew the curtains aside. Nothing. But this Kabulengane did not sound like it belonged to the Balokole.
The sleuth in me took over. I had to investigate the source of this din, because I am one of those people who cannot bear “injustices” like these.
When I got to the sitting room, I could clearly hear Bebe Cool crooning “Kimanye tubakwana banji, abalina cash nabatalina nsimbi, see what a party night…” I didn't wait for the chorus.
I guessed it was coming from the house over the wall. I threw on my nightgown, and opened the front door into the night, bravely following the noise and feeling like Nancy Drew.
What I saw next made my heart stop. The chink in the curtains was allowing me to see Ma Lihanna’s new maid (I guessed it was her) in a t-shirt material mini- dress, short hair and all, gyrating like the girl in Bebe Cool’s video. I felt like a fraud but this was a sight to behold!
The TV was turned on loud. I don't know on what channel, but one of those that has a late night music show on Monday nights.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was prancing around the sitting room like a mad hen as she did the Kabulengane challenge. She was twisting and untwisting her waist, strutting with her one hand on her head another minute, leaping onto the sofa as she shook her bum, and twerking with her back to the TV. When the male dancers' started their thing, she moved closer to the screen... and then it got to the part of the challenge between the girls in bright tights and the ones wearing Ganda traditional dress, (allow me to go local here) n’egubula asala! Hoii!
The girls- Lihanna and her little sister - were also trying out their dancing skills and would join in at intervals.
I don't know why, but I laughed. Loudly. Not because it was funny but because it looked so ridiculous. 11:30pm. School night. Disco night as well. Kids not in bed. Maid dancing like crazy woman in a trance.
I knocked on the door and told them to turn it down and ordered the kids to bed.
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