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?
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