The woman who cleans the toilets at our workplace started talking about grasshoppers when she saw me. “You see, they are so tasty those flying insects. They taste even better when I fry them, because sometimes these people on the streets even use Vaseline. Ate when I add raw onions, ho! I can even bite my tongue and fingers!”
But because I don't eat grasshoppers, I don't know how they taste.
So I entered the stall, did my business and came out. She was still standing in the position I had left her, leaning on her mop, with a bucketful of water close by.
She continued, “Kale, my children love nsenene. Nga they live for them! Naye, they are so costly!”
“Eh?”
“Yeah, a cup of un-plucked insects costs 5,000 shillings.”
As I washed my hands, I felt the Good Samaritan in me urging me to complete her children’s evening otherwise this conversation would be repeated on my next visit.
“Kale.” I left, and returned in a few minutes. With enough for two cups of nsenene.
She thanked me profusely, asking God to bless me abundantly.
But this got me thinking. Our conversations, save for two or three, always happen in the washrooms. She is either cleaning the floor, or a toilet, or the sink, mop in hand, or sitting on a sanitary bin. I know she doesn't have her meals here, otherwise. I mean, people do all sorts of things in these places. Like they have no idea that if you find the place clean, then leave it the way you found it. I recently visited the University of Rhodes in South Africa, and my, my, my, those washrooms looked (please note the word “looked”) and smelt so clean, you could literally live and sleep in there.
There are jobs which society considers undesirable. And toilet cleaning falls in this category. In countries like the US, they are referred to in a more polite way. Janitor. When I was still little, I thought a janitor was like a class monitor. And I wondered why they always carried mops and buckets in films.
Now, these our public toilets in Kampala, the ones which Jenny said should be accessed free of charge. Hmmm… There is that person who used to wake up every morning to the job of sitting at the entrance and collecting the 200, 300 shillings for short and long calls. And people use them as bathrooms as well. Gross. I’m not sure how regularly they are cleaned but their stink pervades the early morning air, so you can imagine. My heart goes out to the people with no other option but to use them.
Then there are the washrooms in the malls. Where you have to pay and are handed scraps of measly-looking toilet paper and warned not to “spoil” the place. And he doesn't put the change in your hand. He drops it in a bucket or on the bench where he is sitting. I mean, what if you didn't wash your hands? Its bad enough to spend the day in a smelly place, but he is not about to contract cholera or dysentry from your spatters.
So, back to my cleaner friend, she loves and values her job. The single mother told me it has sustained her family, her children are in school, they sleep well at night and she has something to do every day, however dirty or unpleasant. To her it matters little about what the odd hours she works, what sights, smells and floating messes she is subjected to as she sits alone in that cold, tiled room she calls her office. And she doesn't mind if anyone asks what she does, she proudly says she cleans toilets for a living.
Wednesday 28 December 2016
Saturday 17 December 2016
#thelaunchthatneverwas
The coup happened inside the prestigious, heavily air-conditioned Conference Center. The government officials, donors and representatives of aid agencies were left dumb-founded as men and women young enough to be their children, nieces and grandchildren interrupted the proceedings with loud protestations, booing the organizers and heckling. On the podium at the front of the hall, the Labor state minister Kabafunzaki held the microphone mid-air as his calls for “Order! Order” were ignored.
The minister of East African affairs, aging and white-haired in white and yellow, and who has served in all governments from the time of independence, was dumb-founded. He and other invited officials sitting at the broad table on the low stage at the front, with bottles of soft drinks arranged in front of them, looked on in shock and horror as the events unfolded and all hell broke loose.
This was the Launch of the National Youth Policy at the Serena Conference Center, Kampala on 16th December 2016. That never happened. By the way, Uganda has had a policy for the youth from 2001. It provides for young people’s rights and freedoms, employment as an area of focus, the National Youth Council, provision of life skills, education, and there is a budget for it as well.
The youth had a host of complaints. One, they felt they were not ably represented. The invitation letter from the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development was addressed to the Chief Administrative Officer, a political appointee. He had been instructed to mobilize and come along with, among others, the district youth leaders. That angered the youth. They wanted the invitation to be directly addressed to their leaders, who they had elected through a democratic process.
They were also miffed that their parliamentary representatives had been left off the guest list. “How does this happen??” they demanded, “When these are the people through whom our matters of national interest and importance are addressed!”
Another on their list of grievances was the fact that the invitation cards, which I gather, were distributed 24 hours to the Friday event, clearly stated that President Yoweri Museveni was the chief guest. But he had more important matters to deal with: “…Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know…” (from Henry Barlow’s poem ‘Building the Nation’), and had sent an envoy “by the names of” Ali Kirunda Kivejinja, Al-Hajji. The youth were incensed by the presence of this fossil whom they accused of being out of sync with anything youthful.
A young woman in tight green trousers who claimed she funded her trip from Jinja district in eastern Uganda, said she had wanted to personally inform the President that they were not benefitting from any of the plans he had for them, and that his ministers and officials were chewing their money. She cited the Youth Livelihood Project started in 2014, as an intervention (God, how I abhor that word) of Government in response to the high unemployment rate and poverty among the youth in Uganda.
They also griped about the fact that the ministry was launching a national policy for youth and yet none of them had any memory of ever having been consulted on matters that concern them. That how do 70-plus year olds decide what is good for them? That they can speak for themselves and don’t need ancients to design policies that benefit the youth.
One young man yelled that 70% of the participants were not in the youth age group.
They also wondered what the budget for the youth is this financial year. “Nobody ever tells us!” they wailed.
And… that they had been sitting on their little butts from 10am and were being constantly fed on bottles and bottles of Rwenzori mineral water. It was now 4pm and they were famished!! Whoever coined the phrase “A hungry man is an angry man” was on point.
And where was their transport money? Eh? Si if the organizers could afford to take the event to a glitzy venue like the Serena, then SURELY, they could afford to pay for a bite and provide a refund of sorts.
As protocol demands, the state minister for children affairs in her purple outfit (which was her second for the day), would introduce the guest of honor after her few remarks. At about 4:30pm, she walked the few steps to the podium from her seat. But as she leaned forward calling, “The youth, are there?” the way a DJ says, “testing, testing, one,two!”, the noise started. First as a low murmur, then it grew bigger and finally crescendoed. Shouts. Clamor. Babel. Pandemonium. Yelps of “No! We refuse you to address us! Get off that stage. Go!!”
Startled, she quickly retreated to her seat on the safety of the stage, looking around her wildly, just in case a bottle of mineral water came flying from nowhere and connected with her head. Not knowing what else to do, she hastily arranged the papers in front of her.
State Minister for Labour Kabafunzaki grabbed his phone and made some frantic calls probably for “send help from the command center!” He looked mortified and wished that the ground could open and swallow him.
Al Hajji’s face had turned as yellow as the big tie he was wearing. His eyes darted around the hall as he feebly waved his hand for the enraged youths to calm down. His bodyguards stood close by. When the coast had cleared a bit, he beat a hasty exit. Up the steps he scampered like a scared rabbit, and into the protection of the VIP lounge. Some of the youths made as if to give chase, but were blocked and nearly pushed down the stairs by the mean-faced cops.
Someone on the microphone frantically called for, “Security please? Hotel security, where are you? We need you here please? Hotel security!!” But there was no response. So he hollered for the dancers. “UYDEL dancers! Can we have the UYDEL dancers please, we need you on the stage please?” They came running and arranged themselves ready to pull off some moves, hoping this could cool down the heated atmosphere. But the DJ did not even start the song because at that moment, the chaos vomited itself into the main part of the hall.
Durrrraaamaaaa!
Over at the podium, the Hotel Security caller had fled his post, and a youth had taken over the microphone, declaring the event closed. At the front of the room, there were bodies lying on the floor, others writhing in mock pain, wailing loudly about how “this government has betrayed and abandoned them who make up over 60% of Uganda’s population!”.
Where the ministers disappeared to, only God knows, because their seats had been occupied by some protestors. One was swinging in the comfortable chair, a bag on his back, declaring loudly as he sipped from a glass of water. “Let me drink my money. Bino bya kifeere, bano bayaaye buyaaye!! Ffe tukooye!!!!”
Meanwhile, the police was engaged in a near-fist fight with another lot who were hurling all sorts of insults. They were making gorilla-like gestures- the ones of beating their chest when faced with confrontation. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and dirty insults flying around (even from the coppers).
Others were running around in search of any camera they could stick their head into and wag their fingers at as they ranted about how disadvantaged they were feeling.
One young man in a light-pink shirt and cream trousers, who troubles had aged him so much that he looked like he was going on 50, was turning round and round in circles, evidently bewildered.
A couple of red-faced diplomats scurried down the stairs towards the open door behind the stage. A young man was hurrying beside them, trying to keep up with their pace. “This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen!!!” he shouted. They didn't say a thing or risk a glance in his direction, though one of them gave little, quick, nervous nods as he rushed along, most probably wondering when the hell “this little bugger would bugger off!!”
Four or five hapless looking policemen in black were attempting to arrest the suspected ring-leader, chasing him around the hall, but their attempts were thwarted because he was so quick on his feet and there was a huge crowd following him around so that whenever their hands closed on him, the crowd pounced on them and they let go. “Where are you taking him??!!! they roared.
In another corner, someone was addressing an impromptu press conference. “When we go to the Gender ministry, they throw us to KCCA. KCCA says they know nothing about our matters and we should go to the National Youth Council. The National Youth Council refers us back to the Gender Ministry! We have come here to see the President because we have issues we want him to address! But he decided not to come! We are angry and disappointed because we do not know where we belong!! We are tired of being used for their two billion shillings budgets!!! ”
Bedlam!
After about half an hour of mayhem, the hall starting emptying, with a few people hanging around as they waited for the chaos to subside.
Outside, Kabafunzaki, a microphone thrust in his face was confidently telling a reporter that, “…The National Youth Policy itself is good. There’s no doubt about it. But I think it became a bit political because of maybe some individuals from Kampala. Youth who were propagated by some politicians to disorganize it. But the policy is good.”
(Okay, so politics had finally crept in. But I didn't see Besigye anywhere in the vicinity. Maybe he was in the kamooli.)
Those phone calls he made earlier, probably to the “command center” had borne fruit because three huge guzzlers from the ministry had arrived and all the stationery, banners and equipment, and whatever else, was being quickly loaded onto the cars.
By the way, this coup played out live on national TV. In the hallowed ground that is Serena Conference Center Kampala. The desecration. The defilement! The violation and dishonor! Oh!
The minister of East African affairs, aging and white-haired in white and yellow, and who has served in all governments from the time of independence, was dumb-founded. He and other invited officials sitting at the broad table on the low stage at the front, with bottles of soft drinks arranged in front of them, looked on in shock and horror as the events unfolded and all hell broke loose.
This was the Launch of the National Youth Policy at the Serena Conference Center, Kampala on 16th December 2016. That never happened. By the way, Uganda has had a policy for the youth from 2001. It provides for young people’s rights and freedoms, employment as an area of focus, the National Youth Council, provision of life skills, education, and there is a budget for it as well.
The youth had a host of complaints. One, they felt they were not ably represented. The invitation letter from the Ministry of Gender, Labour and Social Development was addressed to the Chief Administrative Officer, a political appointee. He had been instructed to mobilize and come along with, among others, the district youth leaders. That angered the youth. They wanted the invitation to be directly addressed to their leaders, who they had elected through a democratic process.
They were also miffed that their parliamentary representatives had been left off the guest list. “How does this happen??” they demanded, “When these are the people through whom our matters of national interest and importance are addressed!”
Another on their list of grievances was the fact that the invitation cards, which I gather, were distributed 24 hours to the Friday event, clearly stated that President Yoweri Museveni was the chief guest. But he had more important matters to deal with: “…Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know…” (from Henry Barlow’s poem ‘Building the Nation’), and had sent an envoy “by the names of” Ali Kirunda Kivejinja, Al-Hajji. The youth were incensed by the presence of this fossil whom they accused of being out of sync with anything youthful.
A young woman in tight green trousers who claimed she funded her trip from Jinja district in eastern Uganda, said she had wanted to personally inform the President that they were not benefitting from any of the plans he had for them, and that his ministers and officials were chewing their money. She cited the Youth Livelihood Project started in 2014, as an intervention (God, how I abhor that word) of Government in response to the high unemployment rate and poverty among the youth in Uganda.
They also griped about the fact that the ministry was launching a national policy for youth and yet none of them had any memory of ever having been consulted on matters that concern them. That how do 70-plus year olds decide what is good for them? That they can speak for themselves and don’t need ancients to design policies that benefit the youth.
One young man yelled that 70% of the participants were not in the youth age group.
They also wondered what the budget for the youth is this financial year. “Nobody ever tells us!” they wailed.
And… that they had been sitting on their little butts from 10am and were being constantly fed on bottles and bottles of Rwenzori mineral water. It was now 4pm and they were famished!! Whoever coined the phrase “A hungry man is an angry man” was on point.
And where was their transport money? Eh? Si if the organizers could afford to take the event to a glitzy venue like the Serena, then SURELY, they could afford to pay for a bite and provide a refund of sorts.
As protocol demands, the state minister for children affairs in her purple outfit (which was her second for the day), would introduce the guest of honor after her few remarks. At about 4:30pm, she walked the few steps to the podium from her seat. But as she leaned forward calling, “The youth, are there?” the way a DJ says, “testing, testing, one,two!”, the noise started. First as a low murmur, then it grew bigger and finally crescendoed. Shouts. Clamor. Babel. Pandemonium. Yelps of “No! We refuse you to address us! Get off that stage. Go!!”
Startled, she quickly retreated to her seat on the safety of the stage, looking around her wildly, just in case a bottle of mineral water came flying from nowhere and connected with her head. Not knowing what else to do, she hastily arranged the papers in front of her.
State Minister for Labour Kabafunzaki grabbed his phone and made some frantic calls probably for “send help from the command center!” He looked mortified and wished that the ground could open and swallow him.
Al Hajji’s face had turned as yellow as the big tie he was wearing. His eyes darted around the hall as he feebly waved his hand for the enraged youths to calm down. His bodyguards stood close by. When the coast had cleared a bit, he beat a hasty exit. Up the steps he scampered like a scared rabbit, and into the protection of the VIP lounge. Some of the youths made as if to give chase, but were blocked and nearly pushed down the stairs by the mean-faced cops.
Someone on the microphone frantically called for, “Security please? Hotel security, where are you? We need you here please? Hotel security!!” But there was no response. So he hollered for the dancers. “UYDEL dancers! Can we have the UYDEL dancers please, we need you on the stage please?” They came running and arranged themselves ready to pull off some moves, hoping this could cool down the heated atmosphere. But the DJ did not even start the song because at that moment, the chaos vomited itself into the main part of the hall.
Durrrraaamaaaa!
Over at the podium, the Hotel Security caller had fled his post, and a youth had taken over the microphone, declaring the event closed. At the front of the room, there were bodies lying on the floor, others writhing in mock pain, wailing loudly about how “this government has betrayed and abandoned them who make up over 60% of Uganda’s population!”.
Where the ministers disappeared to, only God knows, because their seats had been occupied by some protestors. One was swinging in the comfortable chair, a bag on his back, declaring loudly as he sipped from a glass of water. “Let me drink my money. Bino bya kifeere, bano bayaaye buyaaye!! Ffe tukooye!!!!”
Meanwhile, the police was engaged in a near-fist fight with another lot who were hurling all sorts of insults. They were making gorilla-like gestures- the ones of beating their chest when faced with confrontation. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and dirty insults flying around (even from the coppers).
Others were running around in search of any camera they could stick their head into and wag their fingers at as they ranted about how disadvantaged they were feeling.
One young man in a light-pink shirt and cream trousers, who troubles had aged him so much that he looked like he was going on 50, was turning round and round in circles, evidently bewildered.
A couple of red-faced diplomats scurried down the stairs towards the open door behind the stage. A young man was hurrying beside them, trying to keep up with their pace. “This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen! This is how your money is being stolen!!!” he shouted. They didn't say a thing or risk a glance in his direction, though one of them gave little, quick, nervous nods as he rushed along, most probably wondering when the hell “this little bugger would bugger off!!”
Four or five hapless looking policemen in black were attempting to arrest the suspected ring-leader, chasing him around the hall, but their attempts were thwarted because he was so quick on his feet and there was a huge crowd following him around so that whenever their hands closed on him, the crowd pounced on them and they let go. “Where are you taking him??!!! they roared.
In another corner, someone was addressing an impromptu press conference. “When we go to the Gender ministry, they throw us to KCCA. KCCA says they know nothing about our matters and we should go to the National Youth Council. The National Youth Council refers us back to the Gender Ministry! We have come here to see the President because we have issues we want him to address! But he decided not to come! We are angry and disappointed because we do not know where we belong!! We are tired of being used for their two billion shillings budgets!!! ”
Bedlam!
After about half an hour of mayhem, the hall starting emptying, with a few people hanging around as they waited for the chaos to subside.
Outside, Kabafunzaki, a microphone thrust in his face was confidently telling a reporter that, “…The National Youth Policy itself is good. There’s no doubt about it. But I think it became a bit political because of maybe some individuals from Kampala. Youth who were propagated by some politicians to disorganize it. But the policy is good.”
(Okay, so politics had finally crept in. But I didn't see Besigye anywhere in the vicinity. Maybe he was in the kamooli.)
Those phone calls he made earlier, probably to the “command center” had borne fruit because three huge guzzlers from the ministry had arrived and all the stationery, banners and equipment, and whatever else, was being quickly loaded onto the cars.
By the way, this coup played out live on national TV. In the hallowed ground that is Serena Conference Center Kampala. The desecration. The defilement! The violation and dishonor! Oh!
Tuesday 13 December 2016
#badapples
Twenty-two years ago I gave birth to my son. 3.9 kgs (P.S. for those of you who asked where he is today, from my last post- he is a law student now). I went to Mulago hospital. Old Mulago section. I was a young woman with no money and there were free services- tetanus shot, height, weight, pressure measurements- but they came with a cost.
The day came for the great arrival and I carried my ka-bag and walked all the way. There were plenty of women in the ward that day- about 16. And then me. With two stressed, over-worked midwives on duty. At one point the births became back-to-back. One woman’s child popped out and she fell to the floor on her knees with the baby’s head stuck between her legs. Before I fled from the ward, the midwife was yelling, “Oli musiru! Oyagala kutta mwana wo? Lwaki bwowulidde nga omwana ajja tosituse??!! (Foolish woman! do you want to kill your child? Why didn't you get up when you felt the baby coming??!!) And the woman was crawling around in circles moaning, “Musawo jangu onyambe! Musawo jangu onyambe!” (Nurse, please help me, Nurse, please help me!”) repeatedly.
When my labor pains started showing me touch at about 6:30pm, I decided that there would be no repeat scenario of what I had witnessed. For me I wasn't going to be yelled at. I got the plastic sheet and bag of gloves, cotton wool etc and raced to the delivery bed. I hoisted myself up, not even knowing how to lie down.
By this time, there was only one midwife on duty, busy grumbling about “Bakazi mwe muntamye!” (I’m fed up with you women!) She was working on a woman who had been in labor for three days (I managed to hear that gossip in between my contractions) and who had nearly puked all her intestines out. Even when she was pushing out the baby, she was heaving. Big dry heaves. Anti she had been drinking only black tea for three days but it long been ejected. (Someone please tell me how black tea helps the birth process). The baby was eventually born. Then it was my turn. I have no idea if the midwife shouted at me. All I remember was pain from the tips of my toes to the tips of my hair, then a baby and stitches. Then I jumped off the delivery bed, shaking like a leaf.
Twenty-two years later, many of the Mulago staff are still a grumpy, surly lot. I have tried to put myself in their shoes so that I don’t come off as being unfair, unfeeling, prejudiced. I understand that they want more pay, that their working conditions may not be the best, that they see a lot of blood and broken bones. And that can be stressful.
But take for example the Cancer Institute which we have been attending for a year and a half. The doctors are okay. Nice and polite. Listening.
The nurses…
A middle-aged woman with breast cancer, who had been waiting nearly the whole day, braving the mid-morning rain and the cold, and who had not been attended to, meekly approached the nurse who was taking the weight and pressure measurements. The nurse had taken a ka-break and was standing behind an old, empty counter of sorts.
“Nansi, mbadde wano olunaku lwonna naye temunyata failo yange.” (Nurse, I have been here the whole day, but there is no mention of my file.)
“Kati oyagala nkole ki??” (What do you want me to do??)The nurse barked back.
“Mbadde mbuza bubuza. Oyinza okunyambako ojinfunire bambi?” (I was asking if you could help me locate it please?) There were tears in her eyes.
The nurse looked right through her like she wasn't there, the way some children look at visitors when you say “hallo” and you don't have a sweet for them.
After a few minutes of being ignored, the patient made another feeble attempt, “Nansi, nsaba… (Nurse, please…) ”
She shouldn't have. Because Nansi suddenly metamorphosed into an animal of sorts.
“Nkugambye oyagala nkukolere ki??!!! (I have asked you what you want me to do for you!!), she screamed, her eyes blazing and the veins in her neck standing out. She hit the counter top with her palm. “Kati okaba. Kale ffembi katukabe, tulabe ani asinga amaziga!!
The woman dissolved into more tears, reached into her hand and pulled out a big hanky, then retreated to the corner like a mouse where she cried her eyes out.
The girl at the front desk is no better. She has big sad eyes and can only offer one word answers. “Ye”. “Nedda”. “Wali”. “Awo.” “Eri”.
What went wrong? What is the matter? Why is their moral so damp? How can they be motivated? Are they motivatable? Do they love their jobs? Clearly not. I know their code of ethics demands professionalism and mutual respect, but does that include yelling at people and refusing to help?
By the way, its not all of them, just a few bad apples spoiling the rest.
Thursday 8 December 2016
#moneyishoney
Money is honey, my little sonny,
And a rich man’s joke is always funny.
Couplet by Thomas Edward Brown, the Manx poet.
Many times I have studied how some people act in the presence of another individual with power, money, or beauty. Askaris stationed at door of the bank will bow and nearly scrape when a “rich” man parks his Range Rover at the bank’s entrance. In a space that is clearly marked “No Parking”. And when he shifts his pot-belly out of the car and strides up to the bank door, the askari shoos away all the nyama-ndogos and ushers the big man in without even checking them.
When the President tied his jerrican on a new Raleigh bicycle and went to fetch water, it was drawn from a dirty pond by his handlers who then bound it onto the bicycle. The handlers went trotting after the bike and holding on to the jerrican so that it wouldn't fall. And yet they had fastened it tightly with ropes and were holding onto the bike. When he stopped they stopped, when he hurried along, they ran, when he smiled they laughed, and when he said something they didn't hear or understand, they pretended to be fumbling with something on their boots.
When Obama was planting a tree at Mahatma Gandhi’s memorial at Raj Ghat, two grown men nearly fell over themselves as they strove to hold on to the plant and then stealthily steal a pose for a picture as the world’s most powerful man squatted on his haunches to water the plant.
In Uganda, there’s someone to hold the hoe, someone to tell the holder of the hoe to hand over the hoe, someone standing close by with a green watering can, someone to hold the can when the minister is done, and then 30 pairs of hands to do the clapping and smiling in a silly way when the seedling is finally in the soil.
What about those who nod at every opportunity. They can nod through the whole speech, and their necks hurt when they get home. Even when the speaker is not making sense, they nod vigorously just so they can be seen to agree. Then they laugh very loudly when he makes a joke and look around the room to see if everyone has seen them laughing.
And a rich man’s joke is always funny.
Couplet by Thomas Edward Brown, the Manx poet.
Many times I have studied how some people act in the presence of another individual with power, money, or beauty. Askaris stationed at door of the bank will bow and nearly scrape when a “rich” man parks his Range Rover at the bank’s entrance. In a space that is clearly marked “No Parking”. And when he shifts his pot-belly out of the car and strides up to the bank door, the askari shoos away all the nyama-ndogos and ushers the big man in without even checking them.
When the President tied his jerrican on a new Raleigh bicycle and went to fetch water, it was drawn from a dirty pond by his handlers who then bound it onto the bicycle. The handlers went trotting after the bike and holding on to the jerrican so that it wouldn't fall. And yet they had fastened it tightly with ropes and were holding onto the bike. When he stopped they stopped, when he hurried along, they ran, when he smiled they laughed, and when he said something they didn't hear or understand, they pretended to be fumbling with something on their boots.
When Obama was planting a tree at Mahatma Gandhi’s memorial at Raj Ghat, two grown men nearly fell over themselves as they strove to hold on to the plant and then stealthily steal a pose for a picture as the world’s most powerful man squatted on his haunches to water the plant.
In Uganda, there’s someone to hold the hoe, someone to tell the holder of the hoe to hand over the hoe, someone standing close by with a green watering can, someone to hold the can when the minister is done, and then 30 pairs of hands to do the clapping and smiling in a silly way when the seedling is finally in the soil.
What about those who nod at every opportunity. They can nod through the whole speech, and their necks hurt when they get home. Even when the speaker is not making sense, they nod vigorously just so they can be seen to agree. Then they laugh very loudly when he makes a joke and look around the room to see if everyone has seen them laughing.
Wednesday 7 December 2016
#bappasita
Scores of people line up outside Pastor Samuel Kakande’s Synagogue Church of All Nations at ku Bbiri roundabout every Sunday.
The lines along Gayaza road are long and winding, even stretching up to a kilometer sometimes. There must be something special here because of the sheer number. And they line up as early as 3am, arriving in their droves and standing in the file.
They carry plastic jerrycans of all sizes- five liters, ten liters, twenty. Yellow, green, purple, white. Some hawkers walk up and down the queues selling more jerricans.
I have heard that there is some holy water here. That Kakande promises them blessings and eternity in exchange for their loyalty. That the water must be sprinkled on everything that seems to bring them bad luck- if its at your market stall, if its your finger that needs to wear a wedding ring, if its your husband who’s not living up to his patriarchal duties, if its your child’s head that is not kutolaring at school, if its your chronic backache.
I used to live on Mawanda road before I moved to the Mansion. There was a couple who lived in the servants’ quarters for whom bad luck seemed to follow everywhere. The guy had been thrown in prison for something he didn't do. Two months after they were married, a "kiwempe" church in which he was praying, came down in the rain and he ended up with two broken limbs- an arm and a leg. And they couldn't find work. Which means that money and food were scarce. But they were very cheerful even as they suffered.
One day, after enduring this state of affairs for one and a half years, and with the landlord breathing down their necks, the man of the house announced that he was going to start up a church in Kyebando. That since there was no work coming their way, then his only option was to become a pastor because it was a quick way to make quick bucks.
Within a week, they had moved out, their belonging loaded onto a small Datsun pickup.
I did not hear about them for a while.
But I met them in town one afternoon. They were walking to the Old Taxi Park carrying their shoppping in Capital Shoppers plastic bags. The wife was pregnant. A third one on the way. Mister was dressed in an oversized suit.
The lines along Gayaza road are long and winding, even stretching up to a kilometer sometimes. There must be something special here because of the sheer number. And they line up as early as 3am, arriving in their droves and standing in the file.
They carry plastic jerrycans of all sizes- five liters, ten liters, twenty. Yellow, green, purple, white. Some hawkers walk up and down the queues selling more jerricans.
I have heard that there is some holy water here. That Kakande promises them blessings and eternity in exchange for their loyalty. That the water must be sprinkled on everything that seems to bring them bad luck- if its at your market stall, if its your finger that needs to wear a wedding ring, if its your husband who’s not living up to his patriarchal duties, if its your child’s head that is not kutolaring at school, if its your chronic backache.
I used to live on Mawanda road before I moved to the Mansion. There was a couple who lived in the servants’ quarters for whom bad luck seemed to follow everywhere. The guy had been thrown in prison for something he didn't do. Two months after they were married, a "kiwempe" church in which he was praying, came down in the rain and he ended up with two broken limbs- an arm and a leg. And they couldn't find work. Which means that money and food were scarce. But they were very cheerful even as they suffered.
One day, after enduring this state of affairs for one and a half years, and with the landlord breathing down their necks, the man of the house announced that he was going to start up a church in Kyebando. That since there was no work coming their way, then his only option was to become a pastor because it was a quick way to make quick bucks.
Within a week, they had moved out, their belonging loaded onto a small Datsun pickup.
I did not hear about them for a while.
But I met them in town one afternoon. They were walking to the Old Taxi Park carrying their shoppping in Capital Shoppers plastic bags. The wife was pregnant. A third one on the way. Mister was dressed in an oversized suit.
Tuesday 6 December 2016
#thebeggar'slunch
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| credit: www.itsamazed.com |
A plate full of rice, a slice of ugali, beans, two pieces of beef and a wedge of avocado.
He sat at the side of the road, that road above the old taxi park that is so dusty as contractors repair its potholes. A youngish man, probably in his early twenties.
His umbrella, sitting at his side, was obviously forgotten as he hunched forward and munched away, savoring each spoonful he shoved into his mouth, blowing on it because it was so hot.
The Baganda say that “Omufumbi yabadde ayomba.” That the cook must have been quarreling as she cooked, because the food is so hot.
And he ate with such art, carving the meal into small portions on the rectangular plate. He started with the side farthest from him, shaping it into a little ball with the spoon which he then lifted to his mouth slowly and carefully. He chewed with relish. He moved to another corner of the rectangular plate. Then the left one closest to him, and then the right. The process was repeated continuously.
He was in love with the food and did not want to see it go, but his hunger commanded that it was better off in his stomach.
The lunch was soon gone, devoured with quick small sewing machine-like bites.
Sitting at his side was a mini-sized bottle of Coke.
Today was a good day.
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