#pokingandprobing

These endless probes, investigations, commissions of inquiry- call them whatever you want- that get us all excited and hot under the collar at the same time. Roads, Land, Police, Golden Handshakes, Telecom Fraud, CHOGM, Health, Oil, Tycoons, Education, Markets, Examinations. Graft, shoddy work, corruption, bakshish, malpractices, ka-chai.

The revelations from these investigations cause heated debate and make headlines for days; members of probing committees sit in comfortable chairs with huge flasks of milky tea and crunchy meat samosas at their disposal; the investigators are paid huge allowances for their time; some are even accorded bodyguards on account of the danger they have put themselves into, owing to the barrage of tough questions they keep shooting at the subjects who shiver and shake and want to pee on themselves ,and others who give the most arrogant answers there are. Sometimes the magnitude (read: importance) of what is being investigated even gets hours of live proceedings on TV.
 
After days and even months of endless probing, investigating and inquiring- call it whatever you want, a 1,000-page report is compiled; it is bound in blue and yellow ribbons; journalists are invited to “capture the historic moment” as the report is handed over in a flurry of camera flashes, vigorous handshakes, practiced poses and plastic smiles. The press are fed a few highlights on the recommendations from the report; they race back to their newsrooms to let the editors decide how best to craft tomorrow’s headline, and how to script the 6 and 9pm top story. 

And that’s it. Nothing comes of the endless probes, investigations, commissions of inquiry- call them whatever you want.
 
No one is ever brought to book; no one is ever arrested; no one is courteous enough to resign; no one is prosecuted; no one hangs their head in shame; and no one ever asks for accountability. We just drink our ginger-flavored tea, eat puffy mandazis, drink beer and sip on malwa in the bars where we all become a super analyst of sorts; devour our nsaniyas of pork, and chomp on chicken bones as we watch the news on television and shake our heads and shout about it over the dinner table, and then ruminate over it in our offices the next morning. 

And public resources continue to be wasted; corruption continues to thrive; people continue to die at home and in poorly equipped health centers; others continue to walk to work; their houses are flooded when it rains; farmers continue to earn peanuts for all their toil in the sun; bridges continue to collapse; drivers continue to drive carelessly; contractors continue to do shoddy work; the wretched-forgotten continue to sleep among their goats and chickens; and their land continues to be stolen; they continue to be evicted; their police cases continue to be bungled; and they continue to make good with third-rate services.

And then there is another inquiry and life goes on.

#thebestformilesaround

You contract someone to do a job. Its a face to face interview. They’ve been recommended highly, ‘the best for miles around’ you were told. Three days only, you need them. Between 9am to 6pm. You shake hands, the deal is sealed. Work begins tomorrow. Then, “But I need transport money,” they say. Okay.

Day One. They arrive at 9.30am. They’re not carrying any work clothes or equipment. You leave them to go about their work. 45 minutes into their pottering about, you hear a phone ring. “Kale nzija. Muli Kibuli? Muyingire awo ku ka lestolanti nja kusasula.” They are communicating to someone in Kibuli to have something to eat at a restaurant, and that they will clear the bill when they get there.
They then matter-of-factly inform you that they are done with the job for today because they had “only come to check on the magnitude of work they have to deal with, but that they will be here by 8.30am tomorrow.” And before you have time to say “Naye we agreed…”, they have bolted like a dog stealing a bone. Vanished. Melted into thin air.
Of course you’re disappointed but you decide to give them the benefit of the doubt. After all… they came highly recommended as the ‘best for miles around’.

Day Two. You’re at the site by 8am. It becomes 9am. You go about your work till 10am. (They had actually had the nerve to diss ‘BanaUganda who do not value time!’ on the day when you were signing the deal- said in a Tamale Mirundi - like gritting-of-the-teeth fashion.) The clock ticks its way to 11am. 12pm, the sun is high in the sky. No sign of the ‘highly recommended’ expert, 'the best for miles around'. You decide against calling. You give up, do your stuff and head home. Maybe they ran into a problem, Maybe this. Maybe that. But your doubts are setting in.

Day Three. You have new hope.
But it is the same story. No show. Now, you’re really disappointed. At 6pm, a tiny flicker of “Maybe… just maybe…,” makes you pick up the phone- they could be injured, or sick, or lying in a kidnappers' den somewhere. But you don't want to apply a 'nkweguya' tone. You also check that your mad (read: angry) voice is safely tucked away, then call.
“Ha, nvuga. I’m driving and can’t hear you. Call me later,” they say. And they switch off. But the background was really quiet. Or was it your ears? Anyway, you’re so done.
Three and a half hours later, they call back. On some number, not the Airtel and Airtel they gave you. “Auntie”, they start.
Oh, so now they’re calling you Auntie, and yet on the day of the deal signing it was “Madaamu”. Yeah, you have suddenly become all chummy.
“Yes…”, you’re feeling stern. As stern as Mummy when you would ask for something after you had disobeyed her order to set the table and went out to play instead.
They start the unending greetings. “Gyebale egyeyo.” Thanking you for work.
You say, “Gwe ani?”. Who is speaking please? But you know who it is. Don’t delay the eventualities. Get to the point!
“Munnange Auntie, nafuna omulimu n'abazungu. Naye nzija next week.”
You keep mum, thinking, “Oh, so the bazungus put a gun to your head and forced you to go work for them? And you relegated my work to next week. Work for which you will be paid! What happened to courtesy?” You look out of the window to see if it flew out.
“Auntie,” they start again.
“Wanji.” Yes?
“Nze mbadde ngamba nti I will come…”
“Mpulidde ssebo.” You hope that will stop them in their lying tracks.
“Kati mbadde nsaba ompereze ssente za transport…” They want fare. AGAIN! Before they have even started the job. And they are asking for more money!
*********************************************************************************
You very quietly put the phone on the table and let the one who came highly recommended, 'the best for miles around', speak to the air.

#cubs

Easy for you to say when you are working in a media house that has the financial resources. Agreed, they were blaring out the facts, calling a spade a spade, but I could not help but feel that there was an air of pomposity. One of them pocketing (read “swag) and un-pocketing as he spewed about his experiences, the other droning on and on with a presentation he said he did "not need to prepare a paper for".

It is good to recount experiences, it is good to let the rookies know what they are in for, but if you are offering encouragement for what it is worth, then please avoid sounding ominous. Avoid making the profession look like it is only the strong-willed, and hard-hearted who can “endure” journalism.

Problem is, there are so many rookies out there who do not have the slightest idea what they are doing. Being paid a paltry 2,000 shillings per story you do (mind you, that is used on air) is no incentive for you to go spending a day or two digging into a story for which you may find yourself staring into a barrel of a gun before it is even aired. And I am referring to radio journalists here, because they have ruined the profession. They are in their droves. Each time I chance to go out to the “field” I see five new faces. Rushing in, rushing out. Late, untidy. No inkling whatsoever, of what is going on. Interrupting an interview. Thrusting a recorder into an interviewee’s face. Asking the wrong questions. Spelling wrong. Asking half-baked questions. Not reading. I tell you, the list is long.

I have been in this profession 14 years now. I know what I want. To be a good news reader. But I also know what makes a good news story. Good for reading. Good to listen to. And good to watch. And it not that ‘Ken Lukyamuzi Da Man has said that Ugandans must follow the law if they want to be abiding citizens”, or “Warid Telecom has launched its Pakasurf internet services in a ceremony that was attended by the Marketing Manager and fellow staff.” Give me a break!

I started my radio career at Radio Uganda, government owned. Terrible place at the time. There was hardly any supervision and the bosses couldn’t give a damn about what you wrote, all they needed was a PR story about one or other government minister trying to catch the eye of the president. I remember many a time when I would be sent to “cover” a story” but would be asked to “make sure you see so and so after the event”. The brown envelope. To be honest, much as I felt so stupid, I imagined this was journalism. Brown envelopes. And out of 300,000 shillings, the “boss” would hand you a 10,000 shillings note! Walking to and from an event across town. Going without breakfast and lunch. Having your story subjected to the trash can by the editor (along with it being called rubbish and being tossed into the trash can as you watched).

But that is what toughened me. And that is what hardened my resolve never to return to that ugly place. And they wanted to retain us. But that was the era of Ugandan radio going FM. After trying a stint in TV and being horribly scarred by the terrible experience of sexual harassment by a garlic-eating stodgy Indian boss ,who wanted to know if I had a boyfriend and who asked to buy me a red dress for Valentine’s day, I decided that the screen was not my thing then.

With a huge amount of trepidation and timidity on my shoulder, I re-ventured into radio. As a reporter. Then, I learnt, that this is not an 8-5 job. Actually, I was working 9-9. With two young children, and earning a paltry sum at the end of the month, no allowances whatsoever, no lunch. But I was on the airwaves. Better than dratted Radio Uganda.

There are the per diems, transport allowance, disturbance fees, blah blah blah. There is the free lunch, breakfast, cocktails, media bashes and drink-ups on rich men’s yachts, freebies like t-shirts, diaries, pens, up country trips- they will come up with practically anything and everything under the sun to see that we are in their pockets.

Today, one of these “agencies” has the nerve to call the Editor and demand to know what time the “story” ran (most probably some PR something). And you ask, “do you own this radio station?!” And they go like, “But we paid your reporter!” I am like “What??” “Yeah, we gave him 10,000 shillings!” God!

#mulagoforyou

I was at Uganda’s “biggest” referral hospital last weekend. Not by choice of course. My sister had a ghastly accident. Let me first detail that.

Her daughter- my niece- was unwell. So my sister Carol hopped into a taxi and onto a bodaboda at the bypass near Kalerwe, on her way to the clinic at Bwaise. It would not go the way she hoped it would. A careless rider, his motorcycle laden with a huge sack of charcoal, knocked the bodaboda on which Carol and the baby were seated, knocking the child to the ground, where she hit her head and lay motionless.

Meanwhile, Carol landed heavily on her backside, but leaped up immediately to check if the baby was okay. And that was when she noticed the blood. Gushing. It quickly formed a pool around her feet. In her panic over the baby and wondering where the blood was coming from because she felt no pain, the quick thinking good Samaritans who rushed to their aid, quickly got another bodaboda who rushed them to the clinic. Luckily, my aunt, who is a doctor, was on duty and performed first aid. She later discovered that Carol had ruptured an artery and sustained a huge tear as a result of the fall.

When she called me at work, I rushed to the clinic and managed to get them to Mulago hospital, where we were referred, as she needed to be stitched up. To ward 5A or 5 Annex. Where “women’s problems” are dealt with. It is meant to be an emergency treatment center- miscarriages, heavy bleeding from abortions- dealing with that kind of stuff.

The baby had been checked and the doctor assured me she would be okay, that she just suffered some fright. Meanwhile my sister was bleeding profusely as we rushed through the stairs and wards, hoping to get the emergency treatment we badly sought. Alas. It was not meant to be.

First, two doctors- one older (with kind eyes) asked us to go back to 3rd Floor, the casualty section, to get admitted. The second doctor-younger and mean-looking- just looked at us. Dr. One informed us that Dr. Meanie was in-charge and if we talked to him “nicely” we would get treated. I didn’t understand what he meant, but anyway, I left my patient with the baby and rushed back to Casualty.

The numbers there were swarming. And the attendants in their “cage” were swamped. How was I to get an admission number? So I went to the one who was not wearing a Red Cross jacket and tried, in my best Luganda (I calculated that if I used English, he would bring in his inferiority complex - they always do), to explain my problem. He asked me to bring my patient. I told him she was on 5th floor and could not walk. He sent me to the uniformed Red Cross official who was listening to a woman begging for help as her patient had been poisoned.

Anyway, the first guy eventually came and helped me, but the way he crouched over the book as he gave me a number, all the while assuring me how he was “just helping me because he was not authorized to book patients” told me he wanted “kitu kidogo”. C’mon man, my taxes are what are keeping your funny face behind that cage!”, I wanted to scream in his stupid face.

Then he instructed me to go “through the corridor and enter the second door on the left”. Why?
Anyway, the sight that met my eyes was something else. The door was slightly ajar. There was a narrow bed smeared with blood and under it, gauze and cotton wool soaked in someone’s blood. I stood outside for a few minutes, contemplating my next move.

As I gathered up the courage to step into the room, a young man carrying an older woman, probably his mother, sidled up to me. Her eyes were in pain, it was so evident. She kept pleading with him to put her down. Down where, I could not see a spot in that filthy corridor jammed with humans. Right opposite was a young man being quizzed by some doctors who threatened they would not treat him unless he told them how and where he had his injuries. His head was wrapped in what was probably his shirt- he was shirtless, and he crouched miserably, refusing to say a word. And he was bleeding from a head wound, or were they wounds? Eventually, the man carrying his mother got down and cradled her in his lap, got out leso and quickly laid it on the floor. Then he placed her on it. She grabbed at her busuuti, unbuttoning it and undressing, in full view of everyone. Like they really cared anyway! When she started fanning herself, I looked away. I just could not imagine the pain she was in and here I was feeling extremely helpless.

I finally gathered the guts to enter the room. More gruesome sights. On my right, a young man, whose face had swelled to twice its size. His chin had a deep gash. His forehead was grazed in many places. He lay on a cot, no sheets, his clothes all bloodied. He looked unconscious. And cold.

I rushed to the nearest person I could see. A sister in a white uniform and red belt. I explained to her my “problem” all the while trying to avert my eyes from the bloodied cots in the room, and willing myself out of it. She told me what I was supposed to do- I can’t even remember what- and I machine-gunned out. Back to 5 Annex.

Dr. Meanie was nowhere to be seen. Another plain-clothed gentleman walked up to me, I told him what I wanted and he asked us to wait and we would be attended to. Shortly, a ‘nurse” wearing a Nytil green uniform- shirt and pants- came up to us and rudely ordered us to make sure we had a kaveera. This I bought for 2,000 shillings.

Then we laid it on the cot in the “annex” and waited. And waited. And waited, and waited. I called my sisters. They eventually came over. But this was after the baby had woken up, and bewildered and hungry, started whimpering. So I bundled her on my back and went down to the canteen near the gate, where I got her a bottle of Fanta and a piece of cake to keep her quiet.

After about three hours, the patient gathered the strength to get up off the bed and walked out of the room. We all rushed to her side, hoping to hear some good news, that she had been treated and we were leaving this dreadful place. That was not to be. Apparently, Dr. Meanie had handed her a small packet- it contained surgical thread- and left her on her own- for about two hours. Just lying there and bleeding away. God help him. In his small jeans and black sandals. Is that how doctors are supposed to dress anyway?

Angrily, I told Carol to pack her stuff and we would go elsewhere, a place where we could fork some money and get proper treatment, and not be treated like some beggars. Actually what struck me was the demeanor of the staff- doctors, nurses, sisters, midwives, cleaners. The downcast look on their faces. No smiles whatsoever. It smelt of poor pay, unhappiness at being forced to work, having no option.

They eventually worked on us. We paid them 20,000 shillings and fled Mulago hospital.

But just as we were leaving, after carefully avoiding Casualty ward, we heard an agonized scream. A man had just got an epileptic seizure and was twitching uncontrollably, his body contorted in pain. And as he writhed like a snake on the ground, his head bleeding badly where he had hit himself when he fell, the nurses and Red Cross officials, who are supposed to offer first aid, just looked on, and continued with their business.

Mulago for you.

#newbeginnings

Six years ago, at this same time- 10:33pm, I was groggy, hooked up on saline and blood drips, my abdomen was heavily bandaged. And I was starting a new life.

And a new life it has been. No periods. For six years now.

When I look back at the kind of life I led, I wonder how I even made it through those years.

I think it all started when I was still in my teens. Dysmenorrhea, cramps in the tummy and legs, headaches and a general feeling of unease during those three “red” days of the month. But after a day of rest and a dose of Panadol, which was never completed anyway, life was back to normal until the next period.

I had my son quite early. I still got the cramps but now I started taking Indocid. Two at a time, till my body felt completely numb. That was how bad it was. My first major scare was when I was returning home from university one holiday I nearly collapsed in the taxi in which I was travelling. Suddenly I felt a great weight pushing down on my abdomen. And when I got up there was a sudden heavy gush of blood that soiled my clothes and then a huge mass popped out.

I started to get really worried around 2003 when these gushes became more frequent. One weekend as I was preparing to travel with a group of friends I noticed that I had a smelly discolored discharge.

But I did not even have the money to see a doctor and so I let it pass and tried to enjoy the weekend.
Another time, on a cold Saturday night, I was out again with a group of friends. Then disaster struck, and I was in white pants. Whenever I remember that incident, I get shivers down my spine. Out of nowhere, the gush happened. I was not padded. I didn’t know where the loo was. It was raining heavily. I was so ashamed, I could not tell anyone about these sudden flows and so I just sat on a chair and bled away. Luckily, one my friends had lent me his black leather jacket and when the opportune moment came, I got up from the chair, leaving a red flood and fled into the dark.

When we got back to the hotel, I told him what had happened. He made fun of me, but was very helpful and made me feel comfortable but insisted I should see a doctor. Still I didn’t. I had no money for such “luxuries”.

Fast forward to 2005. On a three-week trip to America, the unthinkable happened. Much as it was traumatizing, it made me rethink the whole trip to the doctor aversion. This time the periods- I called them flash floods- were heavier and were now lasting about six days.

I was now getting scared. I thought about the worst. That I would bleed to death one day and leave my children motherless. And I have always had this embarrassment about periods. I was not told about them when growing up and had to improvise using toilet paper and many a time got stains on my dress because nobody bought me any sanitary pads.

I had a workmate at the office, who I started to tell about my problem. Not everything though. One thing I wanted was someone to listen. She was sympathetic but her advice was--- I should see a doctor. By then, the situation was seven to eight days of bleeding at a time and the periods were erratic. The pain was also growing worse each time and I was taking two Indocid capsules after every three hours. Also, I suspected I was developing ulcers and was becoming anaemic.

By then my wardrobe consisted of only black bottoms. Skirts, jeans, trousers. No light hues just waiting for a disaster to happen.

I gathered up all my guts and decided to go and see a doctor. She was my aunt, my mum’s younger sister. I did not tell her my fears. My courage was drawn from the fact that I was tired of this suffering and wanted to get well, even if it meant that I had a terminal disease. She sent me for a scan which returned after two hours. When she looked at the results, she laughed out loud, which gave me some relief. So it was not cancer. Fibroids. Because you young girls are having children late, or none at all. Because of your lifestyle. The food you eat.

She sent me downstairs to another gynecologist who inserted a cold machine that she wound up to peer into my insides. God, it was uncomfortable. She gave me a prescription and asked me to return in two weeks. I did not.

I told my two close friends and Mum about the diagnosis. But I did not go back to the hospital. By then I was dating but life was not easy. And when Mum suggested going to see a local doctor- like I was bewitched- I was mortified. We didn’t talk for three months.

A few months later- sometime in 2007- I was struck with intense pain and heavy bleeding, my legs lost all feeling and I could not go to work. Luckily, I had started paying medical insurance and gathered my strength to stagger to a doctor. I had never felt lonelier in my life. Here I was struggling with a problem I was so embarrassed about. But he was kind. He sent me to do a scan at a bigger hospital and gave me a few days off work.

I did the scan the next day. I even got assigned a gynecologist. The scan showed a huge mass in my abdomen. And I was asked to do a pregnancy test. The doctor said I could be about two to three months gone. Unbelievable. But I did the test, which turned out negative. But he told me I had a forced abortion- God knows what that means- and gave me some more days off work.
Some of the things that made me feel so alone-I found out that my boyfriend was sneaking behind my back, because I was always sick and yet he wanted to sow his oats. I left him that holiday. I just couldn’t take it any more.

I continued to see the gynecologist in 2008 but there was not much he could do. He was a kind young man, with a nice soothing voice, but he insisted that he needed to operate. The costs were high, he said. But he was willing to do it at another hospital at a cheaper cost if I could raise the money.
But anyway, he booked me for an operation. I told Mum. She was ballistic. She didn’t believe in having part of my body removed. She suggested traditional herbs. We got some from my uncle’s girlfriend. I honestly do not know if they worked. I just wanted to get well. My relationship with Mum returned to its frosty state.

Because I was the one suffering here, I talked to the doctor again. He booked me for an operation at a major hospital in two days but then told me the costs were rather high and it would be a long process. However, the hospital called me later that night asking if I was booked in for surgery at 7 the next morning. I wasn’t.

The next time I tried to get an operation, the same doctor had offered to do it free, but at another facility. He asked me to collect about 800,000 shillings which I could use for a comfortable room at the hospital, where I would be admitted for about five days. I was back in the relationship, and my boyfriend gave me the money. This venture also failed as the medical personnel failed to provide answers and the doctor cancelled the appointment.

Feeling too ashamed, I decided I had had it with doctors and hospitals and needles and white gowns and boring receptionists who all knew my name and my ailment. I decided I was going to bleed to death but I needed to prepare for my children. I also abandoned the herbal treatments- they were too bitter to drink anyway. And whenever my family asked, I just lied to them that I felt better, when in actual fact, the situation was even worse.

By 2010, I was going through nearly four packets of sanitary pads every period, and the bleeding would last 10-12 days. My hair was breaking. I was anaemic. I felt lifeless, always in pain and the ulcer in my stomach was acting up. Also, it was becoming hard for me to concentrate at work because I was always worried about the constant gushes. I would sleep badly at night, having nightmares that were coming true during the day.

I cannot recall how many times between 2010 and 2011, that I would get up from my seat and my skirt or dress would be wet, the chair soiled. Other terrifying incidents were when the blood just went down my legs. Another time, I bled on the office floor. Then there were the huge clots. I could always sense when they were about to emerge and run to the toilets. And I had started wearing two pads at a time.

My social life started to go downhill. I started having quarrels with boyfriend again. I could not handle telling him that we could not have a normal life because of my condition. There were so many other normal girls. Finally, I found out that after feeling ignored, he had had an affair with one of his friends and when he denied it, I left him.

I was now all alone. My children would return from school and notice I was depressed but poor boys, all I could tell them was that Mama was unwell, but would get better. My boss started to get short with me, I was underperforming, she said. I moved house to a quieter place out of town. My children went to stay with my sister. I would come home from work and weep myself to sleep. And some of my workmates treated me really bad because they imagined I was pretending to be unwell. I was now constantly padding myself, month in month out. It was hell. But in reality, I had started to give up on life. But still I did not tell a living soul. I told God.

One day in June 2011, I decided that it was either going to be life or death. I had been gathering courage to ask my friend to escort me to the hospital for the last time because I was so fed up. But God said he would give me a push. So I went. I also wanted to get a few days off work, so I decided to malinger. Luckily, I found a nice lady doctor. I pretended that I had stress and a headache, just to test her. She said I was fine. Then I broke down and told her the reason I was there. That I wanted her to listen to me. Just remembering the way she looked at me brings tears to my eyes. She listened! That mattered so much to me. She wrote me a prescription, called a gynecologist, and set an appointment for me. Then she called me back to the room and checked my tummy. She said the fibroids were really huge and said I should go to see the gynecologist immediately.

So started a long process. I went to the gynecologist. He asked me to undress. Then he asked his assistant to get a very bright torch and shine it in my insides, while he got that cold machine and checked. It was horrible. When he was done, he asked me to dress up, smiled at me and told me that I was going to be with him ‘for a very long time’. Oh, God. It’s cancer, I thought. I am finished. My children.

He gave me three options. This was after informing me that there was a  fibroid that was causing a life-threatening situation and was a great risk to my health. He could either operate and remove that swelling, which he drew on a piece of paper for me to see for myself, the direness of the situation. Two, he could operate to remove that one and other problematic fibroids. Or he could just remove my womb- hysterectomy- and save me further danger. Not easy!

I asked about the costs. Between two and three million shillings. Problem. So I was just going to die like that. Where in the world was I going to “steal” this colossal amount? I told him about the medical insurance and because God was working through him, he said he would try to work something out, but repeated urgently he needed to operate almost immediately otherwise…

So he sent me with a chit to the main hospital. It was a hot afternoon but I did not feel the heat. That is what hope does to you. After many bends and turns and stairs and many inquiries about directions, I handed the chit to a lady, who handed the chit over to one of my life-savers. And she read the chit and signed it without a moment’s hesitation!

Back to the gynecologist I went. On a boda boda. I handed the chit back to the doctor and a date was set for the operation. I decided on a hysterectomy. I was so done with periods, and pads, and clots, and nightmares. I called Mum. I asked her to listen to me for once and not push me out. She said to take some time and talk to Dad. Then she called me back. With her blessing.

Something I forgot. One of the questions I encountered from the doctors was if I had children. But anyway, I could not get pregnant with that mass in my womb. Actually, this last doctor said it was the size of a four and a half months’ old fetus.

So after some changes in dates, I packed my suitcase, not even sure whether I would return home. I went to visit my children in school. But I did not tell them because I did not want to scare them. And on that Sunday evening, my younger sister picked me up and off to the hospital I went. With Mum.

The doctor had told me that my last meal was to be Sunday lunch. I wondered why. I got checked when I arrived. I asked about injections and what to expect. But all doctors tell you that you will be fine. The blood check took about an hour to process, and the results did not even come back that day. Then the hospital’s accountant informed us that we were not on the insurance list that allowed operations and it was another hour before we could be cleared. When I was finally tagged, we wheeled our luggage up to the ward where I was to be admitted and got a bed.

There was a nurse waiting for us. She was watching one of the Spanish soaps. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an askari ordered us to take our mattress and blanket out of the ward. He demanded to know who had given us permission to bring it in anyway. We tried to explain that no-one spelt out the rules and regulations to us. But he took them anyway. It just hurt me to know that my mother had nowhere to sleep, but I put it at the back of my mind and tried to sleep.

I tossed and turned the whole night not knowing what to expect. Would the hospital cancel? Would there be pain? Would I be able to smile again? And the hard question- would I die? Finally at 6am, when I could not handle the pressure any more, I sat up in bed and told Mum my worries. I could tell she was also worried but could not show me, and she assured me that I would be fine.

At 8am, a nurse came to dress me up. Catheter. Pain. Hospital gown. Needles in my arm. More pain. Bed laid. Get on the bed. Tucked in. Bed lowered. Meanwhile, the catheter was terribly uncomfortable. I remember seeing the nurse smiling at me and telling me I’d be fine. Saying bye to Mum. Being wheeled down into the operating area. Parking. Figures in green. My hair being covered. My gown being changed. Being wheeled into the operating room. On to the operating table. Seeing the surgeon. Him being so happy to see me. I didn’t even remember signing my certificate. There was a radio station playing. I was not even scared anymore because I was so scared. The table was cold and made of steel. Or is it the other way round? The anesthetist sitting behind me. Telling me his name and where he was from. Vincent from Makindye. The surgeon dressed in white. Even white gumboots. Then he was walking away from me. His face masked. God, I was dead!

I came to hours later, with the surgeon asking me how I was, and assuring me that he was going to give me most peaceful, and best sleep I had ever had. My tummy felt heavy. Like someone was sitting on me. I don’t even remember being wheeled back.

But from what I heard later, Mummy was so worried that something bad (read: died) had happened to me, and she was frantic. Her relief at seeing me, even though I couldn’t see or hear her, was indescribable. There had been so many messages and calls that had come through, words of encouragement, others wanting to know if I was fine, some praying that I went through the ordeal. And she took all of them. I just wonder what was going through her mind.

That night I flitted between consciousness and unconsciousness, my arms both fixed to a drip, the catheter I couldn’t even feel. I remember the kind nurse, a Kenyan lady with long painted nails, who rushed to my aid whenever I threw up. And there was nothing in my tummy. Remember, my last meal was Sunday morning, or lunch. But I got through the night. I pitied Mum, lying on a mat on the floor, head covered from the mosquitoes. The next day I just slept most of the time. My sisters and some friends came to see me. Even workmates. Later I got out of bed to listen to someone tell me about his problems with his girlfriend. What the hell was HE thinking????

I left the hospital on my birthday. To start a new life.

And have I  lived it!

#begningofwisedom

I have an eye and ear for what I would call "funny stuff". My funny stuff. I compiled this list a few years back.

1. Familiarity leads content- on a boda-boda

2. Wind us on that- Odongtho

3. Police Bagonza- a name

4. I feel pain…very pain-  a Ugandan politician

5. Police would like to give six advice- Police spokesperson

6. Mista-demeanor case- Al- Hajji Sebagala

7. I am working as a mixer-material- Man protesting poor pay

8. Customers pass-bying them- Man on radio

9. I am not a born of Masaka- Also on radio

10. Dr. Alex Favor- a name

11. All youths of school-age going- A Ugandan cabinet minister

12. BBC, CNN, Al Jewzeera- on a poster of youths campaigning against homosexuality

13. We have been doing cracky jokes- an MC at 360 degrees function

14. Mu Concepusion- a news anchor on NBS TV

15. For me it was a learning lesson - facilitator at a workshop (not sure, it could be right)

16. The best bed a lover can enjoy with a pleasant emotion- ad on TV

17. Pourage (porridge) - in a Nigerian movie

18. What made the fire not spread to the other rooms is the ‘petitionwar’(partition)- police fireman

19. There is one day we spent two weeks here- truck driver stuck on Nimule road

20. U gate-cratched- Policeman arresting a gatecrasher

21. I think that was too few- school child

22. The policeman has beaten me a stick- woman during protest

23. Just hear the aroma!- the receptionist smelling into her cup of coffee

24. It is raining outside- heard so many times.

25. We miss our former manager who was leading us very goodly - striking worker 

#softloans

He wants money, he tells me. A million shillings, perhaps? A soft loan. To be paid back. When?

I got the call on Saturday, when I was deep into my afternoon nap, and I groggily told him to see me Monday. He said he had a business proposal.

I had not heard from this guy for ages, and considering that there is the “deep rift” between his family and mine, we see no business in finding out how we're all doing. But- when a man is down, he is down. He wants the money to "buy into the taxi business".

Gideon, let me call him that- starts by giving me some long tale about a shifty friend of his with whom they did business. But they parted ways when he felt he was being treated worse than a little serf. That that his “business partner” did not pay him, did not bother to inform him when there was big work to be done, that he criticized his dressing style, and that all that left him feeling down and unwanted. I know Gideon from when we were growing up- he still lives with his mother (whom I don’t really like- that two-faced bitch) and from what I gather, she is fed up with feeding and looking after a nearly 40- year old, who shows no signs of looking for a wife or leaving home. 

Gideon then launches into another long-winded tale of how he "was an accountant of some religious group and how I was eventually fired for loaning out money and not keeping records". And how he had tried to con his older sister in the UK to give him the money, but that if he had received the money, he would not buy the equipment he wanted the money for. Then he also talks about how he tried another uncle living in the UK, but that that relation was also not forthcoming (said with an air of “we shall see one day!”). Then how another aunt- also resident in the UK- had promised to fund this business, and next thing he knows, she doesn’t even want to talk to him now (what is this with us thinking that people out there are having it easy?? C’mon Ugandans are shoveling dirt off the walk-ways, changing the pampers off senior citizens’ soiled butts in old peoples’ homes, spending sleepless nights driving across the interstate, and here you are demanding that they fund your plans! You able-bodied middle-aged man with all limbs intact!).

After much probing from my side, he says he wants the money for his transport business aka taxi. I have heard this rumor before - (our extended family really have this grapevine) and I am not surprised. He tells me what the vehicle costs, and that he wants me to settle the “balance”. Just like that.

Hmmm…. I cannot believe my ears. I inform him, without cutting any corners- that I do not have that type of money and it will take me some time before I could offer some. Some that I know won’t hurt  if I don’t get it back.

Then he suddenly becomes demanding. “When do I get the money? You know you relatives who work in offices always promise and then don’t deliver. And now there is another cousin who I have asked but she first wants to see the 6.5m shillings before she can commit to giving me any more!” Then deviousness appears in the same breath- “But that one, I’ll just show her something small, and try to convince her that I have the other money, then she’ll give me her contribution!”.

Another long hmmm…. This young man has come to borrow money but is busy criticizing others and forgetting that he is displaying to me just how crafty he is and can be.

After making several attempts to end the conversation because I have piles of work on my desk, I finally convince him to leave and promise that I will "see what I can do". No big promises.

When I get home, I recount the tale to Dad. He listens to my speech then calmly tells me, “Your cousin is scared of going to prison.”

Dad tells me Gideon has a huge debt to pay off. That he had “eaten” an unspecified amount of cash when he was the bursar at some school. He lost his job and was asked to refund the cash and the matter would be forgotten, meaning it would not go to the Police. Seems he had made a commitment to refund the cash by end of 2016. But this has not been possible. The reason he is panicky.

************    ***********    ***********    **********    ***********    **************

Now I know that there is no taxi business.

#egging'emon

Ugandans who are great admirers of Bukedde TV’s Agataliiko Nfuufu receive a daily treat at 10pm, of comedy, with scenes of women pulling out each other’s hair, boda-boda riders beating up a “thief”, or the mysterious death of a rich businessman caused by an evil spirit.

Granted, some of their videos are hilarious and provide the much needed de-stresser, necessary after serious day of ranting from your boss, but I often wonder what the cameraperson and reporter are doing, egging on this sort of misbehavior. Take the case of a little boy whose fingers were subjected to a merciless, cruel, brutal squeezing, in a pair of pliers.

Some may argue that this shows us the depravity, disorganization, derangement and dysfunctions of the society in which we live, but what were the pressmen doing to save the little child whose fingers he will never be able to use again, or the ‘thief’ who is crying for his life as blows are rained on his back, as the brick that will eventually kill him is menacingly swung above his head?

In April of 2011, the BBC was accused of being a “cheerleader for assisted suicide” after filming a man killing himself in a controversial Terry Pratchett documentary. This was at the notorious Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, and the man was in the late stages of motor neurone disease. Obviously, the move by the terrestrial television was condemned by campaigners, politicians, medical professionals and religious leaders.

But what do these groups of people with considerable clout and power do about the pictures shown on Agataliiko Nfuufu? Nothing. The politicians continue to steal and misuse government funds, the church continues to engage in the no-go arena of politics, the medical professionals continue to take bribes, campaigners make noise about unimportant issues, we continue to whip out our latest model bible phones, while that sad group of society continues to suffer in silence.

The Weekly Observer in March 2011 published an article by Moses Talemwa and Juliana Nantale, which said “ Agataliiko Nfuufu… warrants day-long anticipation mostly because of its unending tit-bits of scandal, albeit short on basic journalism principles. Some people still can't believe it is on TV. The Vision Group management picked on longstanding Bukedde newspaper writers Semei Wessaali and Hadijja Nabukenya to head the search for an appropriate package. In turn, the two picked on a successful model started by Citizen TV in Kenya; making local programming acceptable to an audience used to foreign productions. Wessaali and Nabukenya decided that this was a bulletin which would involve the local people more than the conventional journalists; so, they gave their contact phone number to several local people in markets, trading centres and far-off villages, so they could send the news in. Wessaali helped form a 50-man team of freelance stringers or reporters with cameras that send their pictures to the station for the news. These stringers hunt for any whiff of newsworthy scandal for a fee of between Shs 15,000 and Shs 20,000 per story. Two weeks after the bulletin came on air, Wessaali got better response than he had been hoping for. Reviews and surveys put the station in a driving position because of the bulletin. "The idea came out of demand from viewers who wanted news prepared in much the same way as Bukedde newspaper; so, we responded", he says. The bulletin has reached incredible levels of acceptance, to the extent that total strangers turn up daily with news stories complete with video, which explains how the bulletin has news from remote areas, usually captured in the nick of time. While the critics are upset with many in the journalism schools lambasting it for being unprofessional, Wessaali is persuaded that it works. Right down to its unconventional upright pyramid concept of running light stories first, showing faces of rape victims and dead bodies, insisting that it is by design rather than plain incompetence."

I applaud Bukedde TV for always having a camera on hand and for having a strong nose to sniff out these “funny” incidents that have “no dust”, but really--- what has our government done? Granted, there have been positive responses- the little boy was offered treatment (where is he now, by the way?) and the police arrested (and I am ‘conc’ sure, released) the men who subjected him to that agony. Then, the police arrested the beater of a policeman (this incident happened outside Namboole Stadium at the time when there was a match between Kenya and Uganda) who also stole the officer’s phone and left his face muddied and the policeman dizzy from shock. But I can bet that the culprits were set free. Maybe that very day itself.

You see, the pattern is so “this eat that”, “how do I benefit?” that is sickening. Agataliiko Nfuufu may be doing a wonderful job, but on the other hand, if their reporters “revel” in seeing people in pain, how then can I not accuse them of being apathetic? Here is someone writhing in pain, screaming their lungs out begging for mercy and here is the happy snappy cameraman earning his day’s bread. It’s so sad.

I think that journalists have a duty to society- to report what is going on, to expose the dirt and the rot--- and the good as well, but on the other hand, would it hurt to help? Would it be so hard to say to the mob crew to have some heart and not judge a man who knows he will be dead in the next few seconds?

But, like the BBC incident that I mentioned in the paragraph above, I saw another picture in the Daily Mail (dailymail.co.uk) of a depraved man, high on bath salts, chewing off the face of another homeless man who had been enjoying his sleep on the street minutes before the horrific incident. Someone took those pictures. But were they also dialing the police as they snapped away.
Society tends to love watching others suffer, I think. We love posting gory pictures on our facebook pages, just for the fun of it. Why can’t we just say--- “no” to this depravity? Why do we just look on and not fight back? Maybe it’s a deeply rooted thing of human nature- something like “today’s his day, tomorrow may be mine, let him stew in it!”.

BBC was accused of being unethical and disregarding the sanctity of life. Maybe things are changing for the worse- or for the better. Whereas a few years ago, disregarding media ethics was frowned upon, today the climate kind of applauds the lengths the media will reach to catch viewer attention.
So instead of our policemen sitting idly by and guffawing at the antics by the actors in Agataliiko Nfuufu, they should get off their bony backsides and do their job. The media guys should be mindful, and know when to jump in to put a stop to the situation (the image of the little boy having his fingers “wrenched”, wrenched (pun unintended) at my heart strings) and not let the situation go out of hand. I mean, they could explain to us that they had to intervene and stop taking pictures and we would understand and let them off the hook.

And I also think this promotes violence among the little ones. I sometimes hear kids giving graphic details about the ka-story of the old woman who was beaten by villagers on suspicion of being a witch, or the bad mother who caned her daughter senseless, or the village thug who burnt his family as they slept in their hut because they had accused him of stealing a mobile phone. And they laugh away innocently.

#blanketsandbulls

The bodaboda had hardly come to a halt when the yelling began.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”

Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.

Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”

The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”

The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.

“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!”  What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.

The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.

Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.

The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.

The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.

Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.

In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.

I turned up the volume of Botched on E.