#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.