As a rule (an unwritten rule) I quietly do my best to avoid driving up hills. I mean those hills that have you engaging Gear Two, and if they get too steep, mu kifuba, then you quickly shift to Gear One. And seeing that Miss UAH has been quite moody of late, we just don’t do slopes, unless its driving downwards of course.
There’s this particularly mean hill- the one from Erisa’s road to Mawanda road, which is number one on my Never-Drive-Up list. The taxi that brought me to town today got stuck going up that road.
The driver, feeling very wise, decided he would overtake and drive the contraption to the top in Gear Three. Midway through, the taxi slowed down and he braked sharply, waking those in slumber. “What’s happening? Kiki?”
Driver released the brake and stepped on accelerator with one foot on the clutch. The car rolled backwards, not much, but a few meters. He braked again. Passengers grabbed at the seats in front of them, their mouths open in fear.
“Gwe driver, oyagala kututta??!!" one woman screamed. But she spoke too soon, because just then, he made another futile attempt, and this time, we moved back another about five meters. The howls grew more intense, some in bass and tenor. The conductor nearly leaped on to the kameeme, looking around him wildly. “Pilot naawe, kiki ekigaanye mwana? Gaayi otuzalawa!”
“Eh, naawe ndeka!! Emmotoka nze njiganye okutambula?” Have I refused the car to move? Leave me alone oso you!!
Cars behind us were hooting. The din. The bodaboda riders that whizzed past us shouted insults. There were other cars coming down the opposite side, and the stationary taxi caused a mini traffic jam. And there was a huge Gaagaa bus as well!!
(When I’m in a situation of great fear, my mind zones off to a safe place, another world. I started imagining myself at the bottom of the hill, in the bushes next to the bypass, the taxi mangled like waste paper, people lying on top of me, screaming all sorts of things, in every language imaginable, calling on God to help them. I knew my boss would send a camera person and reporter rushing to the scene and my name would be among those mentioned in the lunchtime news. Ha! I nearly laughed.
I was jolted back to reality by the conductor throwing open the door and ordering us out quickly-quickly. People scrambled out. One woman was in tears. Others were hurling insults. The conductor stationed himself at a vantage point to ask whoever alighted for the fare. People yelled at him. “No! You were about to kill us and now you want money! If we had died, would you ask us for money? Kirabe!”
A traffic policeman was already striding down the hill. The driver also jumped out of the vehicle when he saw the Nyange in white. “Stop! Jangu wano. Leeta pamiti!” Give me your permit!
You know how when you jump out of the frying pan into the fire? Luckily, the man had a photocopy of the document. Some people started walking away, tired of the drama and worrying that they would be late for work.
“Omponye leero! Emmotoka ebadde ki?” What’s wrong with the vehicle.
The driver was looking sheepish. He’d suddenly lost his voice. “Ah, Afande…”
“Olina emipiira” He circled the taxi menacingly, kicking at each tire, wondering what else he could see wrong. The tires were fine. “Thirdi pate eri wa?” Do you have third-party insurance?
“Afande yiiyo sitiika.” This hangdog look made him look pathetic. A far cry from the swaggerific cowboy who had been telling us to leave him alone a few minutes ago.
Satisfied that he could not issue a ticket, the cop walked back to the driver. “Mpa ebisumuluzo!” Give me the keys!
The driver hadn't pulled them out of the ignition. Nyange got in and slammed the door.
He started the car. And without moving a single centimeter backwards, he drove up the rest of the hill, leaving the driver gaping like a fish out of water.
Friday 26 May 2017
Thursday 25 May 2017
#ofphones
I know this because I did it many times to avoid my lugambolisitic neighbor whose house is right next to the gate of the estate where I live.
So as I walked down the hill, I applied the “just-in-case” safety measure. Switch off my phone, hold it in my hand. If she is not in the vicinity, ok. If she is, then I would ‘receive’ a pretend call and engage in a conversation with a ghost. Of course I would be doing more of the “yes yes”, and asking stupid questions.
Sometimes she stood, hands akimbo, waiting for your call to end so that she could feed you some juicy piece about whose bad STD she had treated (she’s a nurse), or who was hearing doves cooing in their head. Bannange!
And I’d just give her a cursory wave of the hand as I passed her without a word. And when I finally got into the house and firmly locked the door behind me, I’d have a good loud laugh, as I remembered what rubbish it was I was talking.
So anyway, today someone was trying to avoid saying “hello” to me, but he forgot to switch off his phone. And it rang in the middle of his imaginary conversation!! Tsk tsk!
So as I walked down the hill, I applied the “just-in-case” safety measure. Switch off my phone, hold it in my hand. If she is not in the vicinity, ok. If she is, then I would ‘receive’ a pretend call and engage in a conversation with a ghost. Of course I would be doing more of the “yes yes”, and asking stupid questions.
Sometimes she stood, hands akimbo, waiting for your call to end so that she could feed you some juicy piece about whose bad STD she had treated (she’s a nurse), or who was hearing doves cooing in their head. Bannange!
And I’d just give her a cursory wave of the hand as I passed her without a word. And when I finally got into the house and firmly locked the door behind me, I’d have a good loud laugh, as I remembered what rubbish it was I was talking.
So anyway, today someone was trying to avoid saying “hello” to me, but he forgot to switch off his phone. And it rang in the middle of his imaginary conversation!! Tsk tsk!
Wednesday 17 May 2017
#longingforthemdays
My three-year old niece is reading a book called 'Not Now Bernard'
In that book, Bernard’s Mum and Dad never have time for him. Whenever Bernard asks a question, or seems like he is about to ask a question, his parents say, “Not now Bernard.” His mother is cleaning, cooking and washing dishes. His father is lounging in front of the TV. Eventually, Bernard walks out into the back garden and the Monster, who is waiting there, gobbles him up. Then the Monster walks into the house, and the minute Bernard’s father hears footsteps come into the living room, he shouts, “Not now Bernard!”, without even turning his head to see who's there.
That story got me thinking. First and foremost, this is not like the story books we write in Africa. The book tells the story of a society where parents no longer have time for their children and the important things in their lives. These parents never have time for their only child- they are too busy doing the things they felt matter to them. Washing dishes and watching TV.
Today we have all sorts of digital equipment- phones, iPads, iPods, computers- and the Internet. Jokes have been told, cartoons have been drawn about how children are 'manufactured' today. Mum on computer, Dad on phone. Both gadgets are connected to a printer from where the baby comes. No conversations at the dinner table. Kids feel it is their inherent right to own these gadgets, even if they don’t have the money to maintain them. And because the parents do not have time for them, then the whole fabric of the family unit is lost. And it has crept into Africa, making us lose that tight bond that we have always had. The proverbial bond that made us sit around the fire telling stories, and singing folk songs like "Nsangi, Nsangi mwana wange." Oh!
That is the reason I long for so many things, even the ones I see in the videos, because the world has changed so much.
I long for the days when our mothers told us stories about Waguleddene and Wakayima and Wanjovu.
I long for the days when the air was clean, when no buveeras clogged the drains and when there was so much space to play and having a compound in your home meant having a HUGE COMPOUND.
I long for the days when my parents took us out for dinner, when every Sunday afternoon meant we would jump into Daddy's Mini Minor and drive miles, out into the countryside, to the hills where the air was so clean and fresh, and he carried us high up on his shoulders and the strong winds threatened to blow us off.
I long for the days when the Kabaka ruled and women wore busuutis, and men wore kanzus. When women knelt down in humility to greet, when nobody worried about mini skirts, and trousers that hung around the knees.
I long for the days when weddings were cheap and fun. When you didn't have to be forced to contribute to someone’s union, when there were no endless messages about boring meetings. When getting married meant choosing a partner for life, when you could entertain your guests with popcorn and cups of tea, and didn't have to break the bank to give them things they would never appreciate anyway.
I long for the days when the cars in town were few and people didn't have to sit for hours in traffic jams looking worried about reaching work late, and about bosses who would send them packing. When the fuel was cheap, and when having a car didn't mean having the latest model, but as long as it could get you to your destination was all that mattered.
I long for the days when you could wear your hair natural and look so amazing, and not have to look for money to braid it, and not have to worry about spending hours and hours chemicalizing, moisturizing and not have anyone criticizing because you were all the same.
I long for the days when food was food, and not genetically modified organisms; when you ate chicken and tasted chicken, when ice-cream and chocolate did not make women worry that they would grow fat, and when soda was drunk only on Christmas and New Year's Day.
I long for the days when Christmas meant new clothes and shoes, when the day started with a grand church service and hymns of old were sung; when you skipped back home and Mummy let you wear your new clothes for the rest of the day; when steamed matooke never smelt so good, and when you are till your stomach felt like a tight drum.
I long for the days when music was music, when Abba and Boney M ruled the airwaves and we sang along to everything as we jumped and danced on the dining table holding a wooden cooking spoon for a microphone; when we had exercise books filled with lyrics of all Michael Jackson's and Lionel Richie's songs, when going to the club meant being on your feet the whole night.
But I can only long for those days. Those days were so good.
#frog
Frog has become very unpopular of late. So much so that the village has decided to banish him. His family have vowed that they will stick with him through thick and thin, and so they will all be leaving the estates before their two weeks’ deadline expires.
Frog has caused the estate tenants a lot of distress in the three years since his family moved from South Sudan to escape the war. His black book is filled with a multitude of sins that keep growing. He has stolen a countless number of chickens, wrung their necks and cooked them in the dark over a wood fire at the back of their house. Frog has been accused of sneaking into a passion fruit shamba and stealing fruits.
One of the locals said she caught him asking her little girl for a kiss. Another person said she has seen him twice, walking along the walls that separate the houses in the estate.
The latest atrocity happened last week. The one that got people all wired up, talking and hating. The one that forced Frog to spend the night in hiding. The one for which he was captured from his hiding place and brought before an estate committee, and later a village committee. A barrage of questions was fired at him from all directions as he sat on the dusty ground. He could only answer “no” to everything he was asked, as his eyes scanned the ground in terror.
The story goes that Frog, his brother Jimmy and an older relative hatched a plan against one of the girls in the estate. This older relative who had been staying at the Frog’s house for nearly three months, had his eye on a neighbor’s new housemaid, in the house opposite theirs. Whenever he spotted her going to the shops, he would stand in the corner near the gate, and touch or tap her, and tell her in broken English that he loved her. She always repulsed his advances, telling him to leave her alone or she would report him to her “Auntie”- her employer. The boys laughed and made fun of her as she took off in fear.
On this fateful afternoon, after ensuring that the neighborhood was “safe”, Frog had jumped over the neighbor’s back gate, and then proceeded to open for Jimmy and the relative. While Jimmy played sentry, the relative pounced on the girl, threw her against the dining table and back-handed her hard. Then he flung her to the floor, tore off her skirt and her panties and took advantage of her as she screamed her lungs out. Frog watched all this unfold.
When Auntie returned from work at about 10pm, the maid was crying her eyes out. She was so traumatized that only bits and pieces of the horror she had endured could come out. She narrated to Auntie what had happened and they reported the matter to the police. A doctor’s check the next day revealed that the girl had been forcefully penetrated and she was immediately put on post-exposure prophylaxis.
Frog and his relatives had got wind that something was wrong, and the “rapist” fled. When the police came, they found Jimmy in one of the bedrooms, pretending to be asleep. He was arrested and frog-marched to the station where he was locked up for six days.
Meanwhile, Frog’s uncle, white-haired and using a walking stick, had gone to the police station to plead for Jimmy’s release. He argued that Jimmy is only 15. Also that he and his family have no knowledge of the young man who was accused of committing the violenct act. One of Frog’s older brothers then made the mistake of threatening Auntie, “What can you do? Do you know what we can do to you? If you want money, tell us how much and we give it to you!”
The villagers were enraged when they heard what had happened. How could someone be raped in their own house in broad daylight? That was unforgivable, they said. These people are seeking refuge in a foreign land and have been accommodated in a good estate for three years, and tolerated by their neighbors in spite of their bad manners. The villagers also say that instead of apologizing for their relatives ill manners, they are offering money, which is admittance to the crime.
The first meeting was convened in Auntie’s house. Someone calling himself the head of the South Sudanese Community in the area apologized for what had happened. However, what incensed the tenants was that he demanded that Jimmy must be released because he is only 15. “How dare you?!” the tenants railed, “That 15-year old stood guard while a 16-year old girl was being defiled. Don’t you even have a bit of regard for her?”
The landlord refused to attend both meetings. He pleaded illness. One of the very concerned tenants who was baying for his blood, called him up personally. He refused to pick her calls. She called him a day later, on another number, and when he picked up, she narrated what had happened. He told her to take charge and relay to him what the tenants would decide. They knew why the landlord was being evasive and reluctant. “You know, these South Sudanese pay in dollars! And they still owe him two months of rent, so he doesn't want to let them go!” But the other tenants were threatening to give their notice if the Sudanese did not leave.
Being a refugee is not easy. The Sudanese have been called all sorts of names. Dinkese. Obudinka. Xenophobia? They have been accused of failing to assimilate, and some have been told to “go back to Juba!” They have been accused of trying to steal electricity fixtures for money, after all “where do they get the clothes they wear?” They were accused of sitting in other tenants’ compounds and littering them with chewed out sugarcane fibres, and refusing to learn the local language.
The village meeting, held late on Sunday, summoned the head of the house, the elderly uncle, who hobbled in on his walking stick. He came along with an interpreter who struggled to get in a word edgewise because the villagers were so incensed and accusations were flying left and right like stones. The uncle apologized profusely and continued to deny that he didn't know the accused “boy”.
“Someone who has been living in your house for a month?? That’s inconceivable! Don’t lie to us Old Man!” He said that his nephews had lots of friends who came by, even after he had locked himself in his room and gone to sleep at 8pm after having a strong drink.
“And that is one of the reasons we want you out of this place!” The tenants yelled. “The stream of young men walking in and out of that house is too much. We don't know any of them, but they keep walking in and out at all hours of the day and night! Who are they? Where are they registered? Does the village LC chairman even know about them??!”
The Old Man gave up and walked back into the house. His interpreter looked lost, the sea of enraged faces staring back at him, snarling mouths demanding answers was too much for him.
Then the announcement came. You have to leave, they said. Within the next 14 days. In that time, there will be no visitors in your house. There will also be no playing Ludo in your compound. And, if anything befalls Auntie and her family, you will be held fully responsible.
One week later. The Frogs have left.
#theaccident
A mobile phone rings. No-one answers the call. The owner cannot hear it. He is dead.
A few paces away, someone is groaning, “I want to sit up, I want to sit up uuuiiiii, uuuuuiiii!”
Rescuers are pulling bodies from a taxi that has been crushed to nearly a quarter its size. There’s a man’s body hanging out of the front left window of the vehicle. He is not wearing a shirt, and his green underpants are on display. The taxi’s mouth is stuck in the front of a trailer which it rammed into headlong.
The accident has just happened at Kitigoma in Buikwe district, along the Jinja-Kampala highway on 15th March. Police says it happened around 8:30pm. The policeman at the scene has scanty information. He says that there were “two taxis, one heading to Mbale, the other to Busia, as they were climbing towards Kitigoma …it is said that the Fuso truck loaded with materials for... from Bidco lost control, rammed into the taxis and dragged them off the road. 13 people were rescued from vehicles…nine ‘dead’ bodies were retrieved from the wreckage… waiting for a crane to pull the taxi out of the truck so that they get to know how many remained in the taxi.”
He suspects that the truck had a mechanical problem of sorts. Then he starts praising Operation Fika Salama and its effectiveness and the “traffic deployment everywhere”.
***************************************************
At the hospital, the man who had been yelling in agony has arrived, on the back of a pickup that was being driven crazily. His head is dangerously balanced on the tailgate.
Another man is lying on a cot in his back. He holds his left hand in his right. Something must be broken. The mattress is bare. His pink shirt is stained with blood, there are spots on the arms and the chest. The nurses have put cotton wool in his right ear.
Journalists and their prying cameras and notebooks are badgering him with questions. “Where were you going?” “What happened?” He answers in between his cries. Anything to make him forget his suffering. “Adjust me! Somebody, please!! Make me sit upright.” He jabs at his chest. “The chest is paining, the chest is paining, the chest is paining! Yesu!”
A young woman has cotton wool plastered on the bridge of her nose. She is sobbing uncontrollably. Her white vest is splotched with blood.
Someone else lies on a cot, staring into space. His belt has been loosened. The mattress is about to fall off.
Another person stands close by, helplessly, quiet as he watches the goings-on. He suddenly moves as the man with the chest injuries man bursts into loud tears. It must be the the trauma, the memory. He says it happened so fast.
A few meters away, an elderly man, blood all over his hands, sits on a plastic chair, talking on a mobile phone. He must be recounting the incident to his relatives, telling them that that he is well. He licks his lips as he talks.
The light in the ward is dim. The nurses are overwhelmed. There are no doctors in sight. Some of the cots have no mattresses. The floor has holes in many places, the cement has come loose and causes it to look dusty.
Outside the hospital, the mayhem continues. Sirens, flashing lights on police vehicles ferrying in the injured. Volunteers, without gloves, helping to carry people from the backs of the trucks. They don’t use stretchers.
************************************************
Then we hear that a Member of Parliament is among those who were killed and people start arguing about why an Honorable was sitting in a taxi when he was given nearly 100 million shillings of tax-payers' money to buy a new car.
A few paces away, someone is groaning, “I want to sit up, I want to sit up uuuiiiii, uuuuuiiii!”
Rescuers are pulling bodies from a taxi that has been crushed to nearly a quarter its size. There’s a man’s body hanging out of the front left window of the vehicle. He is not wearing a shirt, and his green underpants are on display. The taxi’s mouth is stuck in the front of a trailer which it rammed into headlong.
The accident has just happened at Kitigoma in Buikwe district, along the Jinja-Kampala highway on 15th March. Police says it happened around 8:30pm. The policeman at the scene has scanty information. He says that there were “two taxis, one heading to Mbale, the other to Busia, as they were climbing towards Kitigoma …it is said that the Fuso truck loaded with materials for... from Bidco lost control, rammed into the taxis and dragged them off the road. 13 people were rescued from vehicles…nine ‘dead’ bodies were retrieved from the wreckage… waiting for a crane to pull the taxi out of the truck so that they get to know how many remained in the taxi.”
He suspects that the truck had a mechanical problem of sorts. Then he starts praising Operation Fika Salama and its effectiveness and the “traffic deployment everywhere”.
***************************************************
At the hospital, the man who had been yelling in agony has arrived, on the back of a pickup that was being driven crazily. His head is dangerously balanced on the tailgate.
Another man is lying on a cot in his back. He holds his left hand in his right. Something must be broken. The mattress is bare. His pink shirt is stained with blood, there are spots on the arms and the chest. The nurses have put cotton wool in his right ear.
Journalists and their prying cameras and notebooks are badgering him with questions. “Where were you going?” “What happened?” He answers in between his cries. Anything to make him forget his suffering. “Adjust me! Somebody, please!! Make me sit upright.” He jabs at his chest. “The chest is paining, the chest is paining, the chest is paining! Yesu!”
A young woman has cotton wool plastered on the bridge of her nose. She is sobbing uncontrollably. Her white vest is splotched with blood.
Someone else lies on a cot, staring into space. His belt has been loosened. The mattress is about to fall off.
Another person stands close by, helplessly, quiet as he watches the goings-on. He suddenly moves as the man with the chest injuries man bursts into loud tears. It must be the the trauma, the memory. He says it happened so fast.
A few meters away, an elderly man, blood all over his hands, sits on a plastic chair, talking on a mobile phone. He must be recounting the incident to his relatives, telling them that that he is well. He licks his lips as he talks.
The light in the ward is dim. The nurses are overwhelmed. There are no doctors in sight. Some of the cots have no mattresses. The floor has holes in many places, the cement has come loose and causes it to look dusty.
Outside the hospital, the mayhem continues. Sirens, flashing lights on police vehicles ferrying in the injured. Volunteers, without gloves, helping to carry people from the backs of the trucks. They don’t use stretchers.
************************************************
Then we hear that a Member of Parliament is among those who were killed and people start arguing about why an Honorable was sitting in a taxi when he was given nearly 100 million shillings of tax-payers' money to buy a new car.
#MukyalaLosa
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| (courtesy Magny T) |
On my second visit to Uganda in the late 1980's after the war, my grandmother told me a story I will never forget. It gives me the chills every time it comes to mind.
By the way, my grandparents were quite the modern pair, having attended prestigious schools -Gayaza and Buddo- and sending their children to the same schools. My grandma was a church-woman, a member of the Mothers’ Union who wore her snow-white busuuti with an emerald blue sash to prayers every Sunday with pride, and conducted a service for her grandchildren in her sitting room every morning and evening. I remember dozing off in the dark sometimes, and my cousins sniggering over one or other joke as she asked us to read from Zabbuli, “Mukama ye Musumba wange, seetaagenga…”.
The story goes…
One night in the 1950's, when they still stayed in Entebbe, near the shores of the Lake Victoria, she asked my grandfather, after he returned from work, that they should visit a neighbor who had been poorly of late.
It was evening and the night was settling in when they made their way through the trees, and cassava and banana plantations to the neighbor’s house.
Mukyala Losa was pleased to see them, and received the loaf of bread and jug of milk with appreciation. “Bannange, ndaba ku ki? mweebale kwetikka!”
“Nga olabye n’obukuluma.” They had heard of her illness and wished her a quick recovery.
For about 15 minutes, the conversation centered on how she was struck down and what the slow recovery process entailed. Then she excused herself, asking for a few minutes to prepare her visitors a cup of tea in her kitchen which was adjacent to the house.
They talked as they waited. And waited. The tadooba that she had lit in the sitting room ran out of kerosene and the room went dark.
“Owange! Mukyala Losa, e’tadooba nga ezikidde!”
No answer.
“Mukyala Losa!”
Jjajja Maama opened the back door and walked to the kitchen which had no door. The tin-lamp flickered. But there was nobody there.
“Mukyala Losa! Owange, oluwa?” Had she dashed off to get some sugar from the neighbor’s?
Jjajja Maama looked around the small room. The milk was still sitting in its jug, the way they had brought it, and the cooking stones in the fireplace stared back at her.
She grabbed the tadooba and hurried back to the sitting room where Taata Jjajja was sitting in the dark.
“Owange, tugende. Ono alabika si wa’kudda kati. Taliyo mu kiyungu. Mpise naye taddamu. Tutere tutambule.”
They walked out of the house with the lamp, Maama Jjaja leading the way, as they stumbled through the dark maize plantation that Mukyala Losa had planted near the entrance to her compound.
They could barely make out where they were going, but soon got to the banana plantation.
A figure suddenly, but slowly rose from behind a banana stem right next to the path. Like a ghost. Jjajja Maama had time only to glimpse a face, a female mouth and cheekbones, before the lamp was knocked out of her hand and went hurtling to the ground and she screamed. It was a feeling of horror.
Taata Jjajja had no idea what was happening. He only heard blood-curdling screams, then the sound of something falling in the dark, and suddenly the sound of footsteps bolting into the dark. He followed suit, kakookola tondeka nyuma style.
Somehow, they found themselves in their house, out of breath, their legs, hands and clothes scratched and torn in many places.
Till the day that she died, my grandmother believed that Mukyala Losa was the person who was hiding behind the banana stem.
A night dancer perhaps?
Tuesday 16 May 2017
#fruss
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| (courtesy Uganda Diaspora News) |
Nze I am so waiting for the 19th of May for my telephone lines to be
switched off. Because I am utterly and completely fed up! I do not feel
like I am a Ugandan citizen. My family- Dad, Mum, son and I registered
for the National ID ——like ALL responsible citizens.
That registration process - i.e. filling in forms, and sitting in front of the camera for Take One and Two and Three, and finger and thumb prints, plus a session of “mulindeeko, kompyuta eweddeko charge"—— took us about two hours.
And when everyone else was boasting about how the NIRA agents had called them to “pick your cards”, we were there looking like lost sheep, staring at our phones hopelessly, waiting for them to ring.
Anyway, the calls did not come, and we did not even vote in the February 2016 election. Disenfranchisement of the highest degree, and yet there was a candidate I really had to show my support!
Can you imagine, even the LC lady at the registration center did not get her ID? And so did hundreds of others.
My Dad, 70-years plus, and of ill-health now, kept checking at Nangabo sub-county headquarters, I don't know how many times he heard the line, “Kaadi tezinnagya!”
Come April 2017, UCC decides to issue an impromptu one-week deadline for all sim cards to be registered. Tena, we are required to use the National ID that we didn't initially use to register our lines. People panic, line up at all centers- with no proper instructions from NIRA.
The whole thing’s become a total mess and we find out from a report in Matooke Republic that “thousands” of sim-cards have been registered using the same NINs (whatever that means!). Which also means that, wait, (God, help me to understand these things) that the telecom companies do not have the data that NIRA has because then, they would automatically know that this isn’t so n’ so’s ID number. Eh?
Then that week expires and we are given a one-month’s reprieve until 19th May, and despite the many attempts we have made, nothing seems to budge.
Thankfully, we now have the forms, but through such hardship, it brings tears to my eyes. And no, we didn't pay for them.
Anyway, there’s this chap called Obadiah, a village-mate we nicknamed “Ka-Uniti” because his never-ending song when he meets you is “Olina yo ka-uniti? Waliwo gwe njagala okukukubira.”
This Obadiah accosted my parents as they left the sub-county headquarters on the weekend, and immediately “guesses” what their problem is (don’t they all? These fixers). He showed them an envelope and very sneakily (shady guy that he is) let them have a peek at what would 'get' them their IDs “with no trouble at all”. It was a red-note.
For a moment they were lost, anti bo baamanyira those things of those days where employees executed their jobs faithfully, aka no bribes.
Of course they would not pay. 80,000 shillings for four people! That was money they had not budgeted for. And this kinda money is not receipted, so where do you start asking for accountability if Obadiah vanishes into thin air. Anyway, Obadiah told them to contact a one Nshekanabo oba Ndyanabo when they had got the money.
Naye God was watching, as he always does. Because just then, he came in form of another village-mate, the grandson of a friend. The grandson remembered my Dad and greeted him. He was one of those doing the registering. “But there are no forms right now. I will contact you when they finally appear.”
And so we waited for that phone-call. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Meanwhile, the deadline is crouching closer, waiting to pounce.
And so it was that Mum called the RDC for Kasangati on Thursday morning. The RDC was “shocked” that there have been no registration forms for so long. She made a call to the Town Clerk, and—— lo and behold!—— the forms materialized from nowhere, just like when Aladdin rubbed his lamp and the Genie appeared. Of course I have left out so many details- the ones that have made my eyes well with tears.
Yesterday at 4:30am, my elderly parents made their way to Nangabo headquarters where they were met a mlolongo of sleepy-eyed humans, most of them youthful men.
About an hour later, someone started issuing “numbers”. At that time??
By 6:30am, the registration equipment was being arranged. Then about one hour later the announcement comes that, “Only 50 people would be ‘worked on’ on that day”, and that the rest should go away and return the next day. These senior citizens, like I said, are 70-plus.
Of course, there are some who hung around looking forlorn and dejected, but the decision had been made. “Mugeende, munadda enkya!”
***************************************************
By the way, I do not recall, and I am not drunk, any census official coming to my house and taking my details, or any of my family member’s for that matter.
So—— am I a Ugandan citizen oba I should start tracing my lineage???
PS: We finally got registered after waiting for 10 hours. From 2am to 12pm the next day!!!
That registration process - i.e. filling in forms, and sitting in front of the camera for Take One and Two and Three, and finger and thumb prints, plus a session of “mulindeeko, kompyuta eweddeko charge"—— took us about two hours.
And when everyone else was boasting about how the NIRA agents had called them to “pick your cards”, we were there looking like lost sheep, staring at our phones hopelessly, waiting for them to ring.
Anyway, the calls did not come, and we did not even vote in the February 2016 election. Disenfranchisement of the highest degree, and yet there was a candidate I really had to show my support!
Can you imagine, even the LC lady at the registration center did not get her ID? And so did hundreds of others.
My Dad, 70-years plus, and of ill-health now, kept checking at Nangabo sub-county headquarters, I don't know how many times he heard the line, “Kaadi tezinnagya!”
Come April 2017, UCC decides to issue an impromptu one-week deadline for all sim cards to be registered. Tena, we are required to use the National ID that we didn't initially use to register our lines. People panic, line up at all centers- with no proper instructions from NIRA.
The whole thing’s become a total mess and we find out from a report in Matooke Republic that “thousands” of sim-cards have been registered using the same NINs (whatever that means!). Which also means that, wait, (God, help me to understand these things) that the telecom companies do not have the data that NIRA has because then, they would automatically know that this isn’t so n’ so’s ID number. Eh?
Then that week expires and we are given a one-month’s reprieve until 19th May, and despite the many attempts we have made, nothing seems to budge.
Thankfully, we now have the forms, but through such hardship, it brings tears to my eyes. And no, we didn't pay for them.
Anyway, there’s this chap called Obadiah, a village-mate we nicknamed “Ka-Uniti” because his never-ending song when he meets you is “Olina yo ka-uniti? Waliwo gwe njagala okukukubira.”
This Obadiah accosted my parents as they left the sub-county headquarters on the weekend, and immediately “guesses” what their problem is (don’t they all? These fixers). He showed them an envelope and very sneakily (shady guy that he is) let them have a peek at what would 'get' them their IDs “with no trouble at all”. It was a red-note.
For a moment they were lost, anti bo baamanyira those things of those days where employees executed their jobs faithfully, aka no bribes.
Of course they would not pay. 80,000 shillings for four people! That was money they had not budgeted for. And this kinda money is not receipted, so where do you start asking for accountability if Obadiah vanishes into thin air. Anyway, Obadiah told them to contact a one Nshekanabo oba Ndyanabo when they had got the money.
Naye God was watching, as he always does. Because just then, he came in form of another village-mate, the grandson of a friend. The grandson remembered my Dad and greeted him. He was one of those doing the registering. “But there are no forms right now. I will contact you when they finally appear.”
And so we waited for that phone-call. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Meanwhile, the deadline is crouching closer, waiting to pounce.
And so it was that Mum called the RDC for Kasangati on Thursday morning. The RDC was “shocked” that there have been no registration forms for so long. She made a call to the Town Clerk, and—— lo and behold!—— the forms materialized from nowhere, just like when Aladdin rubbed his lamp and the Genie appeared. Of course I have left out so many details- the ones that have made my eyes well with tears.
Yesterday at 4:30am, my elderly parents made their way to Nangabo headquarters where they were met a mlolongo of sleepy-eyed humans, most of them youthful men.
About an hour later, someone started issuing “numbers”. At that time??
By 6:30am, the registration equipment was being arranged. Then about one hour later the announcement comes that, “Only 50 people would be ‘worked on’ on that day”, and that the rest should go away and return the next day. These senior citizens, like I said, are 70-plus.
Of course, there are some who hung around looking forlorn and dejected, but the decision had been made. “Mugeende, munadda enkya!”
***************************************************
By the way, I do not recall, and I am not drunk, any census official coming to my house and taking my details, or any of my family member’s for that matter.
So—— am I a Ugandan citizen oba I should start tracing my lineage???
PS: We finally got registered after waiting for 10 hours. From 2am to 12pm the next day!!!
#howmanyeh?
| The Good Ol' Doc's table (courtesy Internet) |
This woman, a 34 -year old had a fever and decides not to self-medicate. And because she is one of these ‘corporate’ ladies, she has a medical insurance policy and will take full advantage of it.
So, off she goes to a hospital, a short distance from the office where she works. After the regular heart-rate, pressure, weight readings, she was ushered in to see the doctor. The elderly man did not look up and continued writing even as she walked in, said “Good afternoon”, and carefully sat down on a chair opposite him.
After two long minutes of illegible scribbling, the Doctor shifted his attention to her. She took this as a signal to launch into her ailments. “I have a slight fever, a pounding headache, dry lips, runny tum…”
“Stop there!”
He returned to his scribbling.
After a minute, he looked up again.
“How many children do you have?”
“Eh?”
“I asked you how many children you have. Olina abaana bameka?” It came out rather crudely.
“I have no children.”
“You have no children, eh? At your age? You are 34 years old, 34! You should have started having children when you were 24! You are a whole ten years late. What is wrong with these young women of these days, why don’t you want to have children? You think you can be young forever? You think your breasts will stay upright even when you are 70 and sitting at home all alone? Don’t you want the joy of grandchildren? Really, you really baffle me. Wanting to young forever!”
And the tirade went on and on, saliva jumping onto the sheet of paper he had been scribbling on , as she sat there looking and listening to him because of her not having children. He had not even bothered to ask the reason she was in the room.
After watching him come close to foaming at the mouth for about five minutes, she stood up. “Excuse me please.”
“No, sit down! So what is the matter with you? Now, explain your illness. What brought you here?”
“No thank you Doctor. I will go elsewhere. Actually, come to think of it, I feel much better now!”
And with that, she swished out of the room and out of the clinic to a drug shop.
**************************
Self-medication suddenly sounded so much better.
Friday 12 May 2017
#giveathought
Someone is lounging in a high-back comfortable office chair, rocking back and forth, considering whether to put his feet on the table. A Mac computer connected to the Internet sits on the desk in front of him. His Samsung Galaxy phone is connected to the office WiFi and he flits between WhatsApp and Facebook wearing a very bored look. He chides the tea-lady for that stain caused by a splash from the overfull cup. It is becoming his daily habit to turn up late for work, especially when his boss is out of the office, and when he sits down, the first thing he does is either read the newspaper or do social media for an hour or so. And when it comes to lunchtime, he chews away heartily as he launches into a whinge about how the conditions at work are stifling his creativity, about how the pay is too low, about how so-n’-so is not doing his fair share, about how the long working hours are wearing him out, about how this food tastes so bland, about how …
No wonder everyone has started avoiding him, and these days, he’s the one asking his mates if he can join their table.
************** ****************** *****************
Do we ever stop and take a minute to consider that there are people doing ‘undesirable’ jobs, the dirty jobs, the bottom-of-the barrel jobs, and very low-paying- I’m talking Uganda?
Jobs like cleaning toilets— the Americans call them janitors (polite, eh?) - subjected to out-of-this-world sights, the sounds they hear, the smells they have to endure;
Those who are contracted to bury unclaimed bodies (revolting, eh?);
Rubbish collectors carrying worn-out gunias filled with three weeks worth of trash, including stinky diapers, and teeming with maggots (nasty, eh?);
Plumbers who unclog your grimy sink drain blocked by wads and wads of rolled-up hair and grimy with grease (eeeekk!, eh?);
Bus drivers who do miles, and miles, and miles of road without a rest because their greedy boss is only thinking of the ching-chings in his bank account (Midas, eh?);
Vending on Kampala’s streets and having to decide between two evils- a rainy day or KCCA’s bulldog enforcement officers (pitiful, eh?);
A doctor in Mulago hospital’s casualty ward for who the smell of blood is a permanent fixture, and broken bones, slashed chins, and torn flesh are what he calls a normal day at work (gross, eh?);
The mukene or mpuuta monger whose body odor is akin to that of the fish he sells (phew, eh?) and it has now stuck on to his plates, his pillow, his bicycle, and the chairs in his house (yikes, eh?);
The farmer who toils in the fields, and then bicycles his produce to the market, only for the vendors to make fun of his food and dismiss it, then ‘help’ him and toss a few sad shillings in his face (hmmm…, eh?);
A fisherman for whom a change in the weather is a matter of life and death because if he is caught in a storm on the lake, it doesn't matter how good he knows the waters, the waters will pretend they do not know him (scary,eh);
The sewer worker who dives into manholes to wade through excrement to look for that pesky blockage (yucky, eh?);
Pit-latrine diggers who go deep into the earth’s bowels as they scrape and fill buckets and buckets with soil, and sometimes the walls of the hole decide to get tired and cave in, and make them their mealy-meal (kitalo!, eh?);
Call-center agents in the service industry who are barraged with tonnes and tonnes of curse words when the electricity as little as flickers (kika, eh?);
Taxi conductors who ply the rural routes, the dusty potholed roads, the scorching-hot kameeme and abusive passengers who don't want to pay, and the words “mu maaso awo" are continuously ringing in their ears when they lay their heads down to sleep (buzzzzz, eh?);
Morgue workers whose companions are the corpses packed in trays with tags on their toes in that cold chamber (spooky, eh?);
The askari who treks to work where there will be no seat, no lunch, no hot cup of tea, and at the end of the month his pay-packet cannot even allow her to send money to her mother in the village. And woe betide you if you work at night and Kifeesi crew pounces and makes off with your bow and arrow (heeeeeh, eh?);
The nurse who tends to TB patients, and whose health is at risk any time any of them as much as clears their throats (risky, eh?);
The boda-boda rider for whom the sun and rain are not his friend, and who drivers in their guzzlers can knock him over at will just because he happens to be in their way (dangerous, eh?)
The prostitute (but this may be out of choice) whose body is on display for her to be able to attract clients who may refuse to pay her for her services, clients who may be carrying an incurable disease or clients who may have long-unresolved issues and heap them onto (and into) her. Pity the ones who stand in the dark street corners in skimpy dresses with no underwear and call themselves ShopRite on those cold dark nights (not sexy, eh?).
I recently watched a video about a crime scene cleaner in the US. Even though he owns the company, he wipes up the spatters and the stains, deodorizes the gory scene. And earns THOUSANDS of dollars for his “undesirable” work.
No wonder everyone has started avoiding him, and these days, he’s the one asking his mates if he can join their table.
************** ****************** *****************
Do we ever stop and take a minute to consider that there are people doing ‘undesirable’ jobs, the dirty jobs, the bottom-of-the barrel jobs, and very low-paying- I’m talking Uganda?
Jobs like cleaning toilets— the Americans call them janitors (polite, eh?) - subjected to out-of-this-world sights, the sounds they hear, the smells they have to endure;
Those who are contracted to bury unclaimed bodies (revolting, eh?);
Rubbish collectors carrying worn-out gunias filled with three weeks worth of trash, including stinky diapers, and teeming with maggots (nasty, eh?);
Plumbers who unclog your grimy sink drain blocked by wads and wads of rolled-up hair and grimy with grease (eeeekk!, eh?);
Bus drivers who do miles, and miles, and miles of road without a rest because their greedy boss is only thinking of the ching-chings in his bank account (Midas, eh?);
Vending on Kampala’s streets and having to decide between two evils- a rainy day or KCCA’s bulldog enforcement officers (pitiful, eh?);
A doctor in Mulago hospital’s casualty ward for who the smell of blood is a permanent fixture, and broken bones, slashed chins, and torn flesh are what he calls a normal day at work (gross, eh?);
The mukene or mpuuta monger whose body odor is akin to that of the fish he sells (phew, eh?) and it has now stuck on to his plates, his pillow, his bicycle, and the chairs in his house (yikes, eh?);
The farmer who toils in the fields, and then bicycles his produce to the market, only for the vendors to make fun of his food and dismiss it, then ‘help’ him and toss a few sad shillings in his face (hmmm…, eh?);
A fisherman for whom a change in the weather is a matter of life and death because if he is caught in a storm on the lake, it doesn't matter how good he knows the waters, the waters will pretend they do not know him (scary,eh);
The sewer worker who dives into manholes to wade through excrement to look for that pesky blockage (yucky, eh?);
Pit-latrine diggers who go deep into the earth’s bowels as they scrape and fill buckets and buckets with soil, and sometimes the walls of the hole decide to get tired and cave in, and make them their mealy-meal (kitalo!, eh?);
Call-center agents in the service industry who are barraged with tonnes and tonnes of curse words when the electricity as little as flickers (kika, eh?);
Taxi conductors who ply the rural routes, the dusty potholed roads, the scorching-hot kameeme and abusive passengers who don't want to pay, and the words “mu maaso awo" are continuously ringing in their ears when they lay their heads down to sleep (buzzzzz, eh?);
Morgue workers whose companions are the corpses packed in trays with tags on their toes in that cold chamber (spooky, eh?);
The askari who treks to work where there will be no seat, no lunch, no hot cup of tea, and at the end of the month his pay-packet cannot even allow her to send money to her mother in the village. And woe betide you if you work at night and Kifeesi crew pounces and makes off with your bow and arrow (heeeeeh, eh?);
The nurse who tends to TB patients, and whose health is at risk any time any of them as much as clears their throats (risky, eh?);
The boda-boda rider for whom the sun and rain are not his friend, and who drivers in their guzzlers can knock him over at will just because he happens to be in their way (dangerous, eh?)
The prostitute (but this may be out of choice) whose body is on display for her to be able to attract clients who may refuse to pay her for her services, clients who may be carrying an incurable disease or clients who may have long-unresolved issues and heap them onto (and into) her. Pity the ones who stand in the dark street corners in skimpy dresses with no underwear and call themselves ShopRite on those cold dark nights (not sexy, eh?).
I recently watched a video about a crime scene cleaner in the US. Even though he owns the company, he wipes up the spatters and the stains, deodorizes the gory scene. And earns THOUSANDS of dollars for his “undesirable” work.
#fear
Somehow, you’re late today. You jump into one of those late night
taxis, and when you get to the boda stage, they have all gone to sleep
because it rained very heavily earlier.
You live about 15 minutes from here, and the wisest thing you can do is ensure that you are in your house, anti the Kifeesi crew have been dropping their anonymous, ominous letters in the area.
Meanwhile, there is a serious electricity blackout --- actually, you noticed it from the time you hit the highway, which means, it is pitch dark.
So you hit the road, hoping against all hope that you do not meet a single living thing, be it a cat (apart from the plants of course).
You’re wearing soft-soled shoes, so, apart from the lone yelp from a stray dog, the night is quiet.
Suddenly you hear a sound.
You cannot tell whether its coming from behind or in the direction you’re going.
You stop.
The sound again.
Footsteps.
Walking.
Unmistakable.
A human being.
You look wildly around you but cannot see a thing.
And you still can’t tell where they’re coming from but they are drawing closer.
?????????????
Would you rather they are coming towards you, or following you?
You live about 15 minutes from here, and the wisest thing you can do is ensure that you are in your house, anti the Kifeesi crew have been dropping their anonymous, ominous letters in the area.
Meanwhile, there is a serious electricity blackout --- actually, you noticed it from the time you hit the highway, which means, it is pitch dark.
So you hit the road, hoping against all hope that you do not meet a single living thing, be it a cat (apart from the plants of course).
You’re wearing soft-soled shoes, so, apart from the lone yelp from a stray dog, the night is quiet.
Suddenly you hear a sound.
You cannot tell whether its coming from behind or in the direction you’re going.
You stop.
The sound again.
Footsteps.
Walking.
Unmistakable.
A human being.
You look wildly around you but cannot see a thing.
And you still can’t tell where they’re coming from but they are drawing closer.
?????????????
Would you rather they are coming towards you, or following you?
Wednesday 10 May 2017
#hopelessness
 |
| The Waiting Shed at Uganda Cancer Institute |
The patients and their carers who spend the night in the shed, have gathered up their beddings-mattresses, sheets, mosquito nets, bags - are arranged in neat piles against the walls. Some of these patients have spent weeks, months sleeping in the shed. They come for treatment as outpatients but cannot afford the money to return home because their next appointment is in a month’s time. And so they stay and wait, and hope that they will get better.
The old man is from Lira district. He came on the night bus accompanied by his two sons, twenty-somethings. He wears a purple woolly hat on his head, and an oversized grey coat. On his feet are worn leather sandals that have seen better days. He is hunched over, head in his hands. His look is one of hopelessness and despair. His children sit by his side, equally despondent. They stare into space, not saying anything. They are lost in thought. Will their Dad get better? Will they go back empty-handed and hopeless like the last time they were here, three months ago?
The wait is long. When finally the register office administrator arrives, she takes another hour before she starts distributing chits that the patients will use to access their files. For her, breakfast is a must, and she enjoys it leisurely as she gossips with a colleague.
The rain has lessened to a drizzle now. Some patients are sipping on cups of steaming tea and eating cassava, bread, maize, mandazi- the vendors are many. The old man and his sons sit quietly. The only money they have is the fare back home.
When finally their file is called, they receive it and move on to the next stage. The register office administrator addresses the crowd in Luganda. Why do some people assume that everyone understands, and speaks Luganda? They have no idea where to go, and when they approach her to ask her, she barks at them and tells them to find out themselves. At this point, we notice something else. The old man is blind.
We wait for a few minutes until our file is called, and then walk to the next building, the one where we will see the doctors and tell and show them all the aches and pains we have been having in the last month. The clock in that waiting room shows it is 11:50am. That means that we have been braving the cold and wet for nearly five hours.
The room is filled with human beings from all walks of life. Women, men, children. Some share the five benches, others who can’t find space find some sort of comfort on the floor, others hover near the nurse’s table making inquiries and being turned away. In between that, the nurse is calling on the patients to approach her table as she calls their files, to have their pressure readings taken.
There will be three doctors today, but they have not yet arrived. The nurse does not offer an explanation but we already know why the doctors are late. The morning rounds were done late because of the rain. The infusion room is also locked. They have not yet started for the day. There is a trail of mud in the corridor that comes into this waiting room.
At about 12:30pm, two doctors walk in casually, chatting away. They do not look round the room at the patients who perk up when they see them. Their ray of hope. One enters the first room, the other walks up to the next room and turns the handle. The door is locked. He goes to the nurse and tells her something. She abandons the patient whose pressure readings she has been taking, and rushes off to find the key. The doctor stands at the nurse’s counter, whips out his phone and starts reading. Most probably social media, because he smiles some and types away vigorously.
The nurse is back in five minutes, huffing and puffing. With the key which she fishes out of the pocket of her white uniform. She looks like she feels like she is a savior of sorts. Then she starts calling the names for the files. “Naguya Brenda!” She pronounces it ‘Bulenda’. “Senyondo Geoffrey!” The name comes out sounding like ‘Jjoofule’. This is murder of the highest order.
Somehow, we end up sitting near the old man. He is dozing. One of his sons stands by him, his hands folded over his chest. The other leans against a wall, looking up at the ceiling. We get talking. The son tells us that his father fell sick last year and they only discovered it was cancer somewhere in the nasal cavity, four months after he had been treated at various clinics but without success. The last doctor referred them to the Cancer Institute. They have been here thrice. The last time they came, they were told that there was no medicine but that they should seek treatment in Nairobi. That would cost 10 million shillings.
The young man says they cannot afford the money. It is too much. They have spent all they have on treating their father and he is not getting any better. He tells us that they had arrived in Kampala at 2am, and with nowhere to go, they hung around the bus station waiting for the morning. When it was light, at about 5:30am, they jumped on to a motorcycle, all three of them, and came to Mulago. That he had lost his only source of money when UCC ordered telecom companies to stop vendors selling sim cards.
The women selling food are hovering in the doorways, asking people if they will have lunch. The food is packed in buckets which they leave in the corridor as people make their orders. “Tulina a’matooke, omuceere, lumonde, muwogo n’akawunga. Enva tulina ebijaanjalo, ebinyeebwa, n'enyama.” Ebijanjalo, n’ebinyeebwa bya nkumi ssatu, enyama ya taano.” (We have steamed bananas, rice, sweet potatoes, cassava and posho. Anything with beans and groundnuts stew is 3,000 shillings, with meat stew is 5,000 shillings.)
Some people raise their hands and the women approach and take orders. Others look away, some just rest their chins on their hands. The old man’s children are among those who look away. We also look away. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The women return with the first orders. The food is covered with another plate which they take away when the customer uncovers the food.
Then we make a bold attempt. “Would you like some food?” To the young man standing next to his father.
“Who? Me?”
We nod our heads. “Yes.”
“No, its okay.” He shakes his head.
“Hey, its okay, it's on us. Please.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you very much.”
We call one of the ladies and she scribbles down their order. This brother signals to his younger brother and he also makes his.
In ten minutes they are having lunch.
It is now 2:25pm and the line has hardly moved. A third doctor has arrived to help with the workload. Each patient spends roughly seven minutes in the doctor’s room. Many emerge with the look of hopelessness and dejection on their faces. Most probably the report on their health is not good, that the blood tests show the disease is spreading, or that the medicine they need is unavailable.
4:30pm. The old man is next in line to see the doctor. When his turn comes, he stands up and shuffles into the room, aided by his sons. Their visit lasts about 15 minutes. Rather long. As they leave, we ask them what the doctor said.
“He said the same thing. That there’s nothing much he can do, we have to look for the money to take our Dad to Nairobi. But he has prescribed something for the pain. We need to get it from the pharmacy here. Where is the pharmacy?”
And when finally they are shown to the Pharmacy, the dispenser shrugs his shoulders, raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as he shows them the shelves behind him.
They are empty.
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