Lordy Lord!!
Guess who I bumped into on Sunday? Yes, you guessed
right. Ma Lihanna. In the flesh. With blood red lipstick slashed across
her mouth.
I had been driving home from church, feeling very holy
and singing the chorus of “It is Well With My Soul” very loudly, when I
spotted a familiar figure. Carrying a green kaveera full of Sunday lunch
shopping. She was turning into the road from the butcher’s. Goat's
meat. There was no way I could not stop. I mean, I was in Good Christian mood. Halleluyah!!
She jumped in and I asked her how the kids were. I had not seen her in a
long time but I said had occasionally seen the kids playing in their
compound. They play alone, not with other children and they strike me as
very lonely. Anyway, who’s to say.
In the few minutes we were
together, the conversation started with children, jumped to business,
revolved to the weather and finally veered to the topic I had been
dreading. The maid.
“Eh! I tell you, God is good!” She started.
“This one who I got is very nice. She looks after the children well.
And she even washes my clothes.”
I fixed my eyes on the road. I didn't want to be shaking my head in whichever direction. In agreement. Or disagreement. No.
“Kale, she’s a staunch Catholic. Namugulira ka radio because she told
me listens to Radio Maria and Christian music. Do you know she wakes up
early and says the Ssappuli?”
I decided I couldn't keep quiet any
longer. “Eh?” I turned my head slightly towards her. There is a way that
"eh?" makes people's tongues (especially lugambolists) looser.
“Munnange, nga I have suffered with bu-gals." She lowered her tone and
yet it was just the two of us. "Oba who grows them? And then they come
to Kampala and feel very nice on you! Stupid!” That last word was
delivered with a lot of venom and I pitied the “Amasanyalazze gaweddewo”
girl for whom it was meant. She was the one who had worked before this
“Kabulengane Reloaded” was recruited.
Thank God we had turned into
our dusty road and I dropped her off to go and fry her goat’s meat. She
left my dear UAH smelling like a vat of perfume. Like she had dipped
herself in it, and not wiped it off. Kasita it was not a cheap mix
between an insecticide and Indian incense but a sweet fragrance of
flowers and honey.
Tuesday 29 November 2016
Friday 25 November 2016
#16daysofactivism
Today, 25th November, marks the start of 16 days of activism against
gender based violence focusing especially on women and girls who are
physically abused.
I hope and pray that in Uganda this campaign is taken out of the luxury four-star air-conditioned hotel in Kampala where it was launched, away from the placards and parades from Constitution Square to Parliament.
That it is taken to that woman who dreads the moment her drunk and heavy-handed husband hammers at the door.
To the woman who is battered in front of her weeping children.
To the woman whose hands have been chopped off in a moment of temporary insanity.
And to the woman whose jealous husband has hounded and attacked her at her place of work because he suspects she is having an affair with her boss. And she isn’t.
I recently heard an Australian politician weep in Parliament, as she painfully recalled her mother’s suffering at the hands of her physically and emotionally abusive drunkard father.
But away from stories of violence against women, I want to see and hear from the men who also suffer at the hands of Eve.
The men who are too ashamed to admit that they have been slapped around, that their ears are raw from nagging, men who have been branded with a hot iron and men who have been banished from their homes for no valid reason.
I have heard several experiences of domestic violence - women in India being doused in paraffin and set alight because their families have not paid off the dowry; girlfriends who are boxed in the face because their boyfriend feels that her food should taste like his mother’s; a woman whose eyes were gouged out with a broken beer bottle because she couldn't have sons.
Relationships experience other types of abuse- emotional, psychological, verbal, sexual.
Partners are stalked, their mobile phone messages are checked, they are humiliated in front of guests, they are monitored endlessly.
And more often than not, people are too ashamed to speak about their experiences for fear of being victimized or being seen as “the bad person” and for the “shame” that comes with being abused.
I stand with all victims of violence, with all those who have been strong enough to walk away, pick up the pieces and start a new life.
I hope and pray that in Uganda this campaign is taken out of the luxury four-star air-conditioned hotel in Kampala where it was launched, away from the placards and parades from Constitution Square to Parliament.
That it is taken to that woman who dreads the moment her drunk and heavy-handed husband hammers at the door.
To the woman who is battered in front of her weeping children.
To the woman whose hands have been chopped off in a moment of temporary insanity.
And to the woman whose jealous husband has hounded and attacked her at her place of work because he suspects she is having an affair with her boss. And she isn’t.
I recently heard an Australian politician weep in Parliament, as she painfully recalled her mother’s suffering at the hands of her physically and emotionally abusive drunkard father.
But away from stories of violence against women, I want to see and hear from the men who also suffer at the hands of Eve.
The men who are too ashamed to admit that they have been slapped around, that their ears are raw from nagging, men who have been branded with a hot iron and men who have been banished from their homes for no valid reason.
I have heard several experiences of domestic violence - women in India being doused in paraffin and set alight because their families have not paid off the dowry; girlfriends who are boxed in the face because their boyfriend feels that her food should taste like his mother’s; a woman whose eyes were gouged out with a broken beer bottle because she couldn't have sons.
Relationships experience other types of abuse- emotional, psychological, verbal, sexual.
Partners are stalked, their mobile phone messages are checked, they are humiliated in front of guests, they are monitored endlessly.
And more often than not, people are too ashamed to speak about their experiences for fear of being victimized or being seen as “the bad person” and for the “shame” that comes with being abused.
I stand with all victims of violence, with all those who have been strong enough to walk away, pick up the pieces and start a new life.
Thursday 24 November 2016
#planeblankets
I want the secret of how people reward (I can’t use “steal” ‘coz its kinda rude) themselves with Ethiopian Airlines blankets. Or are they shawls? The blue and green mixed with yellow ones. Those of you who have travelled Ethiopian Airlines know what I’m talking about.
Do they want to keep them as souvenirs, or is it a matter of “Lemme take, they won’t miss it?” Maybe they argue that its included in the airfare. If I asked perhaps, would those pretty ladies who speak Amharic give me one? The thought of taking one without permission crossed me once. The body was willing but the heart and mind said no.
So, how do these travelers take away these blankets? Do they ask for one the minute they board and strap on their seat-belt, even before the plan taxis? Then they gesture to the smiling stewardess and make the shivering body sign? Then ten minutes into the journey they whip off the scarf and stuff into their hand luggage and wait for another stewardess to come sashaying down the aisle and then gesture to her and make the shivering body sign again and get her to bring another blanket packed in a see-through plastic shrink-wrap.
Then after they have done that thrice, and packed away two blankets, they settle down and wait for the hot spicy airline snacks.
Maybe if the blankets had a kind of tag attached to them along with software which beeped when some unlucky passenger trying to make off with the blanket went through the airport’s security system. Maybe then, Ethiopian Airlines wouldn't be making so many blanket losses.
Do they want to keep them as souvenirs, or is it a matter of “Lemme take, they won’t miss it?” Maybe they argue that its included in the airfare. If I asked perhaps, would those pretty ladies who speak Amharic give me one? The thought of taking one without permission crossed me once. The body was willing but the heart and mind said no.
So, how do these travelers take away these blankets? Do they ask for one the minute they board and strap on their seat-belt, even before the plan taxis? Then they gesture to the smiling stewardess and make the shivering body sign? Then ten minutes into the journey they whip off the scarf and stuff into their hand luggage and wait for another stewardess to come sashaying down the aisle and then gesture to her and make the shivering body sign again and get her to bring another blanket packed in a see-through plastic shrink-wrap.
Then after they have done that thrice, and packed away two blankets, they settle down and wait for the hot spicy airline snacks.
Maybe if the blankets had a kind of tag attached to them along with software which beeped when some unlucky passenger trying to make off with the blanket went through the airport’s security system. Maybe then, Ethiopian Airlines wouldn't be making so many blanket losses.
#ofinstantlyfamouspeople
Bukedde newspaper has had a field day with the Kanyamunyu- Akena saga. They have interviewed “witnesses” who “saw the altercation start at Legends Bar in Lugogo”; they have dug up the bones on Kanyamunyu’s haunts- like the “fact” that he “takes his own clipper, bulaasi (brush), cape when he goes to cut his hair at Sparkles salon and they have faithfully kept it as front page headline from the time of the incident up till today. But away from that, this unfortunate incident has unearthed a few things. For me.
1.
That the law can be interpreted in so many different ways, to suit the situation or the person. Like the perennial thief who says he steals food because he is hungry. This case has transformed ordinary citizens into lawyers of sorts, interpreting the 48-hour detention rule in so many ways and most of them finding it extremely weird that the suspects were kept locked up for more than 216 hours, and yet the law says…
2.
Kaweesi, the police spokesperson, wondered why there have been so many hushed whispers and finger- pointing at certain tribes and why people are “debating this case on ethnicity...". Kaweesi, it is a fact that most of us never want to admit it in public, but we still go back to our houses and say “Ako a’kaT…...., Eki’G…... ekyo e'kiS....... Tribal banner, tribal banter.
3.
Only Matthew and Cynthia know in detail what really happened that evening. Whether it was assassins from Burundi trailing Cy, whether Akena “scratched” Kanyamunyu’s car, why they took it in their stride to take the shot man to hospital, whether they know something about the murder weapon, why they didn't go to Police first and yet their lives were in grave danger. There are so many versions of a story but only they and their God or gods know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This public can really judge.
4.
There’s been this criticism about the demeanor of the suspects when they finally appeared in Nakawa court on Tuesday. The fact that Joseph, Matthew and “girlfriend” Cynthia were wearing wide smiles, bongaring like Rastafarians and mouthing “hi’s”, when a grave charge like murder was strung around their necks, has raised anger and debate. Mbu they should have been somber and sad, hanging their heads in so much shame and remorse, wearing sackcloth and ash in their hair. Hey, they are just suspects, remember?
5.
The emergence of body language experts who have no idea about what course or class to take to qualify to be a body language expert. When Cynthia arrived at the court in the police truck, she was smiling from ear to ear (some people called it “teething”). She had carried along two bags full of God-knows-what. As she was hurried along to the court's holding cells, she dug her hands into the pockets of her pants. Whenever she had a chance to stand or walk, she was pocketing. Uganda’s keen body language experts have already interpreted it to mean that it was kamanyiiro, and “did she think she was on the catwalk?”. However, a quick google search shows that pocketing in times of trouble can indicate “ defensiveness, indifference, reluctance, mistrust, nervousness”- the list is long. Also that “Studies show that smiles are based on many more emotions than happiness or contentment. A smile is sometimes based on conceit, embarrassment and shame, deceit, grief, tension and uneasiness.
6.
Then there are the “Kale me if I was Cynthia” types. That “I would cave in, become a state witness, record my testimony and flee the country never to be seen again. How can I suffer and be humiliated like this?”. Because I am just a girlfriend, taking bullets for a man who might replace me with a chic he finds in prison.
7.
I now acknowledge that you can become instantly famous for all the wrong reasons, and that people can actually replace a certain action or situation with your name. “I will Kanyamunyu you if you sit on my chair!” or “The city vendors were done a Kanyamunyu by KCCA goons.”
8.
Then there are these prophets of doom. No, not like that South African pastor who was Dooming his flock. But these ones who are like “We saw Amin’s Nubian flared-pants, goggle-wearing goons torture people. Where are they now? The tribe thing raising its ugly head again.
9.
I have seen a proposal for the Cynthia challenge. I wonder when it starts. It is premised on the fact that the first picture we saw of her, in a blue dress, sitting in the backseat of what looked like an expensive ride, and her appearance at court with her hair looking bedraggled are very different. One is of “Factory Settings” and the other is the riyo riyo her.
10.
But above all, what I am sure of is that you can plan your day to the minutest detail, but God is the master-planner. Like I said in my facebook post, I envision a story that starts thus… “Saturday the 12th of November began like every other Saturday. Little did Matthew Kanyamunyu know that he would be spending a cold night in a grimy police cell. Arrested on suspicion of his involvement in the death of Kenneth Akena Watmon…”
1.
That the law can be interpreted in so many different ways, to suit the situation or the person. Like the perennial thief who says he steals food because he is hungry. This case has transformed ordinary citizens into lawyers of sorts, interpreting the 48-hour detention rule in so many ways and most of them finding it extremely weird that the suspects were kept locked up for more than 216 hours, and yet the law says…
2.
Kaweesi, the police spokesperson, wondered why there have been so many hushed whispers and finger- pointing at certain tribes and why people are “debating this case on ethnicity...". Kaweesi, it is a fact that most of us never want to admit it in public, but we still go back to our houses and say “Ako a’kaT…...., Eki’G…... ekyo e'kiS....... Tribal banner, tribal banter.
3.
Only Matthew and Cynthia know in detail what really happened that evening. Whether it was assassins from Burundi trailing Cy, whether Akena “scratched” Kanyamunyu’s car, why they took it in their stride to take the shot man to hospital, whether they know something about the murder weapon, why they didn't go to Police first and yet their lives were in grave danger. There are so many versions of a story but only they and their God or gods know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This public can really judge.
4.
There’s been this criticism about the demeanor of the suspects when they finally appeared in Nakawa court on Tuesday. The fact that Joseph, Matthew and “girlfriend” Cynthia were wearing wide smiles, bongaring like Rastafarians and mouthing “hi’s”, when a grave charge like murder was strung around their necks, has raised anger and debate. Mbu they should have been somber and sad, hanging their heads in so much shame and remorse, wearing sackcloth and ash in their hair. Hey, they are just suspects, remember?
5.
The emergence of body language experts who have no idea about what course or class to take to qualify to be a body language expert. When Cynthia arrived at the court in the police truck, she was smiling from ear to ear (some people called it “teething”). She had carried along two bags full of God-knows-what. As she was hurried along to the court's holding cells, she dug her hands into the pockets of her pants. Whenever she had a chance to stand or walk, she was pocketing. Uganda’s keen body language experts have already interpreted it to mean that it was kamanyiiro, and “did she think she was on the catwalk?”. However, a quick google search shows that pocketing in times of trouble can indicate “ defensiveness, indifference, reluctance, mistrust, nervousness”- the list is long. Also that “Studies show that smiles are based on many more emotions than happiness or contentment. A smile is sometimes based on conceit, embarrassment and shame, deceit, grief, tension and uneasiness.
6.
Then there are the “Kale me if I was Cynthia” types. That “I would cave in, become a state witness, record my testimony and flee the country never to be seen again. How can I suffer and be humiliated like this?”. Because I am just a girlfriend, taking bullets for a man who might replace me with a chic he finds in prison.
7.
I now acknowledge that you can become instantly famous for all the wrong reasons, and that people can actually replace a certain action or situation with your name. “I will Kanyamunyu you if you sit on my chair!” or “The city vendors were done a Kanyamunyu by KCCA goons.”
8.
Then there are these prophets of doom. No, not like that South African pastor who was Dooming his flock. But these ones who are like “We saw Amin’s Nubian flared-pants, goggle-wearing goons torture people. Where are they now? The tribe thing raising its ugly head again.
9.
I have seen a proposal for the Cynthia challenge. I wonder when it starts. It is premised on the fact that the first picture we saw of her, in a blue dress, sitting in the backseat of what looked like an expensive ride, and her appearance at court with her hair looking bedraggled are very different. One is of “Factory Settings” and the other is the riyo riyo her.
10.
But above all, what I am sure of is that you can plan your day to the minutest detail, but God is the master-planner. Like I said in my facebook post, I envision a story that starts thus… “Saturday the 12th of November began like every other Saturday. Little did Matthew Kanyamunyu know that he would be spending a cold night in a grimy police cell. Arrested on suspicion of his involvement in the death of Kenneth Akena Watmon…”
Wednesday 23 November 2016
#mercedesbenzdriver
All vehicles are supposed to be driven with some level of finesse. Pardon our taxi drivers who drive like they are carved from the same piece of wood. Bad wood.
So whether you are driving UAH (like mine), Mini Minor, Premio, Nuuwa, BMW or Vitz, its prudent to treat cars with respect.
And then there are the likes of Mercedes Benz which are respected in the family of cars, like Lion, King of the Jungle. Whether it be a 1926 model or 2017 CLA class, you just CANNOT take it hurtling down a dusty village road, driving like a bat out of hell.
Yesterday I nearly crashed into a tree when I encountered a racing white Mercedes whose driver was showing off like a two-year old imagining she was doing the Mukono Festino Cite on her tricycle.
The road to my home, after you branch off the main road is very dusty when its dry. It also has some pretty deep potholes in many places so you have to be really careful not to fall into them.
I saw him coming from a mile away, doing about 80 kilometers per hour, a brown cloud following him. I could have driven into the tree. As he passed me and all the other gazers on the road, his eyes kept moving from side to side in “do you see me?” style. His right arm was hanging out of the window.
Now, I get to the part where I ask myself if I am being judgmental. Do Mercedes Benz owners allow their arms to dangle out the window? Which Mercedes Benz owner in Uganda takes his machine for granted and treats it like a contraption of sorts? Which Mercedes Benz owner in Uganda wants to look like a rally driver on the Festino Cite? Was he really the owner? Or was he a mechanic taking the mugagga’s car for a spin?
Tuesday 22 November 2016
#inflagrantedelicto
Our dear Lord Mayor called it “In Flagrante Delicto”.
That was the tight corner Ma Lihanna’s maid was caught up in when I delivered the wash that had flown over her wall and into the Mansion’s backyard.
The neighborhood is usually quiet on Mondays because all the kids have gone to school. I’m off work, so its cleaning up, brushing, sweeping, mopping, washing - everything.
As I took my washing out, I realized that Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and a nightie had landed in my backyard. I told myself that I would return to owner later.
And so when I was done, I walked over to Ma Lihanna’s house. The gate was slightly open and so was the front door. No loud music. Just the TV with some translated ki-Filipino at a low volume. And some muffled giggles.
I knocked lightly and before Ma Lihanna's maid could answer, I drew the door open and stepped in. Like a good neighbour. My eyes landed on a male face. A Sudan boy. In a red shirt. The Sudan boy was sitting with half his bottom on the chair, leaning forward. He started when he saw me.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was sunken deep into the sofa near the door. She is of slight build so I hadn't first seen her. She was facing the TV, giggling. She turned her head sharply when she saw me and leapt out of the chair. In her haste, the maroon T-shirt she was holding to her chest fell away and her huge breasts were sprawled out. “Oh Mama!!!” she yelped, as she bent to pick the discarded piece of cloth to re-hide her modesty.
She was wearing a mini skater skirt, with the zip halfway done. I didn't want to look at her. I wanted to throw Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and nightie at her and get the hell out. But I couldn’t. I shifted my gaze to the chair. Her huge white bra was sitting there. I knew I had interrupted a session. I had barged in on something about to go down.
She snatched the clothes from me and dashed off to the bedroom shrieking loudly, while I stood there like a fish out of water, transfixed in one place. Then I heard the door slam.
The Sudan boy was in a fix. He stared at the floor for all the time I was there.
credit: www.madanque.com
The whole scenario was too much for me. I left without a word.
I wondered what language they had been speaking. Language of love? Or lust perhaps. Because Ma Lihanna’s maid, who is from West Nile, cannot speak a word of English. And the Sudans only speak their language. Nuer or Dinka. I remembered that I had seen Sudan boy lurking around the estate some days earlier. His short chin and all. He was always in that red shirt. With white on the shoulders, like a cowboy's shirt. Had he been on the prowl? Had I now snatched his prey, his mealie-meal, just as he was about to pounce?
It was just as our dear Lord Mayor had put it. In flagrante delicto.
That was the tight corner Ma Lihanna’s maid was caught up in when I delivered the wash that had flown over her wall and into the Mansion’s backyard.
The neighborhood is usually quiet on Mondays because all the kids have gone to school. I’m off work, so its cleaning up, brushing, sweeping, mopping, washing - everything.
As I took my washing out, I realized that Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and a nightie had landed in my backyard. I told myself that I would return to owner later.
And so when I was done, I walked over to Ma Lihanna’s house. The gate was slightly open and so was the front door. No loud music. Just the TV with some translated ki-Filipino at a low volume. And some muffled giggles.
I knocked lightly and before Ma Lihanna's maid could answer, I drew the door open and stepped in. Like a good neighbour. My eyes landed on a male face. A Sudan boy. In a red shirt. The Sudan boy was sitting with half his bottom on the chair, leaning forward. He started when he saw me.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was sunken deep into the sofa near the door. She is of slight build so I hadn't first seen her. She was facing the TV, giggling. She turned her head sharply when she saw me and leapt out of the chair. In her haste, the maroon T-shirt she was holding to her chest fell away and her huge breasts were sprawled out. “Oh Mama!!!” she yelped, as she bent to pick the discarded piece of cloth to re-hide her modesty.
She was wearing a mini skater skirt, with the zip halfway done. I didn't want to look at her. I wanted to throw Lihanna’s PE t-shirt and nightie at her and get the hell out. But I couldn’t. I shifted my gaze to the chair. Her huge white bra was sitting there. I knew I had interrupted a session. I had barged in on something about to go down.
She snatched the clothes from me and dashed off to the bedroom shrieking loudly, while I stood there like a fish out of water, transfixed in one place. Then I heard the door slam.
The Sudan boy was in a fix. He stared at the floor for all the time I was there.
credit: www.madanque.com
The whole scenario was too much for me. I left without a word.
I wondered what language they had been speaking. Language of love? Or lust perhaps. Because Ma Lihanna’s maid, who is from West Nile, cannot speak a word of English. And the Sudans only speak their language. Nuer or Dinka. I remembered that I had seen Sudan boy lurking around the estate some days earlier. His short chin and all. He was always in that red shirt. With white on the shoulders, like a cowboy's shirt. Had he been on the prowl? Had I now snatched his prey, his mealie-meal, just as he was about to pounce?
It was just as our dear Lord Mayor had put it. In flagrante delicto.
Tuesday 8 November 2016
#behindthefish...
What comes to mind when you think of Kalangala? Holiday resort, deep-fried crispy tilapia, white sand beaches, hammocks, sun loungers, jet-skiing, lots of water… ?
I don’t want to be the spoilsport here…. Yes, there’s plenty of beaches, white sand and fish, but Kalangala also has plenty more that we never see.
I’ve spent a week in the district, on the main island of Bugala. I ate fried tilapia and oily chips on the night I arrived, and that was it with the fried fish. The other days were spent traversing the different islands, speaking to the people who live there, and seeing what business they do. And I also found out a lot more. By the way, I have tried to find out why they are called Ssese Islands and the only answer that came close was that they once upon a time had lots of tsetse flies and trypanosomiasis once a upon a time (don’t know how true).
Did you know that Kalangala is made up of 84 islands, Bugala being the biggest, the one where the ship from Entebbe and the ferries from Bukakata arrive and depart.
Of the 87, 64 islands are inhabited by humans. The other islands have lush green forests and are a habitat for birds and insects.
Some like Nkose are so remote and yet they are heavily populated, mostly by a nomadic fishing community who come and go depending on the fishing seasons.
Some of these islands have no schools and yet there are many children who have been born and bred on them.
Others have no health centers and because of the remoteness of some of them, no medical outreaches ever come here. So, if the medical workers do come, make an appointment with sickness, or short of that, never fall sick.
A group of 13 years olds doing their P7 exams told me they had never watched TV. They had heard of something called TV, but they have never seen a box or a set.
People living on these inhabited islands come from all parts of Uganda.
Transport to the mainland and back to the island is one of the biggest challenges the people face. One of the means of transport is called “ekinaala” which can carry all sorts of things from bales of dry stinky fish, cows with their legs and horns tied up, to sick-with-dysentry children, swearing fishermen and women in advanced labor. Depending on the length of your journey, your fare could range from between 10,000 and 20,000 shillings.
By the way, there are no toilets on the ekinaala. So, if you want to do your short call, or if you have diarrhea, then you are in deep s***. And that journey is not short- four hours at least. Imagine “tying dios” for that long!! Men pee in the water. Women???
A “special-hire” boat sets you back at least 160,000 shillings. You have to pay the coxswain, pay for his engine and pay for the fuel which costs 4,000 shillings per liter. Most times people avoid using special-hires because of this expense, and opt for the cheaper means- the ebinaala. But when cases of severe illness or expectant mothers with complications arise, then one has no option but knock on his neighbors’ doors for donations.
There are no cars on most of these islands. However, there have been cases of cars that have been transported on big canoes. I didn't get the chance to see any, but it would have been one of the best stories I’d have returned with.
There are times when the winds are so strong and the water so rough, and travel is virtually impossible. And when the fishermen refuse to go out on the waters, then be assured that is a really, really bad storm coming on. Now imagine if you have an emergency.
I did not see a single mobile money stall on any of the islands I was at. Teachers and nurses/ health workers who are paid through the bank have to jump on a boat to pick their money from the mainland, Masaka or Entebbe. Now, that comes with a hefty cost. On a government salary!
I don’t want to be the spoilsport here…. Yes, there’s plenty of beaches, white sand and fish, but Kalangala also has plenty more that we never see.
I’ve spent a week in the district, on the main island of Bugala. I ate fried tilapia and oily chips on the night I arrived, and that was it with the fried fish. The other days were spent traversing the different islands, speaking to the people who live there, and seeing what business they do. And I also found out a lot more. By the way, I have tried to find out why they are called Ssese Islands and the only answer that came close was that they once upon a time had lots of tsetse flies and trypanosomiasis once a upon a time (don’t know how true).
Did you know that Kalangala is made up of 84 islands, Bugala being the biggest, the one where the ship from Entebbe and the ferries from Bukakata arrive and depart.
Of the 87, 64 islands are inhabited by humans. The other islands have lush green forests and are a habitat for birds and insects.
Some like Nkose are so remote and yet they are heavily populated, mostly by a nomadic fishing community who come and go depending on the fishing seasons.
Some of these islands have no schools and yet there are many children who have been born and bred on them.
Others have no health centers and because of the remoteness of some of them, no medical outreaches ever come here. So, if the medical workers do come, make an appointment with sickness, or short of that, never fall sick.
A group of 13 years olds doing their P7 exams told me they had never watched TV. They had heard of something called TV, but they have never seen a box or a set.
People living on these inhabited islands come from all parts of Uganda.
Transport to the mainland and back to the island is one of the biggest challenges the people face. One of the means of transport is called “ekinaala” which can carry all sorts of things from bales of dry stinky fish, cows with their legs and horns tied up, to sick-with-dysentry children, swearing fishermen and women in advanced labor. Depending on the length of your journey, your fare could range from between 10,000 and 20,000 shillings.
By the way, there are no toilets on the ekinaala. So, if you want to do your short call, or if you have diarrhea, then you are in deep s***. And that journey is not short- four hours at least. Imagine “tying dios” for that long!! Men pee in the water. Women???
A “special-hire” boat sets you back at least 160,000 shillings. You have to pay the coxswain, pay for his engine and pay for the fuel which costs 4,000 shillings per liter. Most times people avoid using special-hires because of this expense, and opt for the cheaper means- the ebinaala. But when cases of severe illness or expectant mothers with complications arise, then one has no option but knock on his neighbors’ doors for donations.
There are no cars on most of these islands. However, there have been cases of cars that have been transported on big canoes. I didn't get the chance to see any, but it would have been one of the best stories I’d have returned with.
There are times when the winds are so strong and the water so rough, and travel is virtually impossible. And when the fishermen refuse to go out on the waters, then be assured that is a really, really bad storm coming on. Now imagine if you have an emergency.
I did not see a single mobile money stall on any of the islands I was at. Teachers and nurses/ health workers who are paid through the bank have to jump on a boat to pick their money from the mainland, Masaka or Entebbe. Now, that comes with a hefty cost. On a government salary!
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