The rider, wearing a Muslim cap, stopped, and came back for me.
I got on, with my migugus, straddle-style. In the process of getting comfortable, the motorcycle started rolling backwards and then it reared, like a horse with its front legs in the air.
I jumped off, scared, migugus and all.
The boda guy said, “Madam sorre, tuula tugende,”.
I got on cautiously, giving him a bad eye. “Naye gwe ogya kunsuula!”
I had barely completed my sentence when the unmistakable whiff of a cheap gin hit me. Beckham waragi.
“Gwe, oyagala kunzita! Kale genda! Ova kwekatankira waragi!”
He didn't say a thing, didn't even look at me, just revved off as fast as the boda could carry him.
I walked to the taxi stage, imagining myself in Mulago’s casualty ward, lying helplessly on a narrow cot, with a bloody chin, a huge wound on the back of my head, split lips and two missing teeth. It’s bad enough that I’ve had a broken front tooth for decades.
(Source: Red Pepper)
Last night, I encountered another boda drunko. Now this one looked dodgy from the start, but it was late, and the distance I wanted to go was short. He was parked at the boda stage opposite my work place.
I sat on the machine. “Gyebale ko Ssebo.”
“Nawe gyebale Madamu.”
I jumped off.
“Ate kiki Madamu?”
This one had probably drunk about five buveeras of Liberty waragi and a half liter of badly brewed Lira Lira. Ho!
He didn't say anything, just slunk away.
These necessary evils!
No comments:
Post a Comment