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.
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