I told the doctor (who looked much younger than me) that "please could he not prescribe chloroquine tablets or an injection.
"Chloroquine!" he laughed. “We don't give that any more.”
It then dawned on me just how out of touch with malaria I had grown
over the years given that my last serious bout was in high school.
The late '80s were bad for malaria patients in school. Let me speak for
myself. Because after you had carried your shivering self to the medical
room, the options for treatment were
limited to chloroquine tablets or, yes, chloroquine injections. The
injection was fished out of a huge vat of boiling water. It looked
really menacing so you would quickly ask for the white tablets. Which
were very special in their own way.
One, they smelt bad. Oh, they
smelt terrible! That smell I cannot even put in words, but it's stored
in my memory and it's making me shudder.
Two, they were
B-I-T-T-E-R!! From the minute the nurse put them in your palm, to when
they hit your tongue, to when you gulped them down with water. And the
taste lingered on long after you had swallowed them under the watchful
eye of the nurse who ensured they went down your throat and didn't
disappear into the folds of your sweater.
Three, (the one that takes
the cake!) they caused you such discomfort in the form of itching. I'm
not sure if it was an ingredient inside the tablets, or if it was my
blood type (because there were people who didn't itch and who happily
swallowed the pills). For three long days and nights you sat on your
bunk, hunched forward, hugging a pillow on your lap. Scratching,
slapping your skin until it was raw. The itching didn't spare the nether
regions and it was so uncomfortable that you yelped when the sharp
prickle came. And the prickles sometimes attacked with such viciousness
that sufferers burst into tears as the "inching" got intense.
Water
was a no-go area, even if it was hot. You had to make sure the mukonda
of the cup of tea was dry, because even a drop of water was disaster.
Sometimes for the duration of the itching, you wouldn't bathe or use
Vaseline, and so your face looked ashy and utterly miserable, and your
hair was unkempt, and you wondered why other people were so happy and
you were not.
It was okay when your roommates were around, regaling
you with tales of what happened in class and some brushing your feet to
help ease the itching, but when the lights went off and everyone was
asleep... that's when sickness became really lonely.
The nurse
suggested swallowing the tabs with a pinch of salt. Or she would
occasionally prescribe Prednisone, but it didn't work either.
But
then we moved on to the Fansidars and Metakelfins, and Quinines and
that's when I really lost touch with antimalarials. Until Thursday, when
the fever came knocking.
Tuesday 31 January 2017
Wednesday 25 January 2017
#umarumyknight
The BBC’s Umaru Fofana live-tweeted the events that happened in The Gambia last week, when President Yahya Jammeh had refused to cede power after conceding a few weeks ago, that he had indeed lost the election to Adama Barrow. He did eventually leave but not before plundering the Central Bank’s coffers, and taking along several luxury items and cars. But Jammeh and his turncoat ways are not the gist of my story. It is actually about this brave journo Umaru Fofana, who, on the occasion I met him, instantly became my knight in shining armor.
The year was 2013.
Month, November.
Location, Ouagadougou. No, let me put that right—— scorching hot Ouagadougou.
Reason I was there- Media conference for a week.
My predicament - an Arab proposing marriage just hours after we met!
Firstly, the trip had been long and arduous, what with the West Africans treating the Ethiopian Airlines jetliner like a matatu of sorts. Speaking loudly across the aisles in their local dialects, and sauntering around the plane like it was a recreation park! It was a huge relief when we dropped them off in a country somewhere, I can’t recall which one. Was I glad to see the back of them!
Uganda’s current heatwave is nothing compared to what blasted through the doors of the airplane when we landed in Burkina Faso. It was like a cremation chamber. The Burkinabes were extremely courteous, and had it all laid out for us. They had obviously gone to great lengths, because the poverty in that country is evident as you drive along the dry dusty streets.
Away from the heat, the other problem were the hotels. Save for two, the rest in which we were booked were run-down. I and two other guys ended up in a cheap place that I will admit, looked like flea-infested whore-house in Korogocho slum. And here it was that I also had my first encounter with the Arab from Sudan, who was one of the participants at the conference. His name was Hemed somebody. He carried a black ‘no-problem’ bag, with the straps trailing along the ground as we were taken on a tour of the hotel, which was a no-no from the get-go.
The reception area was dark and gloomy. Dingy. And stuffy. The wigged receptionist with rouged lips and tight green skirt could not locate the ‘register’ for our bookings. We did not understand French. So there was a lot of sign language going on.
A quick glance outside the windows (which had no panes) in the excuse for a dining hall looked out into what was supposed to be a swimming pool, but which had turned into a dirty brown tiled crater. It had probably last seen water a couple of decades ago. We wanted to turn back at this stage.
Madam Receptionist insisted that we should at least see the rooms, there were some free, she said. So, up to the first floor she led us, in her dusty plastic slippers. The first room she showed us felt like an oven. It was a 10x10, with a bed stuffed into a corner, and no space between it and the wardrobe, so it was up to the guest to figure out where to put their belongings. Arab man was being very gentlemanly and wanted to carry my handbag, but I politely declined.
To cut a long story short, we rejected the rooms outright. We would not be sleeping in musty cells, on furniture covered in brown sheets and dodgy-looking blankets. Besides, the rooms looked out on to a street along which bicycles and motorcycles were repaired, and there was a lot of banging and clanging going on. And, before I forget— the sun set on that side of the building.
We ended up sitting dejectedly on an old wooden bench outside the building, as the ushers made desperate calls to the organizers to arrange better accommodation.
As I was busy drowning in thoughts of denial about if I was being a diva, or simply being realistic, the Arab started, “Oh, I am happy to meet a fellow East African!” His words came out staccato-like. “You said you are from Ouguanda?”
“Yes.”
“And you are working for what?”
“Uh? I’m working for money, working for passion.”
“No. I am meaning, you are working for a newspaper, magazine, television…?”
“Oh, I work with a radio station. A commercial radio station.”
The conversation continued, mainly about work, the weather and family. I wanted to keep it sane. He worked for a magazine and had three children. His wife stayed at home and cleaned the house, cooked the meals. Meanwhile, Adam the Egyptian was swearing to the perplexed ushers, in their purple t-shirts branded with the conference details, demanding his return ticket, because he could get a better place to sleep in Egypt.
After what seemed like a couple of hours in the sun, dust and din, we were moved to another hotel, a little bit better. Adam threw another tantrum, and Hemed was swallowed into it, and off they were shipped to another hotel. I was happy to see them go because now I was thankfully free from the Arab’s questions. Little did I know that I had made the grave mistake of giving him my number.
After I had tucked into the whole poulet and the bowl of riz, half of which I returned to the cook, I retired to my cramped furnace-like quarters. At least there was a shower and hot water. And air-conditioning, which I immediately turned on. The wooden door looked like it could be kicked in, but it didn't even matter at this stage, because I was so exhausted and all I wanted to do was to lay my body down.
My phone beeped and my screen lit up. “Sleep well, I love you.” No name, just a foreign number I was seeing for the first time.
I wondered who it could be. Then I saw the +249.
“!!!!!!” I was irked. The cheek! It must be the heat that was messing with his head.
I ignored it and didn't reply.
The next day, the Arab, perhaps a little too anxiously, asked me if I had seen his message. We were in the middle of a tea break after the first session of the conference, and he got the opportunity to slip into our circle and stood next to me.
“The message of mine, you got it, yes?”
I raised my eyebrows and narrowed my eyes, feigning puzzlement.
“The message I sent on your phone yesterday.”
There was no way I was getting out of this one.
“Oh, yes. I saw it, I saw it.”
“Yes Linda, I like you very much."
Uncomfortable silence. He was looking at my face to see my reaction.
"Did you like the message? Actually, I want to marry you.”
The words came out like a machine gun. A repeat of the staccato. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
I nearly dropped the cup. In the same second, I took a sip of the hot liquid and it burnt my mouth. I spat it out.
“What??!!” I sounded like I was choking.
The women in the circle looked at me. My mouth was agape. The Arab was probably waiting for an answer after springing his “primitive” proposal. I mumbled an apology and fled. I guess they thought I was disturbed or something. That maybe I had put salt in the tea, or the chilly in the samosa was too hot.
The second session went quick. My mind occasionally darted back to what the Arab had said. And even though I was recovering from the shock, I was repulsed. How do you make such an offer to someone you hardly know? What if I was a night dancer? Maybe they didn't have night dancers in Sudan, how would he know? Was this his culture? That you just see a woman and like her and want to make her your wife? Was he just naive and didn't know the meaning of the word “love”? How do you belittle the word “love”? Maybe I was just overreacting, or was I?
I looked over at him, hunched forward, straining to hear what the interpreter was saying through his headphones. He smiled occasionally, showing his small sharp upper teeth.
Lunch was across the road from the conference venue. The Arab used the opportunity to sidle close, offering to hold my bag and materials. Again! I politely declined, not glancing in his direction. My eyes were already scanning the area in front of us, for table that was nearly full. Thank God there was one with a space available. Full of people who spoke French, but what the heck!
“Oh, you have sitted there? Come and we sit over here.” His r’s were emphasized.
I rolled my eyes. “No, I want to sit here.” Firmly. God, this man was becoming a louse.
I think the women had got wind of what was happening. (From what I later found out, Hemed the Arab had attended this kind of conference twice before, and had ended up wooing other women, who had declined his advances).
He pulled a chair. The table had six places and they were all occupied. “Will I get you a soda?” His desperate attempts at making small talk were fraying my nerves.
And that was when my knight in shining armor appeared. From nowhere. In a pink shirt and grey patterned tie. And thick-rimmed glasses.
I wondered who he was.
“Sir, why don't you leave the lady alone, eh??!” he demanded loudly. One of the women sniggered.
Hemed the Arab looked up, scared and lost.
“Don’t you have better things to do? If she doesn't want to be disturbed, then respect her wishes. And her space!”
The Arab could not believe his ears.
“Yes, you leave herrr elone!” One of the women said in a French accent. They erupted into laughter.
Hemed the Arab stood up and slunk away to another table.
Umaru Fofana, my savior, my champion, my protector jumped on to his white steed and rode gallantly away.
And I enjoyed my lunch of succulent boiled poulet, bread and potatoes in peace.
The year was 2013.
Month, November.
Location, Ouagadougou. No, let me put that right—— scorching hot Ouagadougou.
Reason I was there- Media conference for a week.
My predicament - an Arab proposing marriage just hours after we met!
Firstly, the trip had been long and arduous, what with the West Africans treating the Ethiopian Airlines jetliner like a matatu of sorts. Speaking loudly across the aisles in their local dialects, and sauntering around the plane like it was a recreation park! It was a huge relief when we dropped them off in a country somewhere, I can’t recall which one. Was I glad to see the back of them!
Uganda’s current heatwave is nothing compared to what blasted through the doors of the airplane when we landed in Burkina Faso. It was like a cremation chamber. The Burkinabes were extremely courteous, and had it all laid out for us. They had obviously gone to great lengths, because the poverty in that country is evident as you drive along the dry dusty streets.
Away from the heat, the other problem were the hotels. Save for two, the rest in which we were booked were run-down. I and two other guys ended up in a cheap place that I will admit, looked like flea-infested whore-house in Korogocho slum. And here it was that I also had my first encounter with the Arab from Sudan, who was one of the participants at the conference. His name was Hemed somebody. He carried a black ‘no-problem’ bag, with the straps trailing along the ground as we were taken on a tour of the hotel, which was a no-no from the get-go.
The reception area was dark and gloomy. Dingy. And stuffy. The wigged receptionist with rouged lips and tight green skirt could not locate the ‘register’ for our bookings. We did not understand French. So there was a lot of sign language going on.
A quick glance outside the windows (which had no panes) in the excuse for a dining hall looked out into what was supposed to be a swimming pool, but which had turned into a dirty brown tiled crater. It had probably last seen water a couple of decades ago. We wanted to turn back at this stage.
Madam Receptionist insisted that we should at least see the rooms, there were some free, she said. So, up to the first floor she led us, in her dusty plastic slippers. The first room she showed us felt like an oven. It was a 10x10, with a bed stuffed into a corner, and no space between it and the wardrobe, so it was up to the guest to figure out where to put their belongings. Arab man was being very gentlemanly and wanted to carry my handbag, but I politely declined.
To cut a long story short, we rejected the rooms outright. We would not be sleeping in musty cells, on furniture covered in brown sheets and dodgy-looking blankets. Besides, the rooms looked out on to a street along which bicycles and motorcycles were repaired, and there was a lot of banging and clanging going on. And, before I forget— the sun set on that side of the building.
We ended up sitting dejectedly on an old wooden bench outside the building, as the ushers made desperate calls to the organizers to arrange better accommodation.
As I was busy drowning in thoughts of denial about if I was being a diva, or simply being realistic, the Arab started, “Oh, I am happy to meet a fellow East African!” His words came out staccato-like. “You said you are from Ouguanda?”
“Yes.”
“And you are working for what?”
“Uh? I’m working for money, working for passion.”
“No. I am meaning, you are working for a newspaper, magazine, television…?”
“Oh, I work with a radio station. A commercial radio station.”
The conversation continued, mainly about work, the weather and family. I wanted to keep it sane. He worked for a magazine and had three children. His wife stayed at home and cleaned the house, cooked the meals. Meanwhile, Adam the Egyptian was swearing to the perplexed ushers, in their purple t-shirts branded with the conference details, demanding his return ticket, because he could get a better place to sleep in Egypt.
After what seemed like a couple of hours in the sun, dust and din, we were moved to another hotel, a little bit better. Adam threw another tantrum, and Hemed was swallowed into it, and off they were shipped to another hotel. I was happy to see them go because now I was thankfully free from the Arab’s questions. Little did I know that I had made the grave mistake of giving him my number.
After I had tucked into the whole poulet and the bowl of riz, half of which I returned to the cook, I retired to my cramped furnace-like quarters. At least there was a shower and hot water. And air-conditioning, which I immediately turned on. The wooden door looked like it could be kicked in, but it didn't even matter at this stage, because I was so exhausted and all I wanted to do was to lay my body down.
My phone beeped and my screen lit up. “Sleep well, I love you.” No name, just a foreign number I was seeing for the first time.
I wondered who it could be. Then I saw the +249.
“!!!!!!” I was irked. The cheek! It must be the heat that was messing with his head.
I ignored it and didn't reply.
The next day, the Arab, perhaps a little too anxiously, asked me if I had seen his message. We were in the middle of a tea break after the first session of the conference, and he got the opportunity to slip into our circle and stood next to me.
“The message of mine, you got it, yes?”
I raised my eyebrows and narrowed my eyes, feigning puzzlement.
“The message I sent on your phone yesterday.”
There was no way I was getting out of this one.
“Oh, yes. I saw it, I saw it.”
“Yes Linda, I like you very much."
Uncomfortable silence. He was looking at my face to see my reaction.
"Did you like the message? Actually, I want to marry you.”
The words came out like a machine gun. A repeat of the staccato. Rat-tat-tat-tat.
I nearly dropped the cup. In the same second, I took a sip of the hot liquid and it burnt my mouth. I spat it out.
“What??!!” I sounded like I was choking.
The women in the circle looked at me. My mouth was agape. The Arab was probably waiting for an answer after springing his “primitive” proposal. I mumbled an apology and fled. I guess they thought I was disturbed or something. That maybe I had put salt in the tea, or the chilly in the samosa was too hot.
The second session went quick. My mind occasionally darted back to what the Arab had said. And even though I was recovering from the shock, I was repulsed. How do you make such an offer to someone you hardly know? What if I was a night dancer? Maybe they didn't have night dancers in Sudan, how would he know? Was this his culture? That you just see a woman and like her and want to make her your wife? Was he just naive and didn't know the meaning of the word “love”? How do you belittle the word “love”? Maybe I was just overreacting, or was I?
I looked over at him, hunched forward, straining to hear what the interpreter was saying through his headphones. He smiled occasionally, showing his small sharp upper teeth.
Lunch was across the road from the conference venue. The Arab used the opportunity to sidle close, offering to hold my bag and materials. Again! I politely declined, not glancing in his direction. My eyes were already scanning the area in front of us, for table that was nearly full. Thank God there was one with a space available. Full of people who spoke French, but what the heck!
“Oh, you have sitted there? Come and we sit over here.” His r’s were emphasized.
I rolled my eyes. “No, I want to sit here.” Firmly. God, this man was becoming a louse.
I think the women had got wind of what was happening. (From what I later found out, Hemed the Arab had attended this kind of conference twice before, and had ended up wooing other women, who had declined his advances).
He pulled a chair. The table had six places and they were all occupied. “Will I get you a soda?” His desperate attempts at making small talk were fraying my nerves.
And that was when my knight in shining armor appeared. From nowhere. In a pink shirt and grey patterned tie. And thick-rimmed glasses.
I wondered who he was.
“Sir, why don't you leave the lady alone, eh??!” he demanded loudly. One of the women sniggered.
Hemed the Arab looked up, scared and lost.
“Don’t you have better things to do? If she doesn't want to be disturbed, then respect her wishes. And her space!”
The Arab could not believe his ears.
“Yes, you leave herrr elone!” One of the women said in a French accent. They erupted into laughter.
Hemed the Arab stood up and slunk away to another table.
Umaru Fofana, my savior, my champion, my protector jumped on to his white steed and rode gallantly away.
And I enjoyed my lunch of succulent boiled poulet, bread and potatoes in peace.
#blackformsandrubbish
Have you ever woken up in the morning and your gunia of rubbish has
been savaged, with all the cut-up pieces of paper, watermelon peels,
pawpaw seeds and sigiri ash strewn all over the backyard? I have twice
been a victim, and I spent a good 45 minutes cleaning up in my old pink
pyjamas bottoms. (The rubbish truck comes once a week, but sometimes we
wait for two weeks.)
I have also been racking my brain over which wild cat species could be prowling around my backyard as I sleep at night. I mean, I have no memory of having wronged any cat in the neighbourhood so why be this ferocious with my unwanted stuff.
I have tried all manner of tactics- tying the head of the gunia with a rope, putting on a big stone, locking the rubbish in the store, burning it. Eh! What haven't I done? Even blocking the space at the bottom of the back gate because I suspect that's where the big cat aka Lion squeezes it humongous body.
But late last night as I watched TV in between writing, I heard a noise. No, it was not the Balokole singing. Nor was it a pack of noisy dogs fighting and mating. It stopped as suddenly as it started. Again. The TV was turned on low. I turned the volume off.
Scrabbling. I wasn't imagining things or having a nightmare. Something was being dragged. My gunia!! It must be that 80kg wild cat!
My hackles rose. Was I going to let this animal make a bloody mess of my backyard or would we square it out? Then it hit me that I didn't have any weapons (stones) to stone it.
I tiptoed to the kitchen (I am also wondering why I was being like a fugitive in my home). I didn't switch on the light but climbed on to the counter. From this vantage point I could peer out of the high window that looks out on the backyard.
My eyes landed on a big black form. Jet black. A canine. "You mean there are wolves in this neighbourhood??" The creature was in the process of doing justice to the gunia! Tossing it about, as it struggled with the rope, making angry growling sounds! The sight was scary!
All my thoughts of attack vanished and I became immobile. My throat could only manage a strangling sound. " Gggg!! Gggg!! Gggg!!"
I watched wide-eyed as the wild cat-turned-wolf punished the gunia.
It must have been for a few seconds, then my hands returned to life and I started drumming on the window. The monster didn't even turn it's head.
I reached for a mwiko to throw at the animal. But I was too scared to open the window. Besides, there was not enough space to stretch and aim. Anti the burglar proofing. I used the mwiko to hit the burglar proofing.
The being stopped what it was doing and turned its head. It was a dog! Then it ran to the wall and jumped. It climbed so agilely to the top, era the scratch marks from its ma-nails are still there (I've noticed that there are actually several scratches).
It walked a few paces on the top of the wall then turned and gave me a very dangerous eye. I put on my scariest face to scare it (si dogs have good night vision), waving my hands for it to go away.
The dog just sauntered off, swishing its ka scarcely-there bum this way and that way, into the night.
The kamanyiro!
I have also been racking my brain over which wild cat species could be prowling around my backyard as I sleep at night. I mean, I have no memory of having wronged any cat in the neighbourhood so why be this ferocious with my unwanted stuff.
I have tried all manner of tactics- tying the head of the gunia with a rope, putting on a big stone, locking the rubbish in the store, burning it. Eh! What haven't I done? Even blocking the space at the bottom of the back gate because I suspect that's where the big cat aka Lion squeezes it humongous body.
But late last night as I watched TV in between writing, I heard a noise. No, it was not the Balokole singing. Nor was it a pack of noisy dogs fighting and mating. It stopped as suddenly as it started. Again. The TV was turned on low. I turned the volume off.
Scrabbling. I wasn't imagining things or having a nightmare. Something was being dragged. My gunia!! It must be that 80kg wild cat!
My hackles rose. Was I going to let this animal make a bloody mess of my backyard or would we square it out? Then it hit me that I didn't have any weapons (stones) to stone it.
I tiptoed to the kitchen (I am also wondering why I was being like a fugitive in my home). I didn't switch on the light but climbed on to the counter. From this vantage point I could peer out of the high window that looks out on the backyard.
My eyes landed on a big black form. Jet black. A canine. "You mean there are wolves in this neighbourhood??" The creature was in the process of doing justice to the gunia! Tossing it about, as it struggled with the rope, making angry growling sounds! The sight was scary!
All my thoughts of attack vanished and I became immobile. My throat could only manage a strangling sound. " Gggg!! Gggg!! Gggg!!"
I watched wide-eyed as the wild cat-turned-wolf punished the gunia.
It must have been for a few seconds, then my hands returned to life and I started drumming on the window. The monster didn't even turn it's head.
I reached for a mwiko to throw at the animal. But I was too scared to open the window. Besides, there was not enough space to stretch and aim. Anti the burglar proofing. I used the mwiko to hit the burglar proofing.
The being stopped what it was doing and turned its head. It was a dog! Then it ran to the wall and jumped. It climbed so agilely to the top, era the scratch marks from its ma-nails are still there (I've noticed that there are actually several scratches).
It walked a few paces on the top of the wall then turned and gave me a very dangerous eye. I put on my scariest face to scare it (si dogs have good night vision), waving my hands for it to go away.
The dog just sauntered off, swishing its ka scarcely-there bum this way and that way, into the night.
The kamanyiro!
#ifinishedP7
They leap high in the air, they dance to Sheeba's Nkwatako, they smile
widely and wave to the camera or shake their bu-waists to some Ganda
beat. Others are bounced up and down by their teachers and peers, as
they put their hands over their mouths in fear. These scenes are played
out in front of the administration block with the school bus parked not
very far off. Then they stand in a not-very-large group and start giving
their testimonies, thanking the Almighty, their teachers, their
parents, Bukedde newspaper for its exam questions' supplements.
More often than not, the event is crowned with an announcement by the beaming head teacher sitting behind a busy-looking desk with files and papers and there's a fan standing in the corner. "We have done our job, all the pupils have passed in first grade! Please bring your children to Mixed Modern Parents and Teachers Kindergarten and Primary School next year!"
Other channels run news reports about "Boys AGE Girls", which districts were best and which did worst, and what the Education minister and the Secretary for UNEB said and promised to take care of this year.
And for radio, weak, tired lines about "Girls performed better than boys", and how many pupils had their results withheld because of exam malpractice compared to the so many cases of last year.
Some channels take it a step further and provide their viewers with a follow-up on a child they featured before the exams- perhaps she was disadvantaged by the distance to school, or he is living with a disability. And it works even better if the child has "passed with a first grade". (You can sometimes actually hear a hint of boast in the reporter's voice).
And for days and days and more days, the newspapers run stories and stories and more stories on those who did well. No mention about those with myendas.
By the way, the headline for the day after the PLE results' release event is set the minute the ministry hints that it will be releasing the results on a future date.
The Day Two and Three after results are reserved for the Aggregates Sixes and Sevens. Then in the days following, it is about the Aggregates Nines, Tens, Elevens, Twelves and the tame Grade Twos, until it peters out and stops being news. And then we wait for the O-Levels.
(By the way, I have been a beneficiary of this newspaper coverage, when my son aced his O-Levels- forgive the quick boast).
Those newspaper stories run along these lines, "I was sick but...", "My mother struggled with fees...", "I prayed so hard...", "Some malicious human being stole my Science notes at the last minute...", and so on and so forth.
And tweeps on Twitter will moan about how, "I will not be buying any newspapers for the next two weeks until all this PLE hullabaloo is over!" (as if they even buy newspapers). Another one will go on about the lack of creativity in how the media reports these exams year after year (No tips or advice on how they can make it more enticing, they just moan and moan, on and on).
And then one day it's all over. And we return to the humdrum of annual reports on domestic violence being launched in air-conditioned hotel rooms, expectant mothers in a remote district who have no access to a proper medical facility, the President commissioning a road, Special Police Constables thumping a village chairman to pulp, the Opposition threatening to take action on corrupt government officials who steal taxpayers' money, a cabinet minister advising people to wash hands before and after they visit the toilet, a bishop telling churchgoers to be united and kind to their neighbors. Blah, blah and even more blah.
Congratulations to all the 2016 PLE candidates, whether you passed or didn't. These exams and your graduation from Primary school is a major step in your life that deserves celebration!!
More often than not, the event is crowned with an announcement by the beaming head teacher sitting behind a busy-looking desk with files and papers and there's a fan standing in the corner. "We have done our job, all the pupils have passed in first grade! Please bring your children to Mixed Modern Parents and Teachers Kindergarten and Primary School next year!"
Other channels run news reports about "Boys AGE Girls", which districts were best and which did worst, and what the Education minister and the Secretary for UNEB said and promised to take care of this year.
And for radio, weak, tired lines about "Girls performed better than boys", and how many pupils had their results withheld because of exam malpractice compared to the so many cases of last year.
Some channels take it a step further and provide their viewers with a follow-up on a child they featured before the exams- perhaps she was disadvantaged by the distance to school, or he is living with a disability. And it works even better if the child has "passed with a first grade". (You can sometimes actually hear a hint of boast in the reporter's voice).
And for days and days and more days, the newspapers run stories and stories and more stories on those who did well. No mention about those with myendas.
By the way, the headline for the day after the PLE results' release event is set the minute the ministry hints that it will be releasing the results on a future date.
The Day Two and Three after results are reserved for the Aggregates Sixes and Sevens. Then in the days following, it is about the Aggregates Nines, Tens, Elevens, Twelves and the tame Grade Twos, until it peters out and stops being news. And then we wait for the O-Levels.
(By the way, I have been a beneficiary of this newspaper coverage, when my son aced his O-Levels- forgive the quick boast).
Those newspaper stories run along these lines, "I was sick but...", "My mother struggled with fees...", "I prayed so hard...", "Some malicious human being stole my Science notes at the last minute...", and so on and so forth.
And tweeps on Twitter will moan about how, "I will not be buying any newspapers for the next two weeks until all this PLE hullabaloo is over!" (as if they even buy newspapers). Another one will go on about the lack of creativity in how the media reports these exams year after year (No tips or advice on how they can make it more enticing, they just moan and moan, on and on).
And then one day it's all over. And we return to the humdrum of annual reports on domestic violence being launched in air-conditioned hotel rooms, expectant mothers in a remote district who have no access to a proper medical facility, the President commissioning a road, Special Police Constables thumping a village chairman to pulp, the Opposition threatening to take action on corrupt government officials who steal taxpayers' money, a cabinet minister advising people to wash hands before and after they visit the toilet, a bishop telling churchgoers to be united and kind to their neighbors. Blah, blah and even more blah.
Congratulations to all the 2016 PLE candidates, whether you passed or didn't. These exams and your graduation from Primary school is a major step in your life that deserves celebration!!
Wednesday 4 January 2017
#iamcy
I saw him again today. My heart skipped a beat when we entered the bus. He sat a couple of seats away. But we couldn't even touch because we are not allowed to. He was handcuffed to someone else. Later in court, we actually sat next to each other. I wanted to hug him, kiss him, tell him how much I missed him and how scared I was. I wanted to tell him to take me to a safe place, back home. But I kept quiet. In the same moment, I was consumed by a bile-rising feeling, and I hated him for putting me into so much shit.
My name is Cy. I want to wake up from this never-ending nightmare, but I can’t. Because this is my life right now. I got in and cannot get out. This is my life.
I have no idea why there is all this brouhaha over what happened on 12th November. Yes, a man was killed. But men are killed everyday. I mean- check what happens in Syria, Iraq, Iran, Somalia next door. Just the other day, Russia's ambassador to Turkey was gunned down at an art exhibition in Ankara. In front of art-lovers!! I mean, he was a big person, and I can understand the reaction because this has diplomatic undertones. But in our case it was a social worker who was trying to attack us and was shot by his accomplice? Or was he? I'm kind of mixing up the facts right now. Jeex! Am I losing my memory?
From what I recall, we had had a nice day, waking up late. I had been spending some time at Matthew’s cribe. For breakfast, the maid had laid out a spread- fruit, toast, juice- just what a prince and princess would eat. We left home at 2:30pm for a party on the other side of town. The party was good, everyone was there.
Anyway, we left later in the evening. I was driving Mathew’s car, a Toyota Prado SUV. By the way, I have always suspected that he loves that car more than he loves me.
When we got to Lugogo, we decided not to go all the way to the Nakawa traffic lights and took the turning near Game. I am not sure about what happened but suddenly there was a dull bang and something hit the car. When I braked sharply, two people leapt out of nowhere. They ran towards us. One was brandishing a pistol. I have never felt fear like I did at that moment. My blood ran cold, I gripped the steering wheel, I couldn't even utter a word, let alone a sound.
Matthew had been replying texts, business related messages with an associate. “F###! He yelled. “What the f##*??!!
I saw the men, he didn’t. He yanked open the door and jumped out of the car. He was raving mad. At that moment, we heard a shot. It was getting dark and we couldn’t see very well, but even in the midst of all the noise from the traffic, I heard a shout.
Matthew sprung back into the car. He was shaking. “Darling, darling. Get down!!! In my haste to get down, I hit my forehead on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, Matthew had jumped into the back seat and lay across it.
After what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes, Matthew bravely emerged from the car. Like I suspected, someone had been shot. He lay on the ground, his cap a few feet away. His shirt was starting to get stained with blood. The man, looked rather young, early thirtyish. His eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow. Matthew felt his pulse. He was alive. My boyfriend drove the car to the other side of the road and parked. Then we lifted the injured man into the car and rushed him to hospital. On the way, Matthew made a few phone calls.
The man regained consciousness on the way to Nakasero hospital. He told us his name was Kenneht. Only Kenneth. "Don't worry, lie still. We'll get you to a doctor soon."
Luckily, the emergency unit there was very welcoming and they admitted him immediately for first aid. I was happy that we had saved someone’s life. Somewhere during the evening, Nakasero hopsital informed us that the injury was bigger than they had anticipated. He had a bullet lodged in his insides and was losing a lot of blood,. They referred him to Norvik Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit. His relatives had heard the unfortunate news and drove to the hospital.
Unfortunately, he died the next morning.
You cannot imagine my shock when the police called Matthew over a statement the man had allegedly made- ati we were the ones who had shot him! And yet we had bravely come to his rescue and taken him to hospital, I was dumbfounded. Naye, people can be weird! They never ever, never E-V-E-R appreciate the things we do for them!
Naye gwe, the brouhaha was deep. We were arrested. We made front page. There were rumors that we had chased the man all the way from Legends Bar after he had knocked and scratched Matthew’s car and then we demanded he pay and that when he could not, Matthew had shot him.
I now know who my real friends are. The two-faced wolves who friend me on Facebook, shared my pictures with the media. That one where I was seated in the back of a car, looking all nice and made up in a cobalt blue dress. I am certain that they are the ones who shared that all over the networks. Then they started the story that Matthew is related to Besigye’s wife. Well he is. So what then?
Nine days later we appeared in court. I had been locked up at the police Special Investigations Unit in Kireka and had only seen Matthew twice during that time. But we talked on phone every night and he told me to be strong and that he would get me out of this mess. He told me that his older brother Joseph was also behind bars. The officers at the unit were nice, they let me sleep in a warm room, on a fat mattress and clean sheets. My sisters came to see me. They cried and cried and told me everything would be okay. Surprisingly, nobody asked me what happened that fateful evening. I guess they didn't want to hear the truth.
We were charged for murder. Murder. Now that is a big word. Murder. But when we went to court we were smiling. Nearly laughing. I was not happy inside, but my face looked happy. We were smartly dressed, Matthew in a grey suit and I in a black trouser suit and pink shirt. Joseph's beard had grown. I was so happy to see the man I love. Then I was sad. But we hugged and sat next to each other and smiled widely all through the proceedings. This was temporary, I thought. It would pass soon.
I had never been to prison. Even seen the buildings from afar. But when the magistrate announced that we would be going to Luzira prison, even the word “murder” suddenly felt so minute. Everything was happening so fast. Killing someone, and then being locked up in a maximum security prison! And I was definitely not the one who had pulled the trigger! How did he think I was going to survive? In a yellow uniform tena? Feed on a prison diet till God knows when? A model with my own agency? In a foreign country? Me? A whole me!
This was a bad dream. I knew I would soon wake up. But the harder I pinched myself, the more pain I felt and I realized that there would be no waking up to do.
Disclaimer ******These events exist only in my imagination *************
My name is Cy. I want to wake up from this never-ending nightmare, but I can’t. Because this is my life right now. I got in and cannot get out. This is my life.
I have no idea why there is all this brouhaha over what happened on 12th November. Yes, a man was killed. But men are killed everyday. I mean- check what happens in Syria, Iraq, Iran, Somalia next door. Just the other day, Russia's ambassador to Turkey was gunned down at an art exhibition in Ankara. In front of art-lovers!! I mean, he was a big person, and I can understand the reaction because this has diplomatic undertones. But in our case it was a social worker who was trying to attack us and was shot by his accomplice? Or was he? I'm kind of mixing up the facts right now. Jeex! Am I losing my memory?
From what I recall, we had had a nice day, waking up late. I had been spending some time at Matthew’s cribe. For breakfast, the maid had laid out a spread- fruit, toast, juice- just what a prince and princess would eat. We left home at 2:30pm for a party on the other side of town. The party was good, everyone was there.
Anyway, we left later in the evening. I was driving Mathew’s car, a Toyota Prado SUV. By the way, I have always suspected that he loves that car more than he loves me.
When we got to Lugogo, we decided not to go all the way to the Nakawa traffic lights and took the turning near Game. I am not sure about what happened but suddenly there was a dull bang and something hit the car. When I braked sharply, two people leapt out of nowhere. They ran towards us. One was brandishing a pistol. I have never felt fear like I did at that moment. My blood ran cold, I gripped the steering wheel, I couldn't even utter a word, let alone a sound.
Matthew had been replying texts, business related messages with an associate. “F###! He yelled. “What the f##*??!!
I saw the men, he didn’t. He yanked open the door and jumped out of the car. He was raving mad. At that moment, we heard a shot. It was getting dark and we couldn’t see very well, but even in the midst of all the noise from the traffic, I heard a shout.
Matthew sprung back into the car. He was shaking. “Darling, darling. Get down!!! In my haste to get down, I hit my forehead on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, Matthew had jumped into the back seat and lay across it.
After what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes, Matthew bravely emerged from the car. Like I suspected, someone had been shot. He lay on the ground, his cap a few feet away. His shirt was starting to get stained with blood. The man, looked rather young, early thirtyish. His eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow. Matthew felt his pulse. He was alive. My boyfriend drove the car to the other side of the road and parked. Then we lifted the injured man into the car and rushed him to hospital. On the way, Matthew made a few phone calls.
The man regained consciousness on the way to Nakasero hospital. He told us his name was Kenneht. Only Kenneth. "Don't worry, lie still. We'll get you to a doctor soon."
Luckily, the emergency unit there was very welcoming and they admitted him immediately for first aid. I was happy that we had saved someone’s life. Somewhere during the evening, Nakasero hopsital informed us that the injury was bigger than they had anticipated. He had a bullet lodged in his insides and was losing a lot of blood,. They referred him to Norvik Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit. His relatives had heard the unfortunate news and drove to the hospital.
Unfortunately, he died the next morning.
You cannot imagine my shock when the police called Matthew over a statement the man had allegedly made- ati we were the ones who had shot him! And yet we had bravely come to his rescue and taken him to hospital, I was dumbfounded. Naye, people can be weird! They never ever, never E-V-E-R appreciate the things we do for them!
Naye gwe, the brouhaha was deep. We were arrested. We made front page. There were rumors that we had chased the man all the way from Legends Bar after he had knocked and scratched Matthew’s car and then we demanded he pay and that when he could not, Matthew had shot him.
I now know who my real friends are. The two-faced wolves who friend me on Facebook, shared my pictures with the media. That one where I was seated in the back of a car, looking all nice and made up in a cobalt blue dress. I am certain that they are the ones who shared that all over the networks. Then they started the story that Matthew is related to Besigye’s wife. Well he is. So what then?
Nine days later we appeared in court. I had been locked up at the police Special Investigations Unit in Kireka and had only seen Matthew twice during that time. But we talked on phone every night and he told me to be strong and that he would get me out of this mess. He told me that his older brother Joseph was also behind bars. The officers at the unit were nice, they let me sleep in a warm room, on a fat mattress and clean sheets. My sisters came to see me. They cried and cried and told me everything would be okay. Surprisingly, nobody asked me what happened that fateful evening. I guess they didn't want to hear the truth.
We were charged for murder. Murder. Now that is a big word. Murder. But when we went to court we were smiling. Nearly laughing. I was not happy inside, but my face looked happy. We were smartly dressed, Matthew in a grey suit and I in a black trouser suit and pink shirt. Joseph's beard had grown. I was so happy to see the man I love. Then I was sad. But we hugged and sat next to each other and smiled widely all through the proceedings. This was temporary, I thought. It would pass soon.
I had never been to prison. Even seen the buildings from afar. But when the magistrate announced that we would be going to Luzira prison, even the word “murder” suddenly felt so minute. Everything was happening so fast. Killing someone, and then being locked up in a maximum security prison! And I was definitely not the one who had pulled the trigger! How did he think I was going to survive? In a yellow uniform tena? Feed on a prison diet till God knows when? A model with my own agency? In a foreign country? Me? A whole me!
This was a bad dream. I knew I would soon wake up. But the harder I pinched myself, the more pain I felt and I realized that there would be no waking up to do.
Disclaimer ******These events exist only in my imagination *************
#behindcloseddoors
When I lived in the village a few years ago, there was a man, a mupakasi, who earned his living digging in people’s shambas, killing snakes lounging near chicken coops, rescuing piglets that had fallen in old, unused pit-latrines, and felling ancient trees.
Zidolo had no house, but one of his clients had been kind enough to offer him a place to lay his head- a small tool-shed, a “ka-sitoowa” (store). Because the space was so small, it meant that he slept on his back, raised his legs and rested them against the wall. He lived in this shed for close to ten years until he was killed by a snake, that had been hiding among the hoes. The irony.
Nobody knew if he had sheets, or if he covered himself with a blanket, but there was definitely no mattress among his belongings.
And this is what I wonder about when I come home late at night, or when I leave very early in the morning. What the sleeping arrangement is behind our closed doors.
How does a family of seven, plus the maid, fit inside a 10’x12’ room with a set of Johnson chairs and one bed? Do the children sleep under the bed that is shared by Mum and Dad and the two youngest? Do they lie In a row, with their heads under the bed and their legs sticking out? What about the sufurias, buckets of water, and dirty jerrycans that cannot be left outside for the thieves?
Do some of them rest in the chairs?
Are there bedbugs, fleas, rats, the vermin that wake up when the humans go to sleep?
Does the bodaboda motorcycle lie on the bed, while the owner curls up on a raffia mat on the cold hard floor, so that the treasured possession that is his livelihood, can have some rest.
Does a wife who is so fed up of her drunken husband sleep at the edge of the bed, willing him not to touch her?
Does a husband who is so fed up with his wife’s nagging opt for the sofa just so he can have a quiet night? Then creep back to the bedroom in the morning, so the children do not see him.
There are wives who are not getting a wink of sleep because their husband snores endlessly.
What about the shopkeepers who sleep among the sacks of flour in their small grocery stores?
I know of another man who spent his nights in the outside kitchen, sleeping on the kibanyi among the bananas and avocado that had been put there to ripen.
And then when it rains, some say goodbye to sleep because the corrugated iron roof has so many holes and they put buckets and saucepans everywhere so that the house doesn't get wet.
Or if your house is in a swamp and the water comes in, then those who usually sleep on the floor, do they hang by the rafters?
And that someone who spends the night in a huge six by six mazongoto, lying between black silk sheets and a warm fluffy blanket in a spacious grand room?
Only you know what happens when you close your doors at night.
Zidolo had no house, but one of his clients had been kind enough to offer him a place to lay his head- a small tool-shed, a “ka-sitoowa” (store). Because the space was so small, it meant that he slept on his back, raised his legs and rested them against the wall. He lived in this shed for close to ten years until he was killed by a snake, that had been hiding among the hoes. The irony.
Nobody knew if he had sheets, or if he covered himself with a blanket, but there was definitely no mattress among his belongings.
And this is what I wonder about when I come home late at night, or when I leave very early in the morning. What the sleeping arrangement is behind our closed doors.
How does a family of seven, plus the maid, fit inside a 10’x12’ room with a set of Johnson chairs and one bed? Do the children sleep under the bed that is shared by Mum and Dad and the two youngest? Do they lie In a row, with their heads under the bed and their legs sticking out? What about the sufurias, buckets of water, and dirty jerrycans that cannot be left outside for the thieves?
Do some of them rest in the chairs?
Are there bedbugs, fleas, rats, the vermin that wake up when the humans go to sleep?
Does the bodaboda motorcycle lie on the bed, while the owner curls up on a raffia mat on the cold hard floor, so that the treasured possession that is his livelihood, can have some rest.
Does a wife who is so fed up of her drunken husband sleep at the edge of the bed, willing him not to touch her?
Does a husband who is so fed up with his wife’s nagging opt for the sofa just so he can have a quiet night? Then creep back to the bedroom in the morning, so the children do not see him.
There are wives who are not getting a wink of sleep because their husband snores endlessly.
What about the shopkeepers who sleep among the sacks of flour in their small grocery stores?
I know of another man who spent his nights in the outside kitchen, sleeping on the kibanyi among the bananas and avocado that had been put there to ripen.
And then when it rains, some say goodbye to sleep because the corrugated iron roof has so many holes and they put buckets and saucepans everywhere so that the house doesn't get wet.
Or if your house is in a swamp and the water comes in, then those who usually sleep on the floor, do they hang by the rafters?
And that someone who spends the night in a huge six by six mazongoto, lying between black silk sheets and a warm fluffy blanket in a spacious grand room?
Only you know what happens when you close your doors at night.
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