#kifeesicrew

My version of the ominous anonymous "letters"

They are finally here! The bibaluwa aka kiro kitwala omunaku have arrived in our sleepy village of Wampeewo on Gayaza Road in Wakiso district. My mind-my-business neighbor called me last evening while I was at work to announce the numbing news.
“Waabiwulidde?” Had I heard the latest? “Mmmmhmmmm.”
“Ate ki?” Of course I hadn't heard.
“Munnange, ebibaluwa baabisanze ku kisaawe!” The anonymous flyers had been strewn about the Wampeewo village playing field.
My heart went cold. I work late.
“Era munnange, weggalire mangu!” How was that going to happen? I was still in town! But wait, was that a trace of relish in her voice?
I started contemplating telling my boss that I had to leave immediately. I had an imaginary headache. And here I was, having abandoned UAH for some weeks now. It was approaching 9pm.

My evening was about to be full of drama. First, as I stretched my legs to climb into the taxi, I heard a loud rip. My nice, tight, new, opal blue skirt. From the zip to the slit. My immediate worry now became how I would slither from my seat when I said, “Mu maaso awo!” to the conductor when we got to my stage.

Two women, one with her hair half done sat in front of me, in that seat right behind the driver. One was complaining about how “this time the crocheted braids have really hurt my scalp!”. The other was laughing like an excited, overactive primary schoolgirl. She was telling someone on her phone with a shattered screen, "Are you sshhuuuuwwaaa?!"

As I worried about the Kifeesi crew that had set foot on the village, the taxi suddenly reared forward at the junction on Erisa road. “Bammmm!!!” The vehicle had crashed head-on into a bodaboda motorcycle coming from the opposite side. The motorbike keeled over, pouring the rider and his passenger onto the tarmac. I started clapping- don't ask me why. I mean, I wasn't overjoyed about the accident, because people could be gravely injured. I guess it was the mix of emotions, the fear, the knots in my stomach.

The idle bodaboda riders parked at the nearby stage came running, some zooming around the taxi like angry wasps. This was like a bad dream. Someone shouted, “Mubookye!” Burn them. Burn us, you mean. At the front, the bodaboda man had recovered from the shock and though dazed, he jumped up and hit the taxi’s windscreen with his hand. “Oyagala kunzita gwe!” he screamed. What about his poor passenger whose skirt had ridden up to her waist when she fell off? The driver pleaded that he didn't want to kill them, but they were in his way and…

He didn't have time to finish his sentence because just then, one of the unruly bodamen had reached inside the open window and grabbed his arm. “Come out! Come out and explain! Come you fool!”
Eh, this was serious. We were alarmed. The shouts of “Mubookye!” had risen in volume and were now a ragged chant. “Vaamu obitebye!” The driver refused to turn off the ignition, his hand clutched the steering wheel tightly. One of the passengers shouted, “Gwe driver vvuga emmotoka tuve wano! Abasajja bagya kututta! Tobeera ffala!”

The driver reversed swiftly to get out of the way of the bike that still lay across his path. Then he put pedal to metal and sped off. The boda men yelled insults, some gave a weak chase, but we got away. Then the advice started, the arguments about who was to blame blah blah! I wanted to get out of the taxi, and I shouted at him to stop. He was having none of it. Stop for what? I’ll deliver you safely, that was just a small mishap. But anyway, he kept turning his head and checking in his side mirror to see if the chase was still on. It wasn’t.

The talk soon turned to hookers. Hookers on that street near Serena Hotel. Hookers on the other street which houses the Democratic Party Offices. William Street. How lethal those 'malayas’ were. How daring. Their 'mikunamyo'. Their 'bu patti, kundi shows'. How many of them are 'Banyalwanda' who will take even 5,000 shillings the minute they get off the bus. And that even in "'Kalamoja' gyebali!' Then one man, oba he wanted to show us how well-traveled he was, announced, 'N’e Alua bajjude! Ho!"

The way these men talked was like they had something against women. Like they had been hurt, and dragged through the mud, and cheated on, and been bashed, and scratched, and that they couldn't trust the fairer sex any more. It made me worry for the women they called their 'wives', and for their poor little daughters.

I was soon to announce "mu maaso awo!" With all that had happened, I even forgot to slither out of the taxi. I only remembered when I felt the cold on the back of my legs. “Oh shit!” Anyway, I didn't care if anyone had seen, I didn't even know any of them. Let the men with a problem against women talk. Kasta I couldn't hear.

I had expected to find a village under siege. Quiet, dark, eerie, with people peeping out of the chinks in their curtains at any sound. It was not to be.
The place was alive with young men lounging at the chapati stalls, staring hungrily at the piles of oily fried dough- some yellow with curry powder, smelly mpuuta, and greasy rice sumbusas. Several others were whiling the time away at the village’s only pool table lit by a dim bulb. People were strolling along the dusty main road like it was midday. I even two noticed two women walking all by themselves.  Loud music blared from the two bufundas, with barmaids shouting like they didn't have a care in the world. Hearty laughter, some colorful language, a drunk staggering out to pee. No sign of the Kifeesi crew in the vicinity.

I really have to rekindle my relationship with UAH.

#oppositepoles

Here I am feeling terribly unfit (read fat), and there is my long-time friend Sarah, (not real name) afraid, because she is rapidly losing weight.

A few years ago, three to be exact, I wore spaghetti tops, shorts and polo-necked shirts with ease. I didn't know it then, but I felt fit as a fiddle, not even daunted by the pain in my right knee that came after I suffered a fall ((in the middle of town!). I could bend and touch my toes, squats were a walk in the park, and I had no need for stomach crunches.

I’d had a fat boyfriend who snored like a freight train, even when he dozed off during the day. His efforts at exercise were half-hearted, and he loved sitting in the sofa munching his way through greasy takeaway (chips and sausages), Rolex (the stand was right outside his gate), cereal with lots of milk, and draining bottles of Coca-Cola and cans of Bell beer. The will to exercise was overthrown by an even greedier will to watch movies and play video games and use the car (it got so bad that he would call a special driver) to go everywhere, even to the village shop. He usually huffed and puffed and his hands were sweaty. I loved him anyway, I didn't see that.

The job I do limits my exercise. I also found that moving to something new made me comfort eat all the time. With time, I realized that I was, as the saying goes, ‘piling on the pounds’. My once flat tummy developed a pouch, my waist became many more inches thicker, my bust grew bigger, and I felt terribly unfit and heavy. My morning walk to work was, and still is, my exercise for the day. But when I told the doctor that, he said it wasn't enough, and that I was overweight. At 59 kilograms. 9 stones. 132 pounds heavy.

To be honest, exercise is not that easy. In my head, I want to join a gym. I do work out in the evening at about 10pm, but I’m so tired by that time, that I’ll admit, its a lukewarm attempt. I feel terribly unfit, and slower. Someone told me its an age thing. Yeah, right!

Now, back to my dear friend. She sent me a text on Tuesday, asking me to “get her drugs that can make her fat again because she is losing weight rapidly.’ This is the thing. She’s on ARVs right now, but not prescribed by a doctor. Somebody is smuggling the drugs out of the hospital for her. Which means that she is swallowing a cocktail she knows nothing about. She has no idea if it is helping her body fight the disease, if it is building her immunity, if it is affecting her liver, or whatever else. But she wants another drug to help her put the weight back on. Which could be potentially dangerous, in the short, or long run.

Well, we talked on the phone and I dispensed some advice. I really think she should see a doctor, and I think she should eat healthy, and it is not about the weight, but about keeping healthy.

Two opposite poles- one looking to shed, another looking to add.

#babyinherwomb

This was the second time she was coming to see me. She told the receptionist at the front desk that she needed some money. The first time I saw her, she was crying. She held her baby in a bulky, faded white shawl. Even as we spoke, she looked lost. There was so much pain in her eyes as she told me that her son, the one she had bundled into the shawl, was two and a half years old. He was so shriveled, kind of like a four-month old!

He had suffered a bout of malaria when he was just three months. He recovered after three days. But he started crying continuously, even when he had been fed and cleaned. He did not sit at four months, which meant he could not crawl or walk. The nurses at the immunization center said his growth was regressing, and he soon became underweight. She desperately sought medication as his limbs wasted away. The illness meant that she had to abandon her job as a security guard. It also took a huge toll on her salary, which all went into buying medicine for her child, who was not getting any better.

She had met the father of her child at work. He was also a security guard. She worked during the day, he did the night shift. One night, three months ago, the shop he was guarding was broken into, and the thieves made off with money and valuables. The owner of the shop, an Indian, demanded for justice. Her “husband” was arrested and thrown behind bars. He has not been to court, but is being held in prison. She visits him every Monday, and has to take him some money for cigarettes and something to eat.

When she came to the office the first time, about three weeks ago, she wanted money to either buy a special chair for her son, or to travel home to the village. The chair cost 350,000 shillings. The administrators of the Katalemwa Cheshire Home for Rehabilitation Services in Mpererwe, which says it “brings smiles to the faces of children with disabilities’, said her bill had become astronomical and she had to pay them some money otherwise…. (She claimed that some parents leave their children under the care of the nurses who are impatient and beat them regularly.)

She didn't have any money, but opted to go to her mother in Gulu district where she said, she would get some help, and love. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she thanked me profusely.

She returned to Kampala on Wednesday, with 300,000 shillings in her bag. That bag was stolen in the taxi that she took to Luzira. Someone picked the bag from the kameeme (that hot engine behind the driver's seat).  Her ID, phone and the precious money were all taken. She said a kind pastor allowed her to spend the night in a church in Luzira.

As she narrated her ordeal, her son was testy and cried a lot. She shoved a bottle of passion fruit juice into his little mouth. His teeth have all been ground down by disease. He writhed and wailed loudly, obviously uncomfortable, as his mother bound the kikoyi which she wrapped around his little body tighter.

She wanted money for: one, to be able to take him to the hospital the next day, and two, to feed him because he was hungry, the reason he was crying so much.

She refused to look me in the eyes and sat with her body turned away from me the whole time. I explained that instead of asking around for money, it would be better if she got something to do that would continuously bring in some cash, even if it wasn’t much. She said she wanted to do a charcoal business, and some vegetables like tomatoes and onions on the side. My advice was that whatever happened, she should save some of that income, however small it was. I told her I knew what poverty smelt like, when you have a child that you must feed and do not even know where the next meal will come from. But you must pick yourself up, and carry your tusks as well.

She said some neighbors in the village had gossiped about her child, saying he had been attacked by evil spirits. Some told her mother that they should abandon the child in a bush and concentrate on other things. But she is determined to keep him, however much it takes.

As she prepared herself to leave, she unwrapped the kikoyi. The child was wet with urine. He cannot control his bladder. And she cannot afford diapers or nappies. Maybe she does not have any old cloths with which to pad him. There was a strong smell of urine around her. But she stands up, a worried smile on her face, her look flitting between scared and confident.

The baby in her womb is growing bigger. 

#foratree

A month ago, a young man in Nakaseke district, Nabbikka village lost his life.

For 12,500 shillings. Fred Kibombo, not a relative of mine, was 22 years old. He was killed when he climbed up a tree he had been contracted to fell. The contractor wanted the tree uprooted and was to pay him and a colleague 25,000 shillings, which they would share equally.

They first hacked at the roots, expecting the tree to come down by the time they were done. But it remained firm in its place. They pushed and threw themselves at it but the tree wouldn't budge. They decided it would be best to cut off some branches and maybe, just maybe, it would fall.

So they got a ladder and climbed up the tree.

His colleague says he felt very uneasy when he felt the tree move and suggested that they descend. He said he heard Kibombo say, “Ehhhh!”

Next thing he knew, the tree was coming down fast. The wind was strong. He held on tight, clutching at the bark. For dear life. He screamed. Then he landed with a heavy thud. On top of the trunk. He looked over for his friend.

“Kibombo! Kibombo!”

No answer.

He got up and checked. There was Kibombo, lying under the trunk, near the branches. Out cold. Dead actually.

He started shouting, “Munyambe! Munyambe! Wuuuuu! Wuuu! Abange munyambe!!!"
 
Holding his rubber Niiginas in his right hand, tears streaming down his face, he narrated the story to the villagers who had come running. They sympathized with him.

Then they carried away Kibombo’s mangled. body. Back to his father’s house.

I wonder if the friend got the 25,000 shillings, or if he took only his half.

#books&covers

Today I had an encounter with a tall handsome man, whose good lucks were, unfortunately, ruined by his rudeness. A bank teller. He has a degree in surliness. Oh!

(I hate the formalities of filling out forms, and not knowing how to, and then looking for someone to help me, and the person shows you unwillingness from the time you open your mouth; this unwilling look of, “at your age, and you don’t know, really??”.
Truth be told, whenever I have to go to the bank, or to the passport office, or the hospital, or wherever it is that requires formalities like those, that thought of filling out forms nauseates me. But I summon the courage... and go…)

I approached the bank counter with a cheery “Hello!”.
He didn't answer.
“I’d like to withdraw some money please.”
Mr. Handsome didn't even look at me. Just reached for a form behind him and handed it to me, then returned to his work, head leaning on left hand.
Hmmmm… this was going to be a hard paper. I scribbled my details, trying my best not to make a mistake so that I didn't have to ask him for another form. Then I scrawled my signature and handed the paper back.

Mr. High and Mighty then spoke. “Is this your signature?”
I looked at him. Baffled. What the **** did he think?
“I asked if this is your signature?” Was that a question or a statement?
“What’s wrong with it?” I retorted.
“It doesn't look like the original.”
I sighed. God! I have been a customer of Crane Bank since 2002! And they NEVER EVER complained or made a fuss. Now this dfcu madness… creating a mountain out of nothing. Oh, Sudhir, where are you when I need you?

He swung around in his seat, plucked another form off the pile behind him, and handed it to me. Kind of slammed it on to the counter.
Eye roll. Me.
“And make sure you sign correctly!”
I didn't say a thing.
“Put your correct signature!”
I scribbled harder. “Yes Sir!” I hoped the sarcasm wasn't lost on Mr. High and Mighty Handsome.
He checked again, went into his computer, printed stuff and handed me my money.

My parents taught me to say “please”, “thank you” and “sorry”.
I disobeyed them this time round.