#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!