#whichwayparliament?

Our good and honorable Members of Parliament have spent the better part of their waking hours this week, actively building their nation and earning their day’s pay. For many, this is the first time they have held fort this long.
And when this stormy session is finally over, many will retire to the bars and bufunda where they will order cold Bell beers and niceties as they stretch their legs, sip loudly, and belch and tell the mwoki wa ka P-I-G to “make it a full lusaniya n’ebigenderako.” Then they will talk and talk and talk about the week’s happenings and give their repeated opinions over and over and over again.
Others will tell their drivers to cut through the traffic like madmen so that they can get home and see the children before they fall asleep. And when they get to their plush residences, they will tell the driver to hoot very loudly at the gate, and the children will come running out and say “Daddy, I saw you on TV shouting in the microphone about the togikwatako!” And Daddy will say, “Oh, you did? You are very clever! Here, take my i-pad and play games while I talk to your mother.”
Other kids will wonder why they saw their Mummy just sitting there on the green chairs all week, her big red handbag in her lap, and with a very bored look on her face.
Someone will ask her mother why she was was heckling and beating and slapping the chair when another MP made a point.
One wife will ask her husband where he was because when she looked at the TV which she watched all day after their heated discussion last night, she did not see him in any of the wild panning the cameras made. And he will tell her how he stood up several times but was never ever given a chance at the microphone even when he shouted, “Teacher me! Teacher me!” and the teacher chose someone else over him.
One MP will come home gloomy-faced and while opening his tie tell his wife how exhausted he is because he was attending to matters of state, actually to very highly delicate diplomatic duties.
A woman MP will rail at her housemaid for not frying the meat properly and not keeping the matooke warm in the oven like she told her, because for her she pays for UMEME and the oven can be on for however long. Then she will declare loudly that she is not going to eat cold food and storm off to bed where she will deny her husband his rights because “for her, her back is paining and it is gong to pain more tomorrow because of these long and laborious sittings.”
For those who gallantly stormed the chaplaincy and grabbed the “intruder soldiers’” plates and garish colored plastic cups, they will hail themselves as heroes and talk about their experience to anyone within earshot until the wee hours.
Then there are those who laid hands on the unfortunate “urinated-in” mineral water bottles. They will wash and wash their hands and disinfect away all the dirty matter till they can disinfect no more.
The ones who railed and ranted about their holy places of worship being desecrated by those pistol-wielding trespassers- they will pray the Novena over and over again, asking God to declare disaster over those who think they can trample their rights as MPs, and stifle business in parliament, and threaten their freedom and security. They will declare to all and sundry how they are faithful Christians who would not be alive if it were not for the Most High. And then they will go and buy new rosaries and keep the ones that “witnessed” the sacrilege will be kept away in a box to be shown to future family generations.
Others will proclaim how “the devil is a liar!” and declare their doubts about the genuineness of the cleansing prayers for Parliament following that abominable chaos that broke out on those fateful dark days in September when the age limit motion was to be tabled, when some were carried off like chicken thieves, while others had their heads banged and their spines twisted. They will spend hours on their knees praying for the country, imploring God to grant King Solomon-like wisdom to its leaders to make them see sense about this contentious age limit pain in the neck, oh-why-doesn’t-it-end? problem that has kept them arguing, booing, clapping till their hands hurt and looking at their colleagues with daggers for days now.
There are those who have been a no-show all week, some were unfortunately booted out for indiscipline, others - who knows where they are- either they did not wish to be part of this degrading drama, or they could be “indisposed” but watching from the comfort of their sick beds, or reclining in their sitting room sofas- will regret not being there when Parliament was creating history.
Others who have been faithfully involved in the Red Ribbon protest will forage their wardrobes hunting for another red outfit to wear the next time because they have suffered through this week having their only red shirt washed and put up on a hanger to dry as they prayed that UMEME would be good-mannered so that they could iron the outfit and look smart. Some yellow die-hards will look at all the outfits they have ordered over the years as their achievements in supporting their cause.
The rabble rousers who sit in groups of about three or four mainly on the back benches, yelling whenever the opportunity arises, will go to pharmacies for lozenges and cough drops as they moan about sore throats caused by their spirited opposition to whichever opinion they do not agree with.
Others will wonder deep down in their heart of hearts if they stood for what they believed. They will regret why they did not stand up to be counted when the time came, and start doubting if going with the crowd is a good thing after all. They will make a decision that they will stand out from the crowd the next time they are faced with such. They will wonder why they shouted into the microphones instead of just talking because of course, a microphone amplifies the voice, but they will then shrug their shoulders and tell themselves that it was about emphasizing the point. Others will start fearing to go back to their constituents because they did not represent them correctly. They will give all sorts of excuses to be stuck in Kampala doing this and that and being very busy as they fret and agonize over how they will beg for votes in 2021.

#prayerwarrior

This my neighbor in the homebound taxi is notorious for … chanting.
As in chanting religious verses. Yes.
And he doesn’t see the awkward glances from passengers who've had a hard day with bosses breathing down their neck, or whose sales have refused to come through, and all they want to do is doze off as they hope and also pray for a better tomorrow.
Naye me I know this man. I know him well, and as he enters, I am praying, “God please deliver him to the back of the taxi, please.” 
The other day he chanted for six out of the eight miles home, successfully out-competing the radio. But there he is now, plopping himself heavily into the seat, in his bulky agbada and lugging two bags laden with God-knows-what. 
First, a freshly boiled cob comes out of the smaller bag and he proceeds to chomp it down army-worm style down—- in the five minutes we're waiting at the Wandegeya lights! 
I know the drill. The other day it was a mix of ground nuts and hard corn... and then the chanting began. Another time it was these milky biscuit sticks... and then reciting verses went into full gear. 
I try my best not to look at him but from the corner of my eye I can see him unzipping the bigger rucksack. 
Just then, someone calls and he answers the phone. “Wait, I'm traveling! Nja ku koonako!". 
But a quick glance reveals the string of 99 prayer beads being tugged out of the side pocket. I hold my breath. 
Then before I know it... ... the chanting is in full session. 
Bead by bead. And we're still five miles away. 
Anyway, I console myself that kasita he is not like the ones who preach for four minutes and then in the fifth minute they are urging all those who “feel how their preaching has touched them", to pray a conversion prayer.

#thechipshopbaby

The other day the spokesperson for the SFU (there are so many security agencies that I lose count) tweeted that he had given a woman in labour a lift in his car. It was dark and she needed to get to the hospital immediately. And just as he sped off towards the hospital, the baby decided it was time to make an entrance. Good soul, Chris Magezi.
That reminded me of an event I witnessed when I was about 9. One afternoon my Mum sent me to the chips' shop. Where the oily potatoes were packed in a small polythene bag and wrapped in a newspaper. With lots of chilli splashed inside the hot packet.
As I waited for the slow waitress to process my order, I perched on a seat at the window. I needed to look at people. It is one of my favorite pastimes- observing humans. Just then, I saw a woman half-running, half-walking from the market side.
Suddenly, almost simultaneously, she let out an almighty yell and sank to her knees in the dust. The screams were so alarming, I thought she was going to die.
People turned around, wondering what was happening.
Then, a quick-thinking man, transformed into the Good Samaritan. He dashed towards her and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the verandah right outside the chips shop.
I was rooted to the high stool at the window where I sat. It was like watching a movie.
“Nipatie lesu!" he yelled in Kiswahili, jumping at a woman carrying a basket of sukumawiki on her head and undressing her of the sheet.
By this time, people were aware of what was happening.
A baby was being born right there on the verandah of the chips shop. On a hot Saturday afternoon. Some women formed a ring around her, and suddenly I heard a baby cry, a strong cry.
I nearly forgot the chips as I dashed out, to tell Mum about what I had just seen.

#yoursignature

The following happened between 2pm and 3pm at a branch of the bank where we, the Crane Bank rejects were relegated a year ago. At a branch where I have banked and withdrawn money several times. At a branch where I have heard customers jeer and swear under their breath at the tortoise- like pace at which these employees count money and open new accounts.
2:00pm: I sacrifice my lunch break to collect some much-needed money.
2:10pm: I'm in the queue. My eye wanders to a list of new ‘promises’ regarding time spent on feedback on loan applications, processing ATM cards etc, but the one that catches my attention is the one for a client waiting to be served at the counter. Max. time 15 minutes. And if you're not done within that time, call this toll-free number. 0800......... I jotted it down (on the back of a business card in my wallet) because there are times you want to rant about shitty service.
After seven minutes of shifting from one foot to another, with my eye on the clock, the teller calls out to me to pick a withdrawal sheet as she makes a query about the cheque of the lady at the counter . I quickly fill it in and hand it back ( in the midst of suffering a mild formphobia attack).
After what seems like eternity, she  gives me a long hard look. I can sense what's coming next. A question about one thing or the other: Is this really you (I'm wearing my hair a centimeter short, tight kaweke coils, today); what is your real name.
Instead she says something about my signature and asks a question. An ambiguous question. After two good minutes of my best lengthening-my-vowels- like- I- was-taught-in-school English, she stares back blankly and I realize that I have wasted valuable time trying to sound responsible.
I start imagining that I look like a fraudster even in my designer-shape sunglasses and mummy sweater. She calls her supervisor, a young lady I think I can be Mum to. The supervisor takes a long hard look at the computer screen, which only they can see, then takes a longer harder look at me, shakes her head and walks off. Madame Teller in her nice coat with a designer collar says to go to the queries section. If I didn't allow the morning rain to ruin my Zen, then I will not permit this "little" bump to cause my heart to flutter unnecessarily.
Over at inquiries, I am third in the line. A quick look at the digital clock confirms that I have been here 26 minutes. I consider pulling out the business card on to which I had scribbled the number on which to vent. The man behind me starts to mutter. I decide I am keeping Zen. The girl at the front of the line is waiting for an ATM card replacement which is refusing to be found. The lady at the inquiries desk jumps off her high chair and pours all the cards on the equally high counter. Then she asks the girl another round of questions which I suspect, she had already asked before. Hmmmm... The murmurs behind me grow louder. I check with my Zen. I'm alright. The woman after the man behind me says, “Imagine being treated like we are not Ugandans!”. Just then the Inquiries Lady needs to make more inquiries and walks to another desk, stopping by the guy at the printer to ask him why there is no paper in the printer, and when he will put paper in the printer, and then smiling at the printer.
Soon she's back with a “come back next week” answer. The man in front of me is not a time-waster and walks off. Then I state what I need, this time in Ugandan English. She types and bangs the keyboard. I give her my driving permit and the withdrawal slip. She looks at them then looks long and hard at computer screen. She tells me I need to sign again (sign what now?) and so I scoot over to the other side. Wait, em…, this the signature on my slip and permit, I tell her. She nods her head and says she can't do much, and I walk back to the teller.
Now I'm fourth in line, shifting from one foot to another and watching bears on the screen, three quarters of which is taken up by an ad for the bank. I want to stride up to the counter like a cowgirl, because I am a customer whose time has been wasted. Then I imagine what all the other customers will think, and say, and curse at me, and mutter, and complain, and I abandon the idea. Another round of shifting from left to right foot.
2:47pm: Finally, I’m walking to the teller and telling her that she should stop wasting my time because I have withdrawn money here before and I canNOT understand what is so wrong with my signature this time and even the Inquiries Lady says that…
She is typing furiously as I expend myself and nearly run out of breath. “Oh, it is the correct signature! I think it has been updated now!”
The clock says 2: 50 pm. Should I call the toll-free number?

#theperfectpuff

I couldn’t wait for the afternoon to come.
I had been counting down the days after I hit on the perfect plan for what to use my weekly savings for. A professional hot comb.
The salon belonged to my school-mate’s mother. I had also been trying all week to talk to the girl, to try to make friends with her. We were not in the same stream, but it was crucial for me to talk her into some amiability of sorts Maybe I could get to ask her how much her mother charged, if she was the one who chomad the hair herself, things like that.
Well, I did succeed, but didn’t get much except that her mother only managed the money, she didn’t put iron combs on the sigiri and singe people’s hair, there were hairstylists employed to do that. You see, my hair is that kind which is like the shrubs that struggle to survive in the Sahara desert. Its length has never ever gotten beyond two inches, even with chemicals, strings, braids, cornrows.
I had been trying for years, since I was six, standing on an upturned pail in the bathroom mirror, and using the wooden kichanuo to twist it around and around the teeth, to loosen the tight black curls and make them longer (My young mind really believed that the endless determined twisting brought it out from my scalp).
Thank God my mother was not one for haircuts (a doctor once suggested that she should cut my hair after I’d gotten a ringworm patch from school. I looked at my mother with pleading doggy-like eyes, imploring her not to take off my crown. I also worried how I would face my school-mates with their long puffs and matutas. Anyway, she didn’t even broach the subject of a haircut and I breathed easy as the fungal cream and de-worming tablets did their work.) but she also had no idea about plaiting either.
And so, I tried to twist and plait and when that refused to work, I used the wooden comb to stretch the locks which just sprang back into place, frustrating all my efforts. I also cannot recount how many times I pulled the kaweke into a stubborn puff held together by black thread from my mother’s sewing box, one that only held the hair in the middle. Once, we went out for an afternoon drive in the hills, and when we got back, only a few tufts of hair remained held tight by the string. Oh, how I tried.
But now I had heard that the hot comb could do it easily, with the least effort required for the task. My sisters had no problems with their manes- Susan always cried when her hair was combed, and Carol was not bothered. Not like me.
I felt a bit shy to announce to Mummy what I intended to do with the savings from my break money on Saturday afternoon. She knew how much I loved long hair because I had told her so as I fed hers with the mix of coconut and red castor oils while she dozed off from the softness of my young expert fingers.
Now, Saturday morning was here, and I needed to make arrangements- did I need to wash my hair first? Did I need to leave it a bit wet? Did I need to put in some coconut and red castor oils? What about a comb- should I pack one? Mummy smiled when I told her- she understood my struggle. She asked me how much the salon charged. I had no idea but I guessed it would be about 5 shillings. And I quickly quipped, “I can afford it. I saved my break money!” Lunch was eaten in anticipation of the glorious puff I would have on my head that afternoon. Rosebud was away in boarding school and could not offer any expert advice having been a recipient of the hot piece of metal untold times in the midst of a flow of tears.
I asked Mummy for a piece of string that I would use for the puff and was soon on my way. The woman at the saloon welcomed me and asked if I was waiting for somebody. That kind of unnerved me. I was the one there for service I said. “Unataka kufanya nini kwa nywele zako sweetie?”
“Nataka kuchoma.”
And so it was that she took her own wooden comb and roughly took it through the coarse shrub on my head. Painful. But I would bear it. After all, no gain with no pain. Then it was the short walk to the door, the hair was not chomad inside. There was another customer and the salon lady told me to "ngojea kidogo". The customer was soon done and I took my place on the wooden chair. I watched as she put the straightener on the red hot coals. It singed the hair and oil that had stayed on the comb and the smell was terrible. Anyway, I was determined to stand on the upturned pail in the bathroom mirror and sing to myself as I styled my puff on Sunday morning.
She sectioned the hair, commenting that it was really short and the wondering if the wooden comb would do the job (I learned later that it was dangerous and unheard of to use a comb with steel teeth, because it automatically burnt your scalp). Then she opened the plastic container of jelly- it was a yellow cheap-smelling petroleum that my sisters and I had always dismissed as cheap- and smeared it into the three tufts at the front.
“Eh, so she was starting at the front?" I thought. "Bad thing she doesn’t have a mirror to let me watch the progress.”
Anyway, the name of the game was to be patient as she stood over me and made me more beautiful. The comb was picked from the sigiri smoking hot, and wiped off on a wet cloth that had been singed in many places (I also learned later that very hot combs broke the hair and caused ugly split ends, the reason many women only did it for events like weddings), then she cupped my forehead and put the comb on my hair. I nearly jumped as the heat melted the oil which quickly slid down to the scalp. “Kaa vizuri Mammy, utachomeka!” She was a patient sort.
With the first tuft straightened, she put the hot-comb back on the stove. I was tempted to ask her for a mirror to see the transformation, but I held my tongue. Soon, the second and third tufts were done and then she did the other side of the front, explaining that since my hair was so short, the work would be slow. Apart from the hot oil melting on my scalp, and the heat I was feeling under the heavy leso she told me to wrap around my neck and shoulders to avoid any accidents, things were going smoothly. Or so I thought.
I was not prepared for the back section of the head, the one she had left for last due to its delicateness. There’s something about the snip of scissors near the ear that is so ominous. That is the same feeling of a rod of heat hovering around your nape. My nape. J-E-H-O-V-A-H! As the comb approached, I felt a tingling sensation and I jumped. The comb caught the side of my head, near the right ear and singed. I let out a loud yelp. “Kalia straight Mammy, utachomeka!” She scooped a dab of the cheap yellow jelly (why is it called jelly anyway? Because jelly has never been oily!) and rubbed it onto the burn. With that corner of my head done, she went for the left side. More torture. The dreams of standing on the upturned pail in the bathroom, twirling in the mirror and singing at the top of my voice as I combed my straight puff out on Sunday morning had disappeared into thin air. The notion of puffs was hot air. The tingles radiating from somewhere in the middle of my back, my spine, racing into my neck, spreading out to my sweating shoulders under the heavy leso and shooting near my ears were too much to bear. I writhed and squirmed as she stood behind me, trying to hold me in one place, until she decided to change tactics just so she could finish her near perfect job.  
“Kaa chini,” she commanded. I thought she was telling me not to jump off the chair. Then comb was back on the fire, and she was pulling me off the chair and onto the cold cement floor. Now that was a relief from all this heat. But only temporary. Her hands felt rough and uncomfortably hot. She plonked herself on the chair and told me put my head between her legs. It was a strait-jacket like grip, those legs of hers.
“Mammy kaa straight nimaliza kazi! Usinisumbue!” The next thing was a searing white-hot pain at the nape. I swear I heard the sound of flesh crackling and the smell of human meat! She must have taken a hefty chunk out of my neck. The tingles were at their worst, the grip was suffocating. I was meeting the devil for sure. And then it was over. She released the headlock and I was free. I threw the leso off.
“Ah, ah Mummy, usionde sasa, kwanza tuchanue nywele.” 
 Oh, so there was that? I just wanted to run back home and forget the torture chamber I had been thrown into. I was not even sure I would stand on the upturned pail and tie up my puff tonight, or even on Sunday morning.
She carried the wooden chair into the saloon. I sat down, still under the leso, sweating and feeling anything but beautiful. She brought a small mirror, it had a crack running through it. I searched in my pocket and handed her the black thread to tie the puff. She continued combing backwards through my hair.  
“Unaona vile uko mrembo! Lakini umechomeka sana, ukirudi home, umuambie Mama atie Vaseline.” She pronounced it Vazaline. I wondered why she was not taking the string.
“Here, tie my hair up.”
Then I looked in the mirror and nearly got the shock of my life. The hair was straight, yes, but that was just about it. It was so short that there was no way it could go into a puff, not even if I pulled and twisted it around and around the teeth of the wooden comb. My heart sank. I reached into my pocket, took out the 5 shillings and handed it to her without saying “Asante.”
I could feel the hot tears in my eyes as I ran all the way home, feeling that everybody could see the discomfort I had been through, that everybody could feel the heat I had been subjected to, that everyone could see how miserably my puff had failed, how ugly and uneven my hair was, and everybody could sense that I had an unsightly burn at the back of my neck.
Mummy was shocked to see me crying as I ran through the front door.
“What is it?”
“I look so ugly Mummy, my hair has refused to grow into the puff I wanted, and the woman burnt me with her comb.”
Then I dissolved into a hot flood of miserable tears as she held me and told me not to worry and that I was always going to be beautiful and that it would be okay.
I did not stand on the upturned pail in the bathroom mirror and twirl as I styled my puff.
Instead, I angrily washed out the hair that very evening, swearing that it would be the last time I would subject myself to such misery in the name of hair and beauty. Good pity party it was.
It would be a long time till I tried pulling a puff again.

#bigbeggars

My five-year old niece was telling me about kids at their school who swoop in on other people’s break boxes. They descend upon the break-bringers, rubbing their little hands in anticipation, as they chant the “sharing is caring” line, to break even the meanest break-bringer.
And my niece is the giving type, but sometimes she doesn't even eat one bite because the beggars take everything. Some even grab and even proceed to eat the crumbs that drop on the floor (and these are children from DECENT homes, mark you.) Like hawks. Like bu-thieves.
One time here I wrote about a teacher who had a habit of invading another niece’s break-box and taking her daddies, biscuits, queen cakes, bhagia. Her mother confirmed what the child had been telling her when one Parents’ Day, the teacher (foolishly) told her, “Eh, bu bhagia bwo packingira Tendo nga buwooma!” (That bhagia you pack for Tendo is very tasty!). By the way, they take the goodies and then offer the child 'popocorns', bread etc.
I strongly believe this beggar thing follows you. That there are people who cannot hold back that desire when they see someone else with something. It overwhelms them and makes them lose all sense of shame. And there’s a huge difference here between a GENUINE request when you are GENUINELY hungry, but there’s this type who cannot hold back. That when their eyes see food, when their noses smell food, they have to have food, and if they had a begging bowl, then it would forever be in their hands.
And they even lurk in our workplaces. They see someone pulling out a pack of groundnuts, they want.
They spot another with fresh, boiled maize, mandazi. They hover, and eventually ask for one line.
They smell the chicken that a workmate is having for late lunch, they approach with, “can I tear-ko a little bit?” and as they speak, they are already tearing.
There was a Nnalongo I know, who would have lunch on other people's budgets. Yaani, she would move around, armed with her saucer on random days. She would have a spoon here, another there, a forkful here, a bite there- and her lunch was sorted. And people talked. Another, a father of two could never hold back on the, “Give me some”, even when he had just passed the sumbusa man on his way up, but could not spare some change and buy his own breakfast. He was like this dog in the Pavlov experiment.
Then there are those of “Give me a sip”, or the type who come bearing a paper cone for your hard-corn of 500 shillings. Bannange, mwefuge ko!
Granted, no man can live like an island, but have they ever given thought to the fact that they are paid, and they can also afford that which they kuyoya so much, and that it takes just a little planning and good manners?
To be honest, I know what torture the overpowering smell of chips can inflict, but even when my mouth is watering, I will never approach, unless you offer.
Like the Baganda say, “Omumpi w'akoma w'akwata.”

#porkpeasandchocolate

The pork was the type you bought on a skewer. Seven well-marinated delicious finger-lickin’ good sizeable cubes on a stick. I was out with my ‘celebrity’ friend and everywhere we passed people were turning their heads, women were giggling when he flirtatiously said, “Hi darling.” Anyway, he ordered (he always does) and told the waiter that could “the pork come on the skewers please?” The waiter said he wanted cash first.

Me: Eh, nawe, do you really have to emphasize that the pork has to be on the skewers?

Celeb: I am paying for it. Gwe, you don't know these people. They’ll very dryly bring you three pieces for 10,000 shillings!

And so the waiter came back 10 or so minutes later, bearing two plates with three pork skewers n’ebigenderako- baked green matooke in its jacket, greens, red chilli powder. And that mix of tomatoes and onions- kachumbari.

He pulled the cubes off the skewer as we watched. Then we dug in and drunk Novida and enjoyed our conversation.

Two weeks later I treated my son to pork at the very same place. I cannot tell you what I was thinking, because in my haste to order, I forgot the earlier very important (free) lesson from the ‘cereebu’. The waiter had brought us six pieces of pork (didn’t look very finger-lickin’ good). For 20,000 shillings! I was flabbergasted (for lack of a better word) and asked him if he was very serious. Then I told him to either take back the food and bring it back on skewers with the bigenderako, or bring back my money. Guess what? He returned, very shamelessly, with 14 very healthy pieces. Anyway, short story- I have never gone back!

Now, I nearly had a fit when I was doing my weekly shopping for groceries on Sunday. The vendor was trying to sell me peas that were very obviously not worth the money I was paying her. She said it was 2,500 shillings per cup. I wanted three. First cup went into the bag, scooped the second and third, and then very deftly, proceeded to fill the cup before she had even knotted the bag with MY peas. Then she handed it to me.

I had a light-bulb moment. Aha!

Me: Show me your cup.

Her: What?

She quickly snatched the bag out of my hands, tore the knot she had tied and like a magician, pulled out another cup, a blue Nice cup from nowhere, as she struggled to hide the original one, all the while pouring the peas back into the kibbo.

Her: Madam, don’t worry. Let me use this cup. That one is bad!

Me: Bad how? Hand me that cup right now!

But she had already gotten another bag and was filling it as I yelled, attracting attention.

I wanted to get the kibbo of peas and tip it over. But I didn’t. So I leaned over and grabbed the other cup from where she had attempted to hide it. She made a lunge for it but not before I had glimpsed what she was so desperate to hide. A false bottom. Cleverly fitted into the cup. For unsuspecting customers. Like I VERY nearly was.

I shot her a dangerous look and then whispered menacingly in her ear (in Luganda), “Have a heart for people who work hard for their money and have families to feed! Why are you a THIEF?? Why can’t you be honest? What will you teach your children??”

She tried, very unconvincingly to defend herself: Auntie, even me I bought the sack of peas very expensive. Nange bansedde, kati ensawo nagiguze emitwalo…

This woman was not in the least bit remorseful.

“Bull****! So bloody what! Does that mean that you give me half of what I pay for?” I was tempted to pull the kitambala off her head.

“Auntie, I’m sorry, forgive me. Let me give you what you paid for.”

But I was already walking away. Glad that I had called her out, and that everybody could see the foolishness on her face.

This happens in many places you go to, especially if you are not a 'kasitoma'. Try passion fruit. The vendor displays nice fat healthy fresh-looking fruit, with one cut through the middle to display numerous juicy seeds. With a dodgy-looking cardboard paper (aren’t they always) on which it says “8 for 1,000” stuck in the basket of fruit.

Hmmmm… if you are not very observant, these sellers can be very sharp. The wretched-looking fruits are placed close to the surface and when the vendor picks three good ones, he very cleverly picks up a sick one with his thumb and throws them into the bag. And many times than not, they are fewer than what you are paying for. It’s only just right to let them finish practicing their crafty skill, and then politely ask them to let you count. Mark my words- you will find the rotten, discarded, misshapen rejects right there in your bag!

Same goes for these people who lenga tomatoes and tangerines. Then there are these matooke 'myeera' thugs. They pick from here, they pick from there. Anything they can nick from the sacks as they unload the trucks. I tell you, you can end up eating a meal of matooke from 10 different plantations!

This list would be incomplete without our gallant butchers. Bannange, kyemutukola with those weighing scales of yours! When we were young, Mum bought our beef from a proper butchery with a clean display and no flies buzzing about. The beef was garnished with a sprig of celery and you just pointed out to him what you wanted. He put it on the weighing scale where you could see, announced how much you had to pay, and you went home with your money’s worth. That was then.

Today, (of course not all of them) butchers have a dodgy-looking block of wood on which they chop your meat. That block of wood is placed at the back of the room. Your guess is as good as mine about how the slab of kisavu, bones (I always tell them I am not a dog) and an old ka-day-before-yesterday’s piece ends up in the kaveera. The meat weighs much less as well. (Someone made me laugh when they told me to only buy from butcheries where the flies hang out with the beef. That that is the good meat, meat that has not been tampered with, the one which has not been ‘Formalinised’)

Other things like bread, crisps weigh much less but for the same amount of money. A bag with ten pieces of yellow potato for 2,000 shillings. And we never ever bother to read the fine print to see the weight. Can the manufacturers even risk and notify you that their products weigh much less?

Just look at the chocolate. What used to be a nice Dairy Milk block for a few thousand shillings (one that you could read a whole novel with) is now a slender measly bar with new packaging (no silver foil to fiddle around with) and teeny-weeny squares that you can pop three in your mouth and they disappear just like that! For many thousands of shillings.

Oh, I had forgotten- the drinking chocolate tins. So big and the contents so little. Sneaky packaging tricks, yeah? Do we ever bother to check products like toilet paper? Do we even know how many sheets we are getting?

What about the supermarket that sells vinegar at 5,000 shillings and a few metes away, the Shell Select shop stocks it for 1,500 shillings a bottle? Their pack of candles costs 3,000 shillings while Shell Select sells the same thing at 1,500 shillings.

I suspect the yogurt packs (won’t name the company) are getting smaller as well. The reduction may not be easy to notice right away but with time you realize that the contents in the package are less.

The bar soap, substandard crockery and cutlery that cuts your mouth as you eat. Smell of China.

The petrol station attendant who fills your tank with air.

The list is long. The list is too, too long.

#mrveteran

In 2010, an army veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) threatened to shoot me. After boasting how he had a gun and would finish me off that night because I called him a series of coarse names for being a bad-mannered neighbor and disturbing our peace, he swaggered out of the gate with his thin doggy-like waist.
The shooting didn't happen. Instead he vented his rage on his live-in girlfriend, aka wife. Anyway, I reported the incident to the Police- the police post was some small wooden shack- somewhere deep in Kalerwe, behind the market. The policeman there did not want me to speak in English. He said he only understood vernacular. So, I put on my best Luganda. And do you know what he did? In the middle of my narration, he got a call on his kabiriti and walked away to take it. He returned five minutes later, with the ‘Statimenti Book’, drew some lines in it- if I remember well, date, details etc, handed me a red Biro, and told me to write my statement in CAPITAL letters, and to clearly indicate where I lived- he called it “your place of residence”.
As I left, he promised that they would patrol the area in the night. He also gave me his telephone number (after I had asked for it).
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) did not disappoint. As he was busy thumping his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, and screaming at her daughter, “Gwe Divaini, vvayo ndage akakazi kano empisa!”, I dialed the policeman. It was around 10pm.
“Who is this?” “Where did you say you were?”, “You are the who?”, “The one who…”. Seems he was deep in sleep. So early?
“Come quickly!” I urged, wanting him to witness first-hand the viciousness of the thug who was beating his live-in girlfriend, aka wife, punching her face in all the wrong places- in front of her two young children and maid, who were all screaming at the same time. The noise! Just like popcorn.
I did not dare to come out of the house to be Mama Divaini’s Joan of Arc, just in case Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out his ‘shotgun’ and peppered me with pellets.
Anyway, the policemen did come. Armed. What annoyed me most was that they told Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) that someone had called them. “Who?” he demanded to know. Oba what did they tell him?
Then, they walked him out of the house and started kuwozaring with him. I heard a little bit from my front window. “Ssebo, don't beat your wife like that, eh. You know there are people in the house and you beat her like that, eh?” I expected, and wanted, them to march him off to the police station and throw him in the cells, and then throw away the key.
Instead he came back about 15 minutes later, swearing to do away with someone, whoever had called the cops on him.
Mama Divaini had had enough of his beatings. She was a nakawere, her baby was barely three months old. From what I learned later, Divaini (Her name was Divine, and she was one and a half years old) was not his daughter. Mama Divaini packed her things and left after a week, housemaid and all. Chairs, tables, bed, mattresses, percolator, buckets, slippers. Kila kindu.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a veteran for all I know) agenda okuda from his nocturnal jaunts, thumped on the door yelling for Mama Divaini to “come open up or else I’ma show you, I’ma beat the living daylights outta you!”. (I wonder who told him his fake American accent sounded cool) But Mama Divaini did not come to the door, nor did he beat the living daylights outta anyone. Instead, he looked for the warmest corner of his verandah, where he nodded off until morning when some of us, who went to work at 5am found him, cold and miserable. He resorted to playing Philly Bongole ballads to fill the void.
And then one day, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) disappeared. Peace and heaven in the neighborhood. After a week and a half, I returned home to find a meeting of the neighbors. They spoke in low tones. Someone had pasted a picture of the good old Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know), a newspaper article with his picture, with his buswiriri on his front door.
The story went that Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) had hired a ‘Special’ to Mayuge district, then he also took him deep into some village in Hoima and then back to his house on Mawanda road.
Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) said he was the DPC of Kira, the Division Police Commander. When it came to the time to pay, Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) pulled out a pistol and told the Special Hire driver that he was “gonna blow his bloody brains out so he berra shut the f*** up!” And then he disappeared into the night.
The Special Hire guy reported the case to police, and they came for Mr. Veteran (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) early one morning when he was still in his teeny nylon shorts that he called nighties.
And they carted him to the same Kira Police Station that he purported to be DPC of. A newspaper journalist looking for police report of the day wrote the story, took a picture of the suspect’s ID and the story was in the papers the next day.
And that was how some clever person got a hold of it and pasted it on Mr. Veteran’s (he may have been a wannabe for all I know) front door.
I dunno when he ever got out, because I moved house at the end of the week, but the remaining days were sheer bliss.
But I do know he got out because, six months after that as I was waiting for the salon lady to do my hair, I heard a familiar voice. I tell you, I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was him. He popped his head into the shop and I ducked.
You ask me why I did it. I don’t know why. But I did.

#thebossandher

In the last two or so weeks, there’s been that persistent rumor that the New Employee and the Boss are having a thing, that they’re ‘flinging’. Of course, these are idle-talkers peeping from the 'bumooli' because when you ask them for evidence, they avert their eyes, shuffle their feet and attempt to change the subject as they unconvincingly say, “You wait and see.”

Evidence of a dalliance of this calibre means that you have to have pictures of them giving each other secret smiles, you have to catch a word or two of their coded language… or actually catch them in flagrante delicto…something like that. But this is the type of juicy gossip that makes the world go round for those who have no work to do.

Okay, the Boss is known to have a thing for anything in a skirt, anything that wears heels (or flats), slathers on her matte lipstick and fake lashes, or wears a wig or piece. Or even if she doesn't have those add-ons, its okay. As long as it is female. He’ll find a way to wangle himself into her good books.

In addition to the thing for the skirt, he is also renowned for a roving eye and a smooth tongue. He has a dictionary of the right words to use- they just roll and roll off-, and when the situation calls for it, he knows just where to touch and how to soften the hard edges of even the toughest mother-in-law and make her giggle like a little girl.

It is also a well known fact, that Boss has wife- a faithful wife, a side-dish, a mistress, and several concubines. And—— if I may hasten to add, he is a good-looking piece, tall, six-pack (he does gym twice a day), and has lots of money to throw around (that those sources of money are suspect, is story for another day).

Boss has flunkies who run around for him, doing his dirty work. “Get me lunch- I want boiled beef and fried cassava from Munyonyo!”, “Take my car to the garage in Jinja!”. They bend and bow at his every word, sometimes they just sense that he is about to bark an order and act before he even opens his mouth. Some of the 'bumooli' brigade say that these minions have been sent to carry a message to New Employee. Notes. From the Boss of course.

Now, Ms. New Employee- the newest kid on the block. She joined the office in June. Came very highly recommended and beat all other interviewees hands down. The flying colors sort of chic. She has it going for her, still young, single (we don't know very much about her social status) and very attractive.

All the men-folk want to escort her to lunch, some approach her desk and don't even know what to say, they just stumble over their words like kindergarten kids. And she’s a likable, amiable sort.
But I have seen her at her worst, when she gave someone a dressing down for something he had done wrong, and oh! you wouldn't wanna be near her when she’s in this state, because she goes low, real low.

So, back to these gossips who allege that the fling is happening----

Someone says they caught the Boss eyeing her rear after she swung past him in the corridor. Others allege he has been Googling her name; then there are those who swear that they were Whatsapping each other during the meeting, and another very w-i-l-d allegation that they were espied in a car together. That the car was parked. Somewhere.

Someone else said Boss had sent his very trusted emissaries to ferry New Employee to his house in the dead of the night. But where is the evidence? Sorry, but I’m a doubting Thomas on this one.
I need to see them locked in embrace, blowing kisses, and doing those things that lovers do, and then "seeing will really become believing".

#abirigamister

So on Tuesday, social media was awash with the (shocking) long shot of the (now not so Honorable) MP Ibrahim Abiriga, he of Arua Municipality, relieving himself on the Finance ministry’s fence. His sunshine yellow automobile, with the engine probably running, was parked close by. I imagine this was what he told his driver, “Gundi gwe, nfa. First stop there. Kika! Bodyguard, twende, mi ndaka kojoa!"

Abiriga needs to be schooled on the etiquette of life on the upper side of town, where there are no signposts with “Usikojoe hapa”, “Tofuka wano. Fayini 100,000 shs”. Because, in this part of town, no-one expects anyone to go susuring (oba is it “cucuring?) like a stray dog. Those are things we do on village paths where you quickly slink into the bush, far away from any prying eyes, and ease yourself in the grass. No one will ever know. 

Abiriga needs to be schooled on the fact that everyone with a smart phone is a potential photographer. That these cameras can see through and around walls, through flower bushes, and in the dark. And that the color yellow which he loves to wear, down to the underpants, does nothing to help him hide in public.

He also needs a good 40-minute lesson, complete with practicals, on the virality on social media. He has made international news- BBC carried the story- for all the wrong reasons, not taking into account his sycophancy and his undying dedication to the color yellow. 

He has ably demonstrated that you can take a man out of the village, but it is an uphill task to take the village out of the man. MP Kato Lubwama came to his defense with a wry smile (is he also a roadside urinater?)- that when Abiriga felt the urge to go, then he had to go- because is diabetic. Granted. Naye he should have ordered his driver to drive like the devil was after them, to a nearby hotel, where the askaris would have fallen over themselves, saluting and calling him “Onalebo Age Limit”. 

Or better still, he could have thrown his bodyguard out of the back seat and made use of the good old plastic mineral water or soda bottle. 

But Abiriga aside—— one fine morning, on my way to work, a woman walking ahead of me nearly made me jump out of my skin when—— she suddenly crossed the road (near Mosa Courts), hitched her long skirt around her knees, squatted—— and right there, in full view of the walk to workers—— proceeded to water Jenny’s strip of newly planted grass—— a look of satisfaction spreading over her face as she emptied her bladder.

#whyher?

She was safe for now. For four more days at least. The lull had offered her some breathing space, some respite, even though her stomach churned when she imagined how she would handle the eventual assault when it came.
She could not exactly recall when the abuse started, but it must have been when she was really young. Nearly 23 now, but for years, she had been been touched, fingered, poked, probed, played about with. She detested it. All sorts of people, louts, thugs, ruffians, dirty hands. But it was not bad all the time, and she remembered there were some who had handled her with gentleness, and rewarded her well.
Now she was being threatened with rape, the worst abuse she could possibly face. Her tormentor had been sending emissaries for days. They circled her like hungry wolves, howling with laughter as they bared their fangs, and bayed long into the night for her blood. She heard them devise plots about how they would prepare her for the final slaughter, the final insult.
For nights she tossed and turned, slipping in and out of nightmares, and sometimes contemplating suicide. She wondered how it had come to this. That someone she knew so well would want to inflict this amount of abuse on a simple soul. Or did she know them well?
The master’s flunkies made sure to let her know how many days her torture would last before her tormentor finally held her down and made her his eternal slave.
As she sat in her musty cell, she also heard that there was another side, one that screamed, “No!” to the harm that those sadistic persecutors had sworn to inflict; a side that vowed to do everything in their power to shield her from that ugly devil’s calloused hands.
She also got news that some of the allies from her tormentor’s palace had joined forces with those she hoped would deliver her, in condemning their master’s act, and that they were burning the midnight oil, scheming about how they could cart her to safety. And freedom.
She knew there were other people out there who had the ultimate power to save her, that they only had to say one word and the pain and fear would all stop. They had watched over her in the past, and in some instances she had gotten temporary justice, some reprieve. And this time, a little mouse had whispered to her that they had intervened to save her from the hangman’s knee.
Now the day had come when she was to be taken before the judge, a judge who had acted as the police and her accuser.
And somehow, that judge was acting like they were not ready to condemn her. She looked him straight in the eye as he spoke lengthily, justifying why her case could not be heard and why it should be given more time, more consideration.
And that had offered a semblance of peace.
But how long would it last?

#everybody'sstory

One of my fondest memories as a child was sitting at the dining table and gazing out of the window beyond the backyard and outside the fence where people passed. Our house was built in such a way that it was raised. For hours I watched people pass by, to and fro, and even when there was no one I just watched the road. I looked at their faces, their hair, their clothes, the way they walked, the way they gestured and the way they talked if they were not alone. And when it got dark, then I retired and joined my sisters. That was one of my favorite pastimes.

The woman sitting next to me in the taxi with her seven year old son carrying a huge backpack filled with school books, clutching at three straw brooms and striding off, forgetting to give the taxi conductor his fare until he is rudely called back. She told me she survived an accident- the taxi in which she was traveling to work overturned after the brakes failed. She was six months pregnant at the time.

The elderly couple who drive by the bodaboda stage every day on their way to the farm in the village. They lost their home and worldly possessions in a fire six years ago. Everybody asks why they live in a rented house.

The man who is bringing his children up as a single father following a string of failed relationships. Their mother abandoned the family when the youngest was just six months old, and she ran off with another man. That daughter is autistic and needs special care and attention that he cannot afford to give by virtue of the work he does every night. He has decided to give her up for care in the UK.

Another single father whose eldest son has given him years of grief, playing truant from school, lying, cheating, and insulting the father who gave up everything. And then one day he turns up at his father’s office, after going missing from home for seven months, and throws himself at his father’s feet and begs for forgiveness.

That woman who vends sweets for a living. She has been on the streets for eight years and her boast is that she has been able to send money home to her widowed father, and has bought a piece of land on which she is building a two-roomed house which is at the roofing stage. She told me that KCCA goons have made her life hell, her project has stalled because they keep taking her merchandise.

That woman who smiles with everybody and laughs out loud at everything, but deep down, she is hiding a huge secret. She is married to a man she does not love because he abuses her mentally, telling her how fat she is, and when she tries to diet, he chides her on her loss of weight, comparing her to a sugarcane. She is at her wits end, now that she has heard that he is cheating on her with someone at the office, moreover, he is a church leader.

That nine-member family that lives in a two-roomed house. I know that this is not their mother, that she is the second wife and that the older children do not like her and have made her life a living hell. Her husband has been unemployed for a while now, though he does get a few odd deals fixing people’s electricity for a small fee. He was fired from his job with the electricity company and since then, life has gone downhill. His daughter told me she cannot concentrate in school because she is always so hungry and sometimes goes to be with some popcorn and water.

That man with the obsession to beat women. Whose father abandoned him to a step mother and only came home occasionally. Who never ever said a good word to his son, except that he was a good-for-nothing bastard, a “mbwa eno!” And it is from him that he learnt his crude gutter speak, that he was turned into man who never ever appreciated anything good about anything and anybody and turned his anger into violence.

That young woman who is struggling with a drug addiction that has wrecked her life; that single mother selling perfumes to raise her three daughters; that family that has lost three members to cancer in the space of one year; that father who hasn't seen his child in years because he is living illegally in another country and cannot return; that teenager who was bullied for her massive bust, because her breasts just kept growing and growing until she could carry them no more; that child whose grandmother poured a scalding hot sufuria of water on her abdomen and private parts; and another who was locked up in a chicken coop for five months; people who are struggling with sex addiction that at 70, they are still having children; those whose celebrity lives are on the wane; those shoulder high in debt; those fed up with their mundane jobs; those old homeless men who spend the night out in the cold at the City Square; the newly-weds who have suffered four miscarriages in one year; the people who cannot see, hear, speak for themselves; the ones who cannot sleep at night for vermin- bedbugs, cockroaches, rats, fleas; kids who have been sexually abused by their own parent; kids who cannot go to school for poverty and have to sell maize and oranges on the streets; kids who have everything they want; kids who are ostracized and called ‘point-five’ because they are of mixed heritage; the pregnant woman whose partner has been jailed for theft and left her with a mentally challenged son who is admitted to hospital; kids who have never seen their other parent and yet s/he exists but wants nothing to do with them; that girl who obsesses about her looks, her figure and her face; that young lady who is out on the streets every night, selling her body to all and sundry, not because she has to survive, but because that is the easiest way to make money; that girl who is struggling with her body image because she is fourteen and everybody says she is round and shapeless; that guy who wants to be part of the rugby team but is always relegated to the bench; that askari who is not respected the people he works for; the toilet cleaner who has seen all the mess that he can take; that teenager girl who is hiding a pregnancy that her father will surely kill her for when he finds out; that woman who has voices speaking in her head all the time, and her family do not believe her, they say she is imagining things; that woman whose life depends on spreading rumors; that woman who has been brutally raped; that woman who waits up for her husband every night to serve him dinner, even when she knows that he has been out with his side-dish; and the side-dish who spends that young man who has travelled the world; that older woman whose face was disfigured in a plane accident’ that man for who Saturday is the best day of the week because it means he can sleep in, have a heavy breakfast, have his nails done and his hair cut, have a long deep tissue massage, go to the gym, go out and eat a platter of pork or goat’s meat, go clubbing and pick up a girl for the night just because his wife is a hopeless drunk. The list is endless.

I love the human race. I am not obsessed.  I am more interested in their stories. I love to watch and to observe.
Everybody has a story.

#violaandthedrugs

She rubs her arms vigorously in an attempt to stave off the uncomfortable shiver. Her mouth is dry, the corners of her lips have wounds, caked with blood. She keeps looking around her nervously, like she is scared of something.
She doesn't wear a bra, and her breasts hang low. Her purple blouse falls off her shoulder.
After watching her for about a minute, I walk over,
introduce myself and hold out my hand.
She doesn't take it but looks at me suspiciously, kind of like, “back off!” "You asked to see me. I'm here."
I sit down and she instinctively folds her left leg under her. Her toes are dusty but the soles of her feet look soft. Her brown African leather and beaded sandals are grubby.
When she starts to speak, the smell of smoke on her breath is unmistakable. The first thing she says, more like a whisper, “ I need a fix real quick, otherwise I will burst, nja kwabika.”
Viola is 23, a mother of one - a three-year old girl. She started taking drugs four years ago when she met her boyfriend who is currently in jail for house-breaking. Her first shot was cocaine.
She shows me the black burn-like mark on her inner left wrist. “That is where I inject the drug, okwekuba empiso.”
There many small scars all over her hands, and a badly-done tattoo with the initials V N. Her nails are dirty, bitten down to the quick.
She says she dashed out of the house like a madwoman and now her head hurts and her joints are on fire.

Viola is hooked on crack. From what I know, I conclude it must be that, because she talks about using “file”, which I take to mean “foil”.
She calls it kayinja, a stone. (I recount seeing a story on TV where a woman was arrested for drugs in Kisenyi, and she nearly passed out in the police cell where she was held for hours. The policeman, scared by what he had witnessed (her spasming and screaming uncontrollably) let her out, and she fumbled as she took out the paraphernalia that she had smuggled in her panties- matchbox, foil and all. And in full view of the cameras, proceeded to light, and snort the dose through a tooter.)
Until three days ago, Viola was employed as a maid in a clinic in Kisenyi, in downtown Kampala. She has come here to rat on her former employers who called her a thief.
“That clinic is a drug den, not a place where they treat sick people. It is one of the three major drug dens there. One that is frequented by all and sundry, rich and poor. It is run by a woman posing as a nurse during the day."
Viola knows where the drugs are hidden. In a hole in the floor in the back room, the one where they pretend they are doing tests and administering medicine from. They place a basin on top of the hole and then push a bed over it, so you cannot know.
She continues, “That woman pays me in drugs, not money and yet she handles millions of shillings every day. I told her I need money to help my mother who is looking after my toddler daughter. Do you know that that woman made me wipe dirty floors? And then she made me cook and refused me to give me food, except once, when she threw me some leftovers."
Now she is getting edgy, and I suspect it is the reason she is looking all around her like she is scared of something.
“The drugs are wearing off. I had injected earlier today, at about 6:30am. I lied to my mother that I was sick and I wanted to go to Naguru hospital. She gave me 3,000 shillings. I walked all the way to Kisenyi, where I got someone to share the 5,000 shillings cost for a shot. 2,500 shillings each.

I ask if she has considered rehab.
“I went there once, actually, in February. But I escaped after two weeks. I went there when I felt I had had enough but they committed me to the mental cases’ ward. Can you imagine?
Viola hesitates before going on, like she’s trying to recall something. Then her eyes tear as she recounts how a mental patient attacked her and pulled her blanket off the bed as she took an afternoon nap.
“That ‘takkey” (cold turkey) phase was without doubt, the worst experience of my life. I had no appetite, I had diarrhea for four days, a migraine and I there were things that attacked me all the time. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I just fled.”
She says someone told her mother about her spell in the mental institution. But she doesn’t know who.
“But she believes that I am now clean, and when I say I am sick, she thinks I have malaria.”
Then she goes quiet as she stares at the two women sitting opposite us.
“I once looked really good. Nga mbakuba! I will bring you my pictures. Ah!”
Her hand goes up to her shabby coils as she describes how long her dreadlocks were, about how healthy her body was, and how the skin on her face glowed with beauty. That is only a memory now.
She cannot stand her friends seeing her like this, the ones who knew her four years ago, before she hooked up with the addicts. She is ashamed of where life has taken her, she is embarrassed that the whole village calls her the druggie. So when she spots them, and she is good at seeing them first before they see her, she dives into the shortcuts. But of late, she has resorted to hiding under a veil, or walking in the night because then, she doesn't have to look at the ground as she walks, and no one will see her.
What about marijuana, I am curious to know.
Enjaga, she calls it, gives her thoughts about death. Like she starts seeing herself dead.
Suicidal thoughts? Yes, and it also makes her depressed, she hears voices and sees things chase her and she wants to die. Like when she was in rehab. “Terrible, terrible!”
Because her mother is so poor and cannot afford a bed for Viola, she sleeps on a bench in the tiny house. “Anyway, I cannot even lie down comfortably on a bed because it makes my body hurt and I fidget all night. On the nights when I have a good sleep, is when I have has taken a shot and four sleeping pills.”
There are instances when Viola will disappear from home for weeks on end and her mother has no idea where she is. She says a force takes over her mind and her body and leads her out. Like it is holding her hand and pulling her away to search for her next fix.
“So what do you tell your mother when you suddenly show up again?”
“Hmm… nothing. She doesn’t even ask.”
But now she wants to reform. She is tired, her body and mind are suffering.
She is scared of the pain of a body without a fix.
She is tired of worrying about where she will get money to buy more drugs, and wondering if she will continue selling her body or stealing.
“And if you do get the chance to reform, what next for you?”
“Njagala bizinensi y'okutunda a’manda. Selling charcoal. I plan to relocate to Munyonyo or … (she is thinking), I could go to the islands- ebizinga- and get away from it all. But I have a huge problem with water, I get a bad feeling like I am drowning.”
I get the opportunity to ask the one question I have been wanting to ask. Where did it all start?
She takes me past that- before she met the drug-pusher who misled her. She had left school when she was about 14. But she quickly learnt her mother’s trade. Her mother sold raw matooke and charcoal. Viola had struck out on her own when she was about 18, and went to live in Nansana. She had even taken out a loan to start business and pay rent. Her mind wanders off and she doesn't finish that story. And I don’t push for more information. I just let her talk and talk.

Her father died when she was young- she doesn’t remember what age- but she has older and younger siblings. Her older siblings, in her words,” do not want to know” about her situation. That they all have their own problems to deal with.
Something else she learned was to insert a cannula in her hand to administer an intravenous infusion- saline water - which gives her a lot of relief. She mastered the art when she worked at the clinic, sometimes attending to patients. She laughs, “It is even cheaper than the cocaine. Cannula, 500 shillings. Saline water, 1,500 shillings."
Viola is in a place where the mental ignores the physical, and then sometimes the physical ignores the mental and at other times they conspire against her. She is confused.
“Madam, do you know why there are so many petty thieves in town, the type that snatch phones and handbags? They have to feed their drug habit. They take your gadget worth 500,000 shillings and sell it for 10,000 shillings. That’s how much the needle has taken over their lives and become their demanding boss, and they, its slave.”

She is a slave under the yoke, knowing what harm her body and mind are being subjected to but she must get high.
Now she is peeing and pooing blood and she is scared. She doesn't like it but she doesn't know how to stop it, and again, her eyes well up. There’s so much anguish in her glazed eyes.
We have now talked for more than an hour and I say I have to get back to an assignment. I tell her that the road to recovery starts with her and if she’s ready to walk the journey, then I will help her.
She looks into the distance, I don’t know if it is that she’s not convinced, or she doesn't know where to start.
For her, life is not about five years in the future, it is about how soon she can get something into her bloodstream. 

Then she asks for fare to get her back home. I look straight in her eyes. She hesitates a bit, then laughs.
We both know what the money is for. As I walk through the corridor to my desk, I wrestle with my thoughts about feeding her habit. I think of her little girl, I think of her mother, I think about her body and her bony shoulders.
I put some money in an envelope and take it to her.
"Save some for your little girl."

#ofwitchcraft

The first I saw of her, she was running. Very fast, towards us. With a baby. And she was crying, her face stained with tears and mucous that threatened to slide into her mouth. But she had another mission. I looked at her as she passed us. She looked devastated. “Nyabo, kiki? Omwana abadde ki?” The sight of her and the baby took me back 22 years ago when I desperately ran to Mulago hospital with my son who was seriously ill.
“Wuiii! Wuiiii!” She cried harder. “Si mwana! Nina ebizibu, omwami wange ayagala kututta!” That her husband or boyfriend, or lover, wanted to kill them.
I quickly abandoned the visitor I was chatting with, and said my hurried goodbyes.
Her baby couldn't have been older than a week. I suspect that his umbilical cord was still attached. He was wrapped carelessly in a multicolored checkered blankie. I offered her a chair and she sat down heavily.
“Kiki?”
She repeated the statement about her husband. “He wants us dead. My sister and the children are hiding in a lodge in Kamwokya, that’s where we spent the night. I have no idea how they are but when my sister called me about ten minutes ago, she said that my first-born daughter was having a seizure and foaming at the mouth! That was what happened to my other son yesterday, before we fled the home in Nansana! You have to help me! I want to go on the TV and tell my story! That man is wicked! He must be stopped before he kills all of us! Help me please before we all die!! She leaped up as she shouted the last two sentences, making as if to enter the building.
I was kind of lost. Her story had a torso but no head, legs and hands. “Nyabo, sooka otuule wansi onnyumize story yo nga ogiva ku ntobo.” I needed details. But just then the baby started wailing.
“Feed her,” I implored.
“Nedda, kano kalenzi! (She was informing me that the child was male, not female) Omusajja agenda kututta! Omusajja atumalawo!!”
She started shaking the baby. Vigorously. Willing him to shut his mouth.
“Nze gwolaba nze, ndi nakawere wa weeksi emu n’ekitundu!” Baby was only one and a half weeks old. “My husband has accused me of bewitching him and his relatives! Can you believe he accused me of taking my children to a witch doctor!”
“When did this start? By the way, what is your name?”
“I am called Fiona Madinah. Trouble started about five years ago, when my husband brought some majiini home. I tell you, the things I have seen!”
She paused and breathed heavily.
“What did you see? What happened?”
“So many things had been happening, we couldn't sleep at night because there were voices that spoke in the dark, sometimes you’d feel something touching your head and when you woke up, there was nothing. Other times, there was the stench of rotting flesh in out bedroom but I was the only one who could smell it! But that day, what I saw made me really believe that my husband is an evil person!”
I waited, willing her to get to the “shocking” point.
“One evening, about three weeks ago, I had not even given birth yet, I was in the kitchen when I heard him approaching. I came out and went behind the kitchen. You know, our kitchen is outside. When he came back, he didn't enter the house. He went to the compound, just outside our front door. Then he knelt down and dug a small hole with a stick. Then he put something inside that hole. He had come with a sheep on a rope and tied it to a tree somewhere near the path leading to the banana plantation. Then he went and untied that sheep. Suddenly, the animal started talking… In a man’s voice!”
“What was it saying?” It’s kind of scary but I have my doubts.
“It was speaking in a man’s voice! You couldn't hear what it was saying, but it had a deep voice, not ‘maaaaing’ like a sheep, it was a man’s voice! I was so scared! That night I took the children out of the house and we slept outside!”
“Are you a Christian?”
I could tell that that question threw her off balance.
“Eh? Yes, you see, I was a Christian before I got married to this man, but he made me become a Muslim when he got a second wife. That woman is the one bringing this zahama to our home, and yet me I decided that I was not going to cook with another woman so I went to the witch doctor so that he could leave her!”
“So you ALSO went to the witch doctor?”
She takes some time to answer the question and looks on the floor, making patterns with her foot.
“Yes, what did he expect me to do? I had to go and get something to make him love me again!”
“It seems there’s a lot of ‘going to the witch doctor” in your home?”
“Yes! What do you expect me to do?”
She was getting really worked up and shaking the baby so hard, I feared for its health. It wailed harder.
“Feed the child nyabo!”
“I don’t have breast milk! We haven't eaten since yester…”
Just then, her phone rings. It’s a Techno with a loud, very weird ringtone.
“Wanji!” She yells. “Ndi wano, agenda k’unteeka kumpewo! Baleeta camera!”
I am aghast. Nobody has promised to put her on air. And nobody has promised to bring a camera to film her.
She talks some more with her sister as I stand up and stretch. When she is done, I tell her we need to get the baby out of the cold.
“That was my sister,” she said. “The lodge owner has ordered them out! Kyokka they have not eaten since yesterday!”
“How much do you owe him?”
“30,000 shillings. But we haven’t eaten since yesterday and the children are so hungry!”
“And how is your daughter? The one with the seizures?”
“My sister says she has recovered!”
To be honest, I didn't know what to do for her. I realized I was trying to hold on as long as I could find a solution.
As luck would have it, a work colleague sauntered by. “What’s the matter? Why is the woman crying?”
I narrated what the woman had told me, but it was as disjointed and full of gaps as I could understand it. My colleague sat down opposite the mother and asked more questions. She said she needed to get to the bottom of the problem. I walked away and back to my desk for a few minutes. It was getting dark and I worried what would be of this woman and her children.
When I returned to the reception a few minutes later, my colleague was dialing the Police. She said that after getting the “whole” story, and if there was a threat to life involved, the Police was best placed to deal with it.
The Police Spokesperson for Kampala Metropolitan Emilian Kayima  offered to help and called back within a few minutes. He said that the Police in Nansana would be sending a car to pick up the lady, and then go to Kamwokya and pick the kids and their aunt. Soon enough, the Police truck arrived and we handed the mother over to a Policewoman who said she was from the family department.

#ohrats!

 

I’m not buying anything from the corner shop any more.
Because of what happened on Saturday evening when I got to the kaalo rather late. At about midnight.

There were no bodaboda motorbikes at the stage where they usually park, with their riders supping on chapati and beans.
It was a cold night owing to the earlier downpour.
And so I walked from the bodaboda stage and waited near the corner shop which was still open.
The chapati-maker was frying his wares. It looked like he had just started for the night.
Then I saw something that made my heart stop. Actually, I kind of felt it.
The feeling was weird.
I must have been the only one who saw it because the shop-woman was busy arguing with a customer who wanted to pay less for the two sticks of tobacco that he had taken.
She had moved to the door to try and snatch them back.
The other man who was there was speaking animatedly on his mobile phone.
An animal in form of a giant rodent, a humongous black rat that was nearly the size of a kitten, had snuck on to the top shelves and was sniffing around the five or so packets of wheat flour.
Then it started biting at one of them.
When the cigarette man raised his voice in disagreement, the rat was startled and momentarily paused its nibbling.
Then it made its way to where the packs of spaghetti were stacked and sniffed around. Nothing there. It ran across the cheap rolls of toilet paper, on top of the 32-page exercise books and on to the lower shelf where the bars of soap were displayed.
Past that and on to the packs of sanitary pads.
Just then the shop-woman turned and reached for the packets of tea-leaves.
The rat jumped to the floor, disappearing into the many open kutiyas of grain and sugar.
The woman let out a blood-curdling scream.

#pokingandprobing

These endless probes, investigations, commissions of inquiry- call them whatever you want- that get us all excited and hot under the collar at the same time. Roads, Land, Police, Golden Handshakes, Telecom Fraud, CHOGM, Health, Oil, Tycoons, Education, Markets, Examinations. Graft, shoddy work, corruption, bakshish, malpractices, ka-chai.

The revelations from these investigations cause heated debate and make headlines for days; members of probing committees sit in comfortable chairs with huge flasks of milky tea and crunchy meat samosas at their disposal; the investigators are paid huge allowances for their time; some are even accorded bodyguards on account of the danger they have put themselves into, owing to the barrage of tough questions they keep shooting at the subjects who shiver and shake and want to pee on themselves ,and others who give the most arrogant answers there are. Sometimes the magnitude (read: importance) of what is being investigated even gets hours of live proceedings on TV.
 
After days and even months of endless probing, investigating and inquiring- call it whatever you want, a 1,000-page report is compiled; it is bound in blue and yellow ribbons; journalists are invited to “capture the historic moment” as the report is handed over in a flurry of camera flashes, vigorous handshakes, practiced poses and plastic smiles. The press are fed a few highlights on the recommendations from the report; they race back to their newsrooms to let the editors decide how best to craft tomorrow’s headline, and how to script the 6 and 9pm top story. 

And that’s it. Nothing comes of the endless probes, investigations, commissions of inquiry- call them whatever you want.
 
No one is ever brought to book; no one is ever arrested; no one is courteous enough to resign; no one is prosecuted; no one hangs their head in shame; and no one ever asks for accountability. We just drink our ginger-flavored tea, eat puffy mandazis, drink beer and sip on malwa in the bars where we all become a super analyst of sorts; devour our nsaniyas of pork, and chomp on chicken bones as we watch the news on television and shake our heads and shout about it over the dinner table, and then ruminate over it in our offices the next morning. 

And public resources continue to be wasted; corruption continues to thrive; people continue to die at home and in poorly equipped health centers; others continue to walk to work; their houses are flooded when it rains; farmers continue to earn peanuts for all their toil in the sun; bridges continue to collapse; drivers continue to drive carelessly; contractors continue to do shoddy work; the wretched-forgotten continue to sleep among their goats and chickens; and their land continues to be stolen; they continue to be evicted; their police cases continue to be bungled; and they continue to make good with third-rate services.

And then there is another inquiry and life goes on.

#thebestformilesaround

You contract someone to do a job. Its a face to face interview. They’ve been recommended highly, ‘the best for miles around’ you were told. Three days only, you need them. Between 9am to 6pm. You shake hands, the deal is sealed. Work begins tomorrow. Then, “But I need transport money,” they say. Okay.

Day One. They arrive at 9.30am. They’re not carrying any work clothes or equipment. You leave them to go about their work. 45 minutes into their pottering about, you hear a phone ring. “Kale nzija. Muli Kibuli? Muyingire awo ku ka lestolanti nja kusasula.” They are communicating to someone in Kibuli to have something to eat at a restaurant, and that they will clear the bill when they get there.
They then matter-of-factly inform you that they are done with the job for today because they had “only come to check on the magnitude of work they have to deal with, but that they will be here by 8.30am tomorrow.” And before you have time to say “Naye we agreed…”, they have bolted like a dog stealing a bone. Vanished. Melted into thin air.
Of course you’re disappointed but you decide to give them the benefit of the doubt. After all… they came highly recommended as the ‘best for miles around’.

Day Two. You’re at the site by 8am. It becomes 9am. You go about your work till 10am. (They had actually had the nerve to diss ‘BanaUganda who do not value time!’ on the day when you were signing the deal- said in a Tamale Mirundi - like gritting-of-the-teeth fashion.) The clock ticks its way to 11am. 12pm, the sun is high in the sky. No sign of the ‘highly recommended’ expert, 'the best for miles around'. You decide against calling. You give up, do your stuff and head home. Maybe they ran into a problem, Maybe this. Maybe that. But your doubts are setting in.

Day Three. You have new hope.
But it is the same story. No show. Now, you’re really disappointed. At 6pm, a tiny flicker of “Maybe… just maybe…,” makes you pick up the phone- they could be injured, or sick, or lying in a kidnappers' den somewhere. But you don't want to apply a 'nkweguya' tone. You also check that your mad (read: angry) voice is safely tucked away, then call.
“Ha, nvuga. I’m driving and can’t hear you. Call me later,” they say. And they switch off. But the background was really quiet. Or was it your ears? Anyway, you’re so done.
Three and a half hours later, they call back. On some number, not the Airtel and Airtel they gave you. “Auntie”, they start.
Oh, so now they’re calling you Auntie, and yet on the day of the deal signing it was “Madaamu”. Yeah, you have suddenly become all chummy.
“Yes…”, you’re feeling stern. As stern as Mummy when you would ask for something after you had disobeyed her order to set the table and went out to play instead.
They start the unending greetings. “Gyebale egyeyo.” Thanking you for work.
You say, “Gwe ani?”. Who is speaking please? But you know who it is. Don’t delay the eventualities. Get to the point!
“Munnange Auntie, nafuna omulimu n'abazungu. Naye nzija next week.”
You keep mum, thinking, “Oh, so the bazungus put a gun to your head and forced you to go work for them? And you relegated my work to next week. Work for which you will be paid! What happened to courtesy?” You look out of the window to see if it flew out.
“Auntie,” they start again.
“Wanji.” Yes?
“Nze mbadde ngamba nti I will come…”
“Mpulidde ssebo.” You hope that will stop them in their lying tracks.
“Kati mbadde nsaba ompereze ssente za transport…” They want fare. AGAIN! Before they have even started the job. And they are asking for more money!
*********************************************************************************
You very quietly put the phone on the table and let the one who came highly recommended, 'the best for miles around', speak to the air.

#cubs

Easy for you to say when you are working in a media house that has the financial resources. Agreed, they were blaring out the facts, calling a spade a spade, but I could not help but feel that there was an air of pomposity. One of them pocketing (read “swag) and un-pocketing as he spewed about his experiences, the other droning on and on with a presentation he said he did "not need to prepare a paper for".

It is good to recount experiences, it is good to let the rookies know what they are in for, but if you are offering encouragement for what it is worth, then please avoid sounding ominous. Avoid making the profession look like it is only the strong-willed, and hard-hearted who can “endure” journalism.

Problem is, there are so many rookies out there who do not have the slightest idea what they are doing. Being paid a paltry 2,000 shillings per story you do (mind you, that is used on air) is no incentive for you to go spending a day or two digging into a story for which you may find yourself staring into a barrel of a gun before it is even aired. And I am referring to radio journalists here, because they have ruined the profession. They are in their droves. Each time I chance to go out to the “field” I see five new faces. Rushing in, rushing out. Late, untidy. No inkling whatsoever, of what is going on. Interrupting an interview. Thrusting a recorder into an interviewee’s face. Asking the wrong questions. Spelling wrong. Asking half-baked questions. Not reading. I tell you, the list is long.

I have been in this profession 14 years now. I know what I want. To be a good news reader. But I also know what makes a good news story. Good for reading. Good to listen to. And good to watch. And it not that ‘Ken Lukyamuzi Da Man has said that Ugandans must follow the law if they want to be abiding citizens”, or “Warid Telecom has launched its Pakasurf internet services in a ceremony that was attended by the Marketing Manager and fellow staff.” Give me a break!

I started my radio career at Radio Uganda, government owned. Terrible place at the time. There was hardly any supervision and the bosses couldn’t give a damn about what you wrote, all they needed was a PR story about one or other government minister trying to catch the eye of the president. I remember many a time when I would be sent to “cover” a story” but would be asked to “make sure you see so and so after the event”. The brown envelope. To be honest, much as I felt so stupid, I imagined this was journalism. Brown envelopes. And out of 300,000 shillings, the “boss” would hand you a 10,000 shillings note! Walking to and from an event across town. Going without breakfast and lunch. Having your story subjected to the trash can by the editor (along with it being called rubbish and being tossed into the trash can as you watched).

But that is what toughened me. And that is what hardened my resolve never to return to that ugly place. And they wanted to retain us. But that was the era of Ugandan radio going FM. After trying a stint in TV and being horribly scarred by the terrible experience of sexual harassment by a garlic-eating stodgy Indian boss ,who wanted to know if I had a boyfriend and who asked to buy me a red dress for Valentine’s day, I decided that the screen was not my thing then.

With a huge amount of trepidation and timidity on my shoulder, I re-ventured into radio. As a reporter. Then, I learnt, that this is not an 8-5 job. Actually, I was working 9-9. With two young children, and earning a paltry sum at the end of the month, no allowances whatsoever, no lunch. But I was on the airwaves. Better than dratted Radio Uganda.

There are the per diems, transport allowance, disturbance fees, blah blah blah. There is the free lunch, breakfast, cocktails, media bashes and drink-ups on rich men’s yachts, freebies like t-shirts, diaries, pens, up country trips- they will come up with practically anything and everything under the sun to see that we are in their pockets.

Today, one of these “agencies” has the nerve to call the Editor and demand to know what time the “story” ran (most probably some PR something). And you ask, “do you own this radio station?!” And they go like, “But we paid your reporter!” I am like “What??” “Yeah, we gave him 10,000 shillings!” God!