In the last two or so weeks, there’s been that persistent rumor that the
New Employee and the Boss are having a thing, that they’re ‘flinging’.
Of course, these are idle-talkers peeping from the 'bumooli' because
when you ask them for evidence, they avert their eyes, shuffle their
feet and attempt to change the subject as they unconvincingly say, “You
wait and see.”
Evidence of a dalliance of this calibre means that
you have to have pictures of them giving each other secret smiles, you
have to catch a word or two of their coded language… or actually catch
them in flagrante delicto…something like that. But this is the type of
juicy gossip that makes the world go round for those who have no work to
do.
Okay, the Boss is known to have a thing for anything in a
skirt, anything that wears heels (or flats), slathers on her matte
lipstick and fake lashes, or wears a wig or piece. Or even if she
doesn't have those add-ons, its okay. As long as it is female. He’ll
find a way to wangle himself into her good books.
In addition to
the thing for the skirt, he is also renowned for a roving eye and a
smooth tongue. He has a dictionary of the right words to use- they just
roll and roll off-, and when the situation calls for it, he knows just
where to touch and how to soften the hard edges of even the toughest
mother-in-law and make her giggle like a little girl.
It is also a
well known fact, that Boss has wife- a faithful wife, a side-dish, a
mistress, and several concubines. And—— if I may hasten to add, he is a
good-looking piece, tall, six-pack (he does gym twice a day), and has
lots of money to throw around (that those sources of money are suspect,
is story for another day).
Boss has flunkies who run around for
him, doing his dirty work. “Get me lunch- I want boiled beef and fried
cassava from Munyonyo!”, “Take my car to the garage in Jinja!”. They
bend and bow at his every word, sometimes they just sense that he is
about to bark an order and act before he even opens his mouth. Some of
the 'bumooli' brigade say that these minions have been sent to carry a
message to New Employee. Notes. From the Boss of course.
Now, Ms.
New Employee- the newest kid on the block. She joined the office in
June. Came very highly recommended and beat all other interviewees hands
down. The flying colors sort of chic. She has it going for her, still
young, single (we don't know very much about her social status) and very
attractive.
All the men-folk want to escort her to lunch, some
approach her desk and don't even know what to say, they just stumble
over their words like kindergarten kids. And she’s a likable, amiable
sort.
But I have seen her at her worst, when she gave someone a
dressing down for something he had done wrong, and oh! you wouldn't
wanna be near her when she’s in this state, because she goes low, real
low.
So, back to these gossips who allege that the fling is happening----
Someone says they caught the Boss eyeing her rear after she swung past
him in the corridor. Others allege he has been Googling her name; then
there are those who swear that they were Whatsapping each other during
the meeting, and another very w-i-l-d allegation that they were espied
in a car together. That the car was parked. Somewhere.
Someone else
said Boss had sent his very trusted emissaries to ferry New Employee to
his house in the dead of the night. But where is the evidence? Sorry,
but I’m a doubting Thomas on this one.
I need to see them locked in
embrace, blowing kisses, and doing those things that lovers do, and
then "seeing will really become believing".
Wednesday 27 September 2017
#abirigamister
So on Tuesday, social media was awash with the (shocking) long shot of
the (now not so Honorable) MP Ibrahim Abiriga, he of Arua Municipality,
relieving himself on the Finance ministry’s fence. His sunshine yellow
automobile, with the engine probably running, was parked close by. I
imagine this was what he told his driver, “Gundi gwe, nfa. First stop
there. Kika! Bodyguard, twende, mi ndaka kojoa!"
Abiriga needs to be schooled on the etiquette of life on the upper side of town, where there are no signposts with “Usikojoe hapa”, “Tofuka wano. Fayini 100,000 shs”. Because, in this part of town, no-one expects anyone to go susuring (oba is it “cucuring?) like a stray dog. Those are things we do on village paths where you quickly slink into the bush, far away from any prying eyes, and ease yourself in the grass. No one will ever know.
Abiriga needs to be schooled on the fact that everyone with a smart phone is a potential photographer. That these cameras can see through and around walls, through flower bushes, and in the dark. And that the color yellow which he loves to wear, down to the underpants, does nothing to help him hide in public.
He also needs a good 40-minute lesson, complete with practicals, on the virality on social media. He has made international news- BBC carried the story- for all the wrong reasons, not taking into account his sycophancy and his undying dedication to the color yellow.
He has ably demonstrated that you can take a man out of the village, but it is an uphill task to take the village out of the man. MP Kato Lubwama came to his defense with a wry smile (is he also a roadside urinater?)- that when Abiriga felt the urge to go, then he had to go- because is diabetic. Granted. Naye he should have ordered his driver to drive like the devil was after them, to a nearby hotel, where the askaris would have fallen over themselves, saluting and calling him “Onalebo Age Limit”.
Or better still, he could have thrown his bodyguard out of the back seat and made use of the good old plastic mineral water or soda bottle.
But Abiriga aside—— one fine morning, on my way to work, a woman walking ahead of me nearly made me jump out of my skin when—— she suddenly crossed the road (near Mosa Courts), hitched her long skirt around her knees, squatted—— and right there, in full view of the walk to workers—— proceeded to water Jenny’s strip of newly planted grass—— a look of satisfaction spreading over her face as she emptied her bladder.
Abiriga needs to be schooled on the etiquette of life on the upper side of town, where there are no signposts with “Usikojoe hapa”, “Tofuka wano. Fayini 100,000 shs”. Because, in this part of town, no-one expects anyone to go susuring (oba is it “cucuring?) like a stray dog. Those are things we do on village paths where you quickly slink into the bush, far away from any prying eyes, and ease yourself in the grass. No one will ever know.
Abiriga needs to be schooled on the fact that everyone with a smart phone is a potential photographer. That these cameras can see through and around walls, through flower bushes, and in the dark. And that the color yellow which he loves to wear, down to the underpants, does nothing to help him hide in public.
He also needs a good 40-minute lesson, complete with practicals, on the virality on social media. He has made international news- BBC carried the story- for all the wrong reasons, not taking into account his sycophancy and his undying dedication to the color yellow.
He has ably demonstrated that you can take a man out of the village, but it is an uphill task to take the village out of the man. MP Kato Lubwama came to his defense with a wry smile (is he also a roadside urinater?)- that when Abiriga felt the urge to go, then he had to go- because is diabetic. Granted. Naye he should have ordered his driver to drive like the devil was after them, to a nearby hotel, where the askaris would have fallen over themselves, saluting and calling him “Onalebo Age Limit”.
Or better still, he could have thrown his bodyguard out of the back seat and made use of the good old plastic mineral water or soda bottle.
But Abiriga aside—— one fine morning, on my way to work, a woman walking ahead of me nearly made me jump out of my skin when—— she suddenly crossed the road (near Mosa Courts), hitched her long skirt around her knees, squatted—— and right there, in full view of the walk to workers—— proceeded to water Jenny’s strip of newly planted grass—— a look of satisfaction spreading over her face as she emptied her bladder.
Friday 22 September 2017
#whyher?
She was safe for now. For four more days at least. The lull had offered
her some breathing space, some respite, even though her stomach churned
when she imagined how she would handle the eventual assault when it
came.
She could not exactly recall when the abuse started, but it must have been when she was really young. Nearly 23 now, but for years, she had been been touched, fingered, poked, probed, played about with. She detested it. All sorts of people, louts, thugs, ruffians, dirty hands. But it was not bad all the time, and she remembered there were some who had handled her with gentleness, and rewarded her well.
Now she was being threatened with rape, the worst abuse she could possibly face. Her tormentor had been sending emissaries for days. They circled her like hungry wolves, howling with laughter as they bared their fangs, and bayed long into the night for her blood. She heard them devise plots about how they would prepare her for the final slaughter, the final insult.
For nights she tossed and turned, slipping in and out of nightmares, and sometimes contemplating suicide. She wondered how it had come to this. That someone she knew so well would want to inflict this amount of abuse on a simple soul. Or did she know them well?
The master’s flunkies made sure to let her know how many days her torture would last before her tormentor finally held her down and made her his eternal slave.
As she sat in her musty cell, she also heard that there was another side, one that screamed, “No!” to the harm that those sadistic persecutors had sworn to inflict; a side that vowed to do everything in their power to shield her from that ugly devil’s calloused hands.
She also got news that some of the allies from her tormentor’s palace had joined forces with those she hoped would deliver her, in condemning their master’s act, and that they were burning the midnight oil, scheming about how they could cart her to safety. And freedom.
She knew there were other people out there who had the ultimate power to save her, that they only had to say one word and the pain and fear would all stop. They had watched over her in the past, and in some instances she had gotten temporary justice, some reprieve. And this time, a little mouse had whispered to her that they had intervened to save her from the hangman’s knee.
Now the day had come when she was to be taken before the judge, a judge who had acted as the police and her accuser.
And somehow, that judge was acting like they were not ready to condemn her. She looked him straight in the eye as he spoke lengthily, justifying why her case could not be heard and why it should be given more time, more consideration.
And that had offered a semblance of peace.
But how long would it last?
She could not exactly recall when the abuse started, but it must have been when she was really young. Nearly 23 now, but for years, she had been been touched, fingered, poked, probed, played about with. She detested it. All sorts of people, louts, thugs, ruffians, dirty hands. But it was not bad all the time, and she remembered there were some who had handled her with gentleness, and rewarded her well.
Now she was being threatened with rape, the worst abuse she could possibly face. Her tormentor had been sending emissaries for days. They circled her like hungry wolves, howling with laughter as they bared their fangs, and bayed long into the night for her blood. She heard them devise plots about how they would prepare her for the final slaughter, the final insult.
For nights she tossed and turned, slipping in and out of nightmares, and sometimes contemplating suicide. She wondered how it had come to this. That someone she knew so well would want to inflict this amount of abuse on a simple soul. Or did she know them well?
The master’s flunkies made sure to let her know how many days her torture would last before her tormentor finally held her down and made her his eternal slave.
As she sat in her musty cell, she also heard that there was another side, one that screamed, “No!” to the harm that those sadistic persecutors had sworn to inflict; a side that vowed to do everything in their power to shield her from that ugly devil’s calloused hands.
She also got news that some of the allies from her tormentor’s palace had joined forces with those she hoped would deliver her, in condemning their master’s act, and that they were burning the midnight oil, scheming about how they could cart her to safety. And freedom.
She knew there were other people out there who had the ultimate power to save her, that they only had to say one word and the pain and fear would all stop. They had watched over her in the past, and in some instances she had gotten temporary justice, some reprieve. And this time, a little mouse had whispered to her that they had intervened to save her from the hangman’s knee.
Now the day had come when she was to be taken before the judge, a judge who had acted as the police and her accuser.
And somehow, that judge was acting like they were not ready to condemn her. She looked him straight in the eye as he spoke lengthily, justifying why her case could not be heard and why it should be given more time, more consideration.
And that had offered a semblance of peace.
But how long would it last?
Tuesday 19 September 2017
#everybody'sstory
One of my fondest memories as a child was sitting at the dining table and gazing out of the window beyond the backyard and outside the fence where people passed. Our house was built in such a way that it was raised. For hours I watched people pass by, to and fro, and even when there was no one I just watched the road. I looked at their faces, their hair, their clothes, the way they walked, the way they gestured and the way they talked if they were not alone. And when it got dark, then I retired and joined my sisters. That was one of my favorite pastimes.
The woman sitting next to me in the taxi with her seven year old son carrying a huge backpack filled with school books, clutching at three straw brooms and striding off, forgetting to give the taxi conductor his fare until he is rudely called back. She told me she survived an accident- the taxi in which she was traveling to work overturned after the brakes failed. She was six months pregnant at the time.
The elderly couple who drive by the bodaboda stage every day on their way to the farm in the village. They lost their home and worldly possessions in a fire six years ago. Everybody asks why they live in a rented house.
The man who is bringing his children up as a single father following a string of failed relationships. Their mother abandoned the family when the youngest was just six months old, and she ran off with another man. That daughter is autistic and needs special care and attention that he cannot afford to give by virtue of the work he does every night. He has decided to give her up for care in the UK.
Another single father whose eldest son has given him years of grief, playing truant from school, lying, cheating, and insulting the father who gave up everything. And then one day he turns up at his father’s office, after going missing from home for seven months, and throws himself at his father’s feet and begs for forgiveness.
That woman who vends sweets for a living. She has been on the streets for eight years and her boast is that she has been able to send money home to her widowed father, and has bought a piece of land on which she is building a two-roomed house which is at the roofing stage. She told me that KCCA goons have made her life hell, her project has stalled because they keep taking her merchandise.
That woman who smiles with everybody and laughs out loud at everything, but deep down, she is hiding a huge secret. She is married to a man she does not love because he abuses her mentally, telling her how fat she is, and when she tries to diet, he chides her on her loss of weight, comparing her to a sugarcane. She is at her wits end, now that she has heard that he is cheating on her with someone at the office, moreover, he is a church leader.
That nine-member family that lives in a two-roomed house. I know that this is not their mother, that she is the second wife and that the older children do not like her and have made her life a living hell. Her husband has been unemployed for a while now, though he does get a few odd deals fixing people’s electricity for a small fee. He was fired from his job with the electricity company and since then, life has gone downhill. His daughter told me she cannot concentrate in school because she is always so hungry and sometimes goes to be with some popcorn and water.
That man with the obsession to beat women. Whose father abandoned him to a step mother and only came home occasionally. Who never ever said a good word to his son, except that he was a good-for-nothing bastard, a “mbwa eno!” And it is from him that he learnt his crude gutter speak, that he was turned into man who never ever appreciated anything good about anything and anybody and turned his anger into violence.
That young woman who is struggling with a drug addiction that has wrecked her life; that single mother selling perfumes to raise her three daughters; that family that has lost three members to cancer in the space of one year; that father who hasn't seen his child in years because he is living illegally in another country and cannot return; that teenager who was bullied for her massive bust, because her breasts just kept growing and growing until she could carry them no more; that child whose grandmother poured a scalding hot sufuria of water on her abdomen and private parts; and another who was locked up in a chicken coop for five months; people who are struggling with sex addiction that at 70, they are still having children; those whose celebrity lives are on the wane; those shoulder high in debt; those fed up with their mundane jobs; those old homeless men who spend the night out in the cold at the City Square; the newly-weds who have suffered four miscarriages in one year; the people who cannot see, hear, speak for themselves; the ones who cannot sleep at night for vermin- bedbugs, cockroaches, rats, fleas; kids who have been sexually abused by their own parent; kids who cannot go to school for poverty and have to sell maize and oranges on the streets; kids who have everything they want; kids who are ostracized and called ‘point-five’ because they are of mixed heritage; the pregnant woman whose partner has been jailed for theft and left her with a mentally challenged son who is admitted to hospital; kids who have never seen their other parent and yet s/he exists but wants nothing to do with them; that girl who obsesses about her looks, her figure and her face; that young lady who is out on the streets every night, selling her body to all and sundry, not because she has to survive, but because that is the easiest way to make money; that girl who is struggling with her body image because she is fourteen and everybody says she is round and shapeless; that guy who wants to be part of the rugby team but is always relegated to the bench; that askari who is not respected the people he works for; the toilet cleaner who has seen all the mess that he can take; that teenager girl who is hiding a pregnancy that her father will surely kill her for when he finds out; that woman who has voices speaking in her head all the time, and her family do not believe her, they say she is imagining things; that woman whose life depends on spreading rumors; that woman who has been brutally raped; that woman who waits up for her husband every night to serve him dinner, even when she knows that he has been out with his side-dish; and the side-dish who spends that young man who has travelled the world; that older woman whose face was disfigured in a plane accident’ that man for who Saturday is the best day of the week because it means he can sleep in, have a heavy breakfast, have his nails done and his hair cut, have a long deep tissue massage, go to the gym, go out and eat a platter of pork or goat’s meat, go clubbing and pick up a girl for the night just because his wife is a hopeless drunk. The list is endless.
I love the human race. I am not obsessed. I am more interested in their stories. I love to watch and to observe.
Everybody has a story.
The woman sitting next to me in the taxi with her seven year old son carrying a huge backpack filled with school books, clutching at three straw brooms and striding off, forgetting to give the taxi conductor his fare until he is rudely called back. She told me she survived an accident- the taxi in which she was traveling to work overturned after the brakes failed. She was six months pregnant at the time.
The elderly couple who drive by the bodaboda stage every day on their way to the farm in the village. They lost their home and worldly possessions in a fire six years ago. Everybody asks why they live in a rented house.
The man who is bringing his children up as a single father following a string of failed relationships. Their mother abandoned the family when the youngest was just six months old, and she ran off with another man. That daughter is autistic and needs special care and attention that he cannot afford to give by virtue of the work he does every night. He has decided to give her up for care in the UK.
Another single father whose eldest son has given him years of grief, playing truant from school, lying, cheating, and insulting the father who gave up everything. And then one day he turns up at his father’s office, after going missing from home for seven months, and throws himself at his father’s feet and begs for forgiveness.
That woman who vends sweets for a living. She has been on the streets for eight years and her boast is that she has been able to send money home to her widowed father, and has bought a piece of land on which she is building a two-roomed house which is at the roofing stage. She told me that KCCA goons have made her life hell, her project has stalled because they keep taking her merchandise.
That woman who smiles with everybody and laughs out loud at everything, but deep down, she is hiding a huge secret. She is married to a man she does not love because he abuses her mentally, telling her how fat she is, and when she tries to diet, he chides her on her loss of weight, comparing her to a sugarcane. She is at her wits end, now that she has heard that he is cheating on her with someone at the office, moreover, he is a church leader.
That nine-member family that lives in a two-roomed house. I know that this is not their mother, that she is the second wife and that the older children do not like her and have made her life a living hell. Her husband has been unemployed for a while now, though he does get a few odd deals fixing people’s electricity for a small fee. He was fired from his job with the electricity company and since then, life has gone downhill. His daughter told me she cannot concentrate in school because she is always so hungry and sometimes goes to be with some popcorn and water.
That man with the obsession to beat women. Whose father abandoned him to a step mother and only came home occasionally. Who never ever said a good word to his son, except that he was a good-for-nothing bastard, a “mbwa eno!” And it is from him that he learnt his crude gutter speak, that he was turned into man who never ever appreciated anything good about anything and anybody and turned his anger into violence.
That young woman who is struggling with a drug addiction that has wrecked her life; that single mother selling perfumes to raise her three daughters; that family that has lost three members to cancer in the space of one year; that father who hasn't seen his child in years because he is living illegally in another country and cannot return; that teenager who was bullied for her massive bust, because her breasts just kept growing and growing until she could carry them no more; that child whose grandmother poured a scalding hot sufuria of water on her abdomen and private parts; and another who was locked up in a chicken coop for five months; people who are struggling with sex addiction that at 70, they are still having children; those whose celebrity lives are on the wane; those shoulder high in debt; those fed up with their mundane jobs; those old homeless men who spend the night out in the cold at the City Square; the newly-weds who have suffered four miscarriages in one year; the people who cannot see, hear, speak for themselves; the ones who cannot sleep at night for vermin- bedbugs, cockroaches, rats, fleas; kids who have been sexually abused by their own parent; kids who cannot go to school for poverty and have to sell maize and oranges on the streets; kids who have everything they want; kids who are ostracized and called ‘point-five’ because they are of mixed heritage; the pregnant woman whose partner has been jailed for theft and left her with a mentally challenged son who is admitted to hospital; kids who have never seen their other parent and yet s/he exists but wants nothing to do with them; that girl who obsesses about her looks, her figure and her face; that young lady who is out on the streets every night, selling her body to all and sundry, not because she has to survive, but because that is the easiest way to make money; that girl who is struggling with her body image because she is fourteen and everybody says she is round and shapeless; that guy who wants to be part of the rugby team but is always relegated to the bench; that askari who is not respected the people he works for; the toilet cleaner who has seen all the mess that he can take; that teenager girl who is hiding a pregnancy that her father will surely kill her for when he finds out; that woman who has voices speaking in her head all the time, and her family do not believe her, they say she is imagining things; that woman whose life depends on spreading rumors; that woman who has been brutally raped; that woman who waits up for her husband every night to serve him dinner, even when she knows that he has been out with his side-dish; and the side-dish who spends that young man who has travelled the world; that older woman whose face was disfigured in a plane accident’ that man for who Saturday is the best day of the week because it means he can sleep in, have a heavy breakfast, have his nails done and his hair cut, have a long deep tissue massage, go to the gym, go out and eat a platter of pork or goat’s meat, go clubbing and pick up a girl for the night just because his wife is a hopeless drunk. The list is endless.
I love the human race. I am not obsessed. I am more interested in their stories. I love to watch and to observe.
Everybody has a story.
Tuesday 5 September 2017
#violaandthedrugs
She rubs her arms vigorously in an attempt to stave off the
uncomfortable shiver. Her mouth is dry, the corners of her lips have
wounds, caked with blood. She keeps looking around her nervously, like
she is scared of something.
She doesn't wear a bra, and her breasts hang low. Her purple blouse falls off her shoulder.
After watching her for about a minute, I walk over,
introduce myself and hold out my hand.
She doesn't take it but looks at me suspiciously, kind of like, “back off!” "You asked to see me. I'm here."
I sit down and she instinctively folds her left leg under her. Her toes are dusty but the soles of her feet look soft. Her brown African leather and beaded sandals are grubby.
When she starts to speak, the smell of smoke on her breath is unmistakable. The first thing she says, more like a whisper, “ I need a fix real quick, otherwise I will burst, nja kwabika.”
Viola is 23, a mother of one - a three-year old girl. She started taking drugs four years ago when she met her boyfriend who is currently in jail for house-breaking. Her first shot was cocaine.
She shows me the black burn-like mark on her inner left wrist. “That is where I inject the drug, okwekuba empiso.”
There many small scars all over her hands, and a badly-done tattoo with the initials V N. Her nails are dirty, bitten down to the quick.
She says she dashed out of the house like a madwoman and now her head hurts and her joints are on fire.
Viola is hooked on crack. From what I know, I conclude it must be that, because she talks about using “file”, which I take to mean “foil”.
She calls it kayinja, a stone. (I recount seeing a story on TV where a woman was arrested for drugs in Kisenyi, and she nearly passed out in the police cell where she was held for hours. The policeman, scared by what he had witnessed (her spasming and screaming uncontrollably) let her out, and she fumbled as she took out the paraphernalia that she had smuggled in her panties- matchbox, foil and all. And in full view of the cameras, proceeded to light, and snort the dose through a tooter.)
Until three days ago, Viola was employed as a maid in a clinic in Kisenyi, in downtown Kampala. She has come here to rat on her former employers who called her a thief.
“That clinic is a drug den, not a place where they treat sick people. It is one of the three major drug dens there. One that is frequented by all and sundry, rich and poor. It is run by a woman posing as a nurse during the day."
Viola knows where the drugs are hidden. In a hole in the floor in the back room, the one where they pretend they are doing tests and administering medicine from. They place a basin on top of the hole and then push a bed over it, so you cannot know.
She continues, “That woman pays me in drugs, not money and yet she handles millions of shillings every day. I told her I need money to help my mother who is looking after my toddler daughter. Do you know that that woman made me wipe dirty floors? And then she made me cook and refused me to give me food, except once, when she threw me some leftovers."
Now she is getting edgy, and I suspect it is the reason she is looking all around her like she is scared of something.
“The drugs are wearing off. I had injected earlier today, at about 6:30am. I lied to my mother that I was sick and I wanted to go to Naguru hospital. She gave me 3,000 shillings. I walked all the way to Kisenyi, where I got someone to share the 5,000 shillings cost for a shot. 2,500 shillings each.
I ask if she has considered rehab.
“I went there once, actually, in February. But I escaped after two weeks. I went there when I felt I had had enough but they committed me to the mental cases’ ward. Can you imagine?
Viola hesitates before going on, like she’s trying to recall something. Then her eyes tear as she recounts how a mental patient attacked her and pulled her blanket off the bed as she took an afternoon nap.
“That ‘takkey” (cold turkey) phase was without doubt, the worst experience of my life. I had no appetite, I had diarrhea for four days, a migraine and I there were things that attacked me all the time. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I just fled.”
She says someone told her mother about her spell in the mental institution. But she doesn’t know who.
“But she believes that I am now clean, and when I say I am sick, she thinks I have malaria.”
Then she goes quiet as she stares at the two women sitting opposite us.
“I once looked really good. Nga mbakuba! I will bring you my pictures. Ah!”
Her hand goes up to her shabby coils as she describes how long her dreadlocks were, about how healthy her body was, and how the skin on her face glowed with beauty. That is only a memory now.
She cannot stand her friends seeing her like this, the ones who knew her four years ago, before she hooked up with the addicts. She is ashamed of where life has taken her, she is embarrassed that the whole village calls her the druggie. So when she spots them, and she is good at seeing them first before they see her, she dives into the shortcuts. But of late, she has resorted to hiding under a veil, or walking in the night because then, she doesn't have to look at the ground as she walks, and no one will see her.
What about marijuana, I am curious to know.
Enjaga, she calls it, gives her thoughts about death. Like she starts seeing herself dead.
Suicidal thoughts? Yes, and it also makes her depressed, she hears voices and sees things chase her and she wants to die. Like when she was in rehab. “Terrible, terrible!”
Because her mother is so poor and cannot afford a bed for Viola, she sleeps on a bench in the tiny house. “Anyway, I cannot even lie down comfortably on a bed because it makes my body hurt and I fidget all night. On the nights when I have a good sleep, is when I have has taken a shot and four sleeping pills.”
There are instances when Viola will disappear from home for weeks on end and her mother has no idea where she is. She says a force takes over her mind and her body and leads her out. Like it is holding her hand and pulling her away to search for her next fix.
“So what do you tell your mother when you suddenly show up again?”
“Hmm… nothing. She doesn’t even ask.”
But now she wants to reform. She is tired, her body and mind are suffering.
She is scared of the pain of a body without a fix.
She is tired of worrying about where she will get money to buy more drugs, and wondering if she will continue selling her body or stealing.
“And if you do get the chance to reform, what next for you?”
“Njagala bizinensi y'okutunda a’manda. Selling charcoal. I plan to relocate to Munyonyo or … (she is thinking), I could go to the islands- ebizinga- and get away from it all. But I have a huge problem with water, I get a bad feeling like I am drowning.”
I get the opportunity to ask the one question I have been wanting to ask. Where did it all start?
She takes me past that- before she met the drug-pusher who misled her. She had left school when she was about 14. But she quickly learnt her mother’s trade. Her mother sold raw matooke and charcoal. Viola had struck out on her own when she was about 18, and went to live in Nansana. She had even taken out a loan to start business and pay rent. Her mind wanders off and she doesn't finish that story. And I don’t push for more information. I just let her talk and talk.
Her father died when she was young- she doesn’t remember what age- but she has older and younger siblings. Her older siblings, in her words,” do not want to know” about her situation. That they all have their own problems to deal with.
Something else she learned was to insert a cannula in her hand to administer an intravenous infusion- saline water - which gives her a lot of relief. She mastered the art when she worked at the clinic, sometimes attending to patients. She laughs, “It is even cheaper than the cocaine. Cannula, 500 shillings. Saline water, 1,500 shillings."
Viola is in a place where the mental ignores the physical, and then sometimes the physical ignores the mental and at other times they conspire against her. She is confused.
“Madam, do you know why there are so many petty thieves in town, the type that snatch phones and handbags? They have to feed their drug habit. They take your gadget worth 500,000 shillings and sell it for 10,000 shillings. That’s how much the needle has taken over their lives and become their demanding boss, and they, its slave.”
She is a slave under the yoke, knowing what harm her body and mind are being subjected to but she must get high.
Now she is peeing and pooing blood and she is scared. She doesn't like it but she doesn't know how to stop it, and again, her eyes well up. There’s so much anguish in her glazed eyes.
We have now talked for more than an hour and I say I have to get back to an assignment. I tell her that the road to recovery starts with her and if she’s ready to walk the journey, then I will help her.
She looks into the distance, I don’t know if it is that she’s not convinced, or she doesn't know where to start.
For her, life is not about five years in the future, it is about how soon she can get something into her bloodstream.
Then she asks for fare to get her back home. I look straight in her eyes. She hesitates a bit, then laughs.
We both know what the money is for. As I walk through the corridor to my desk, I wrestle with my thoughts about feeding her habit. I think of her little girl, I think of her mother, I think about her body and her bony shoulders.
I put some money in an envelope and take it to her.
"Save some for your little girl."
She doesn't wear a bra, and her breasts hang low. Her purple blouse falls off her shoulder.
After watching her for about a minute, I walk over,
introduce myself and hold out my hand.
She doesn't take it but looks at me suspiciously, kind of like, “back off!” "You asked to see me. I'm here."
I sit down and she instinctively folds her left leg under her. Her toes are dusty but the soles of her feet look soft. Her brown African leather and beaded sandals are grubby.
When she starts to speak, the smell of smoke on her breath is unmistakable. The first thing she says, more like a whisper, “ I need a fix real quick, otherwise I will burst, nja kwabika.”
Viola is 23, a mother of one - a three-year old girl. She started taking drugs four years ago when she met her boyfriend who is currently in jail for house-breaking. Her first shot was cocaine.
She shows me the black burn-like mark on her inner left wrist. “That is where I inject the drug, okwekuba empiso.”
There many small scars all over her hands, and a badly-done tattoo with the initials V N. Her nails are dirty, bitten down to the quick.
She says she dashed out of the house like a madwoman and now her head hurts and her joints are on fire.
Viola is hooked on crack. From what I know, I conclude it must be that, because she talks about using “file”, which I take to mean “foil”.
She calls it kayinja, a stone. (I recount seeing a story on TV where a woman was arrested for drugs in Kisenyi, and she nearly passed out in the police cell where she was held for hours. The policeman, scared by what he had witnessed (her spasming and screaming uncontrollably) let her out, and she fumbled as she took out the paraphernalia that she had smuggled in her panties- matchbox, foil and all. And in full view of the cameras, proceeded to light, and snort the dose through a tooter.)
Until three days ago, Viola was employed as a maid in a clinic in Kisenyi, in downtown Kampala. She has come here to rat on her former employers who called her a thief.
“That clinic is a drug den, not a place where they treat sick people. It is one of the three major drug dens there. One that is frequented by all and sundry, rich and poor. It is run by a woman posing as a nurse during the day."
Viola knows where the drugs are hidden. In a hole in the floor in the back room, the one where they pretend they are doing tests and administering medicine from. They place a basin on top of the hole and then push a bed over it, so you cannot know.
She continues, “That woman pays me in drugs, not money and yet she handles millions of shillings every day. I told her I need money to help my mother who is looking after my toddler daughter. Do you know that that woman made me wipe dirty floors? And then she made me cook and refused me to give me food, except once, when she threw me some leftovers."
Now she is getting edgy, and I suspect it is the reason she is looking all around her like she is scared of something.
“The drugs are wearing off. I had injected earlier today, at about 6:30am. I lied to my mother that I was sick and I wanted to go to Naguru hospital. She gave me 3,000 shillings. I walked all the way to Kisenyi, where I got someone to share the 5,000 shillings cost for a shot. 2,500 shillings each.
I ask if she has considered rehab.
“I went there once, actually, in February. But I escaped after two weeks. I went there when I felt I had had enough but they committed me to the mental cases’ ward. Can you imagine?
Viola hesitates before going on, like she’s trying to recall something. Then her eyes tear as she recounts how a mental patient attacked her and pulled her blanket off the bed as she took an afternoon nap.
“That ‘takkey” (cold turkey) phase was without doubt, the worst experience of my life. I had no appetite, I had diarrhea for four days, a migraine and I there were things that attacked me all the time. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I just fled.”
She says someone told her mother about her spell in the mental institution. But she doesn’t know who.
“But she believes that I am now clean, and when I say I am sick, she thinks I have malaria.”
Then she goes quiet as she stares at the two women sitting opposite us.
“I once looked really good. Nga mbakuba! I will bring you my pictures. Ah!”
Her hand goes up to her shabby coils as she describes how long her dreadlocks were, about how healthy her body was, and how the skin on her face glowed with beauty. That is only a memory now.
She cannot stand her friends seeing her like this, the ones who knew her four years ago, before she hooked up with the addicts. She is ashamed of where life has taken her, she is embarrassed that the whole village calls her the druggie. So when she spots them, and she is good at seeing them first before they see her, she dives into the shortcuts. But of late, she has resorted to hiding under a veil, or walking in the night because then, she doesn't have to look at the ground as she walks, and no one will see her.
What about marijuana, I am curious to know.
Enjaga, she calls it, gives her thoughts about death. Like she starts seeing herself dead.
Suicidal thoughts? Yes, and it also makes her depressed, she hears voices and sees things chase her and she wants to die. Like when she was in rehab. “Terrible, terrible!”
Because her mother is so poor and cannot afford a bed for Viola, she sleeps on a bench in the tiny house. “Anyway, I cannot even lie down comfortably on a bed because it makes my body hurt and I fidget all night. On the nights when I have a good sleep, is when I have has taken a shot and four sleeping pills.”
There are instances when Viola will disappear from home for weeks on end and her mother has no idea where she is. She says a force takes over her mind and her body and leads her out. Like it is holding her hand and pulling her away to search for her next fix.
“So what do you tell your mother when you suddenly show up again?”
“Hmm… nothing. She doesn’t even ask.”
But now she wants to reform. She is tired, her body and mind are suffering.
She is scared of the pain of a body without a fix.
She is tired of worrying about where she will get money to buy more drugs, and wondering if she will continue selling her body or stealing.
“And if you do get the chance to reform, what next for you?”
“Njagala bizinensi y'okutunda a’manda. Selling charcoal. I plan to relocate to Munyonyo or … (she is thinking), I could go to the islands- ebizinga- and get away from it all. But I have a huge problem with water, I get a bad feeling like I am drowning.”
I get the opportunity to ask the one question I have been wanting to ask. Where did it all start?
She takes me past that- before she met the drug-pusher who misled her. She had left school when she was about 14. But she quickly learnt her mother’s trade. Her mother sold raw matooke and charcoal. Viola had struck out on her own when she was about 18, and went to live in Nansana. She had even taken out a loan to start business and pay rent. Her mind wanders off and she doesn't finish that story. And I don’t push for more information. I just let her talk and talk.
Her father died when she was young- she doesn’t remember what age- but she has older and younger siblings. Her older siblings, in her words,” do not want to know” about her situation. That they all have their own problems to deal with.
Something else she learned was to insert a cannula in her hand to administer an intravenous infusion- saline water - which gives her a lot of relief. She mastered the art when she worked at the clinic, sometimes attending to patients. She laughs, “It is even cheaper than the cocaine. Cannula, 500 shillings. Saline water, 1,500 shillings."
Viola is in a place where the mental ignores the physical, and then sometimes the physical ignores the mental and at other times they conspire against her. She is confused.
“Madam, do you know why there are so many petty thieves in town, the type that snatch phones and handbags? They have to feed their drug habit. They take your gadget worth 500,000 shillings and sell it for 10,000 shillings. That’s how much the needle has taken over their lives and become their demanding boss, and they, its slave.”
She is a slave under the yoke, knowing what harm her body and mind are being subjected to but she must get high.
Now she is peeing and pooing blood and she is scared. She doesn't like it but she doesn't know how to stop it, and again, her eyes well up. There’s so much anguish in her glazed eyes.
We have now talked for more than an hour and I say I have to get back to an assignment. I tell her that the road to recovery starts with her and if she’s ready to walk the journey, then I will help her.
She looks into the distance, I don’t know if it is that she’s not convinced, or she doesn't know where to start.
For her, life is not about five years in the future, it is about how soon she can get something into her bloodstream.
Then she asks for fare to get her back home. I look straight in her eyes. She hesitates a bit, then laughs.
We both know what the money is for. As I walk through the corridor to my desk, I wrestle with my thoughts about feeding her habit. I think of her little girl, I think of her mother, I think about her body and her bony shoulders.
I put some money in an envelope and take it to her.
"Save some for your little girl."
#ofwitchcraft
The first I saw of her, she was running. Very fast, towards us. With a baby. And she was crying, her face stained with tears and mucous that threatened to slide into her mouth. But she had another mission. I looked at her as she passed us. She looked devastated. “Nyabo, kiki? Omwana abadde ki?” The sight of her and the baby took me back 22 years ago when I desperately ran to Mulago hospital with my son who was seriously ill.
“Wuiii! Wuiiii!” She cried harder. “Si mwana! Nina ebizibu, omwami wange ayagala kututta!” That her husband or boyfriend, or lover, wanted to kill them.
I quickly abandoned the visitor I was chatting with, and said my hurried goodbyes.
Her baby couldn't have been older than a week. I suspect that his umbilical cord was still attached. He was wrapped carelessly in a multicolored checkered blankie. I offered her a chair and she sat down heavily.
“Kiki?”
She repeated the statement about her husband. “He wants us dead. My sister and the children are hiding in a lodge in Kamwokya, that’s where we spent the night. I have no idea how they are but when my sister called me about ten minutes ago, she said that my first-born daughter was having a seizure and foaming at the mouth! That was what happened to my other son yesterday, before we fled the home in Nansana! You have to help me! I want to go on the TV and tell my story! That man is wicked! He must be stopped before he kills all of us! Help me please before we all die!! She leaped up as she shouted the last two sentences, making as if to enter the building.
I was kind of lost. Her story had a torso but no head, legs and hands. “Nyabo, sooka otuule wansi onnyumize story yo nga ogiva ku ntobo.” I needed details. But just then the baby started wailing.
“Feed her,” I implored.
“Nedda, kano kalenzi! (She was informing me that the child was male, not female) Omusajja agenda kututta! Omusajja atumalawo!!”
She started shaking the baby. Vigorously. Willing him to shut his mouth.
“Nze gwolaba nze, ndi nakawere wa weeksi emu n’ekitundu!” Baby was only one and a half weeks old. “My husband has accused me of bewitching him and his relatives! Can you believe he accused me of taking my children to a witch doctor!”
“When did this start? By the way, what is your name?”
“I am called Fiona Madinah. Trouble started about five years ago, when my husband brought some majiini home. I tell you, the things I have seen!”
She paused and breathed heavily.
“What did you see? What happened?”
“So many things had been happening, we couldn't sleep at night because there were voices that spoke in the dark, sometimes you’d feel something touching your head and when you woke up, there was nothing. Other times, there was the stench of rotting flesh in out bedroom but I was the only one who could smell it! But that day, what I saw made me really believe that my husband is an evil person!”
I waited, willing her to get to the “shocking” point.
“One evening, about three weeks ago, I had not even given birth yet, I was in the kitchen when I heard him approaching. I came out and went behind the kitchen. You know, our kitchen is outside. When he came back, he didn't enter the house. He went to the compound, just outside our front door. Then he knelt down and dug a small hole with a stick. Then he put something inside that hole. He had come with a sheep on a rope and tied it to a tree somewhere near the path leading to the banana plantation. Then he went and untied that sheep. Suddenly, the animal started talking… In a man’s voice!”
“What was it saying?” It’s kind of scary but I have my doubts.
“It was speaking in a man’s voice! You couldn't hear what it was saying, but it had a deep voice, not ‘maaaaing’ like a sheep, it was a man’s voice! I was so scared! That night I took the children out of the house and we slept outside!”
“Are you a Christian?”
I could tell that that question threw her off balance.
“Eh? Yes, you see, I was a Christian before I got married to this man, but he made me become a Muslim when he got a second wife. That woman is the one bringing this zahama to our home, and yet me I decided that I was not going to cook with another woman so I went to the witch doctor so that he could leave her!”
“So you ALSO went to the witch doctor?”
She takes some time to answer the question and looks on the floor, making patterns with her foot.
“Yes, what did he expect me to do? I had to go and get something to make him love me again!”
“It seems there’s a lot of ‘going to the witch doctor” in your home?”
“Yes! What do you expect me to do?”
She was getting really worked up and shaking the baby so hard, I feared for its health. It wailed harder.
“Feed the child nyabo!”
“I don’t have breast milk! We haven't eaten since yester…”
Just then, her phone rings. It’s a Techno with a loud, very weird ringtone.
“Wanji!” She yells. “Ndi wano, agenda k’unteeka kumpewo! Baleeta camera!”
I am aghast. Nobody has promised to put her on air. And nobody has promised to bring a camera to film her.
She talks some more with her sister as I stand up and stretch. When she is done, I tell her we need to get the baby out of the cold.
“That was my sister,” she said. “The lodge owner has ordered them out! Kyokka they have not eaten since yesterday!”
“How much do you owe him?”
“30,000 shillings. But we haven’t eaten since yesterday and the children are so hungry!”
“And how is your daughter? The one with the seizures?”
“My sister says she has recovered!”
To be honest, I didn't know what to do for her. I realized I was trying to hold on as long as I could find a solution.
As luck would have it, a work colleague sauntered by. “What’s the matter? Why is the woman crying?”
I narrated what the woman had told me, but it was as disjointed and full of gaps as I could understand it. My colleague sat down opposite the mother and asked more questions. She said she needed to get to the bottom of the problem. I walked away and back to my desk for a few minutes. It was getting dark and I worried what would be of this woman and her children.
When I returned to the reception a few minutes later, my colleague was dialing the Police. She said that after getting the “whole” story, and if there was a threat to life involved, the Police was best placed to deal with it.
The Police Spokesperson for Kampala Metropolitan Emilian Kayima offered to help and called back within a few minutes. He said that the Police in Nansana would be sending a car to pick up the lady, and then go to Kamwokya and pick the kids and their aunt. Soon enough, the Police truck arrived and we handed the mother over to a Policewoman who said she was from the family department.
“Wuiii! Wuiiii!” She cried harder. “Si mwana! Nina ebizibu, omwami wange ayagala kututta!” That her husband or boyfriend, or lover, wanted to kill them.
I quickly abandoned the visitor I was chatting with, and said my hurried goodbyes.
Her baby couldn't have been older than a week. I suspect that his umbilical cord was still attached. He was wrapped carelessly in a multicolored checkered blankie. I offered her a chair and she sat down heavily.
“Kiki?”
She repeated the statement about her husband. “He wants us dead. My sister and the children are hiding in a lodge in Kamwokya, that’s where we spent the night. I have no idea how they are but when my sister called me about ten minutes ago, she said that my first-born daughter was having a seizure and foaming at the mouth! That was what happened to my other son yesterday, before we fled the home in Nansana! You have to help me! I want to go on the TV and tell my story! That man is wicked! He must be stopped before he kills all of us! Help me please before we all die!! She leaped up as she shouted the last two sentences, making as if to enter the building.
I was kind of lost. Her story had a torso but no head, legs and hands. “Nyabo, sooka otuule wansi onnyumize story yo nga ogiva ku ntobo.” I needed details. But just then the baby started wailing.
“Feed her,” I implored.
“Nedda, kano kalenzi! (She was informing me that the child was male, not female) Omusajja agenda kututta! Omusajja atumalawo!!”
She started shaking the baby. Vigorously. Willing him to shut his mouth.
“Nze gwolaba nze, ndi nakawere wa weeksi emu n’ekitundu!” Baby was only one and a half weeks old. “My husband has accused me of bewitching him and his relatives! Can you believe he accused me of taking my children to a witch doctor!”
“When did this start? By the way, what is your name?”
“I am called Fiona Madinah. Trouble started about five years ago, when my husband brought some majiini home. I tell you, the things I have seen!”
She paused and breathed heavily.
“What did you see? What happened?”
“So many things had been happening, we couldn't sleep at night because there were voices that spoke in the dark, sometimes you’d feel something touching your head and when you woke up, there was nothing. Other times, there was the stench of rotting flesh in out bedroom but I was the only one who could smell it! But that day, what I saw made me really believe that my husband is an evil person!”
I waited, willing her to get to the “shocking” point.
“One evening, about three weeks ago, I had not even given birth yet, I was in the kitchen when I heard him approaching. I came out and went behind the kitchen. You know, our kitchen is outside. When he came back, he didn't enter the house. He went to the compound, just outside our front door. Then he knelt down and dug a small hole with a stick. Then he put something inside that hole. He had come with a sheep on a rope and tied it to a tree somewhere near the path leading to the banana plantation. Then he went and untied that sheep. Suddenly, the animal started talking… In a man’s voice!”
“What was it saying?” It’s kind of scary but I have my doubts.
“It was speaking in a man’s voice! You couldn't hear what it was saying, but it had a deep voice, not ‘maaaaing’ like a sheep, it was a man’s voice! I was so scared! That night I took the children out of the house and we slept outside!”
“Are you a Christian?”
I could tell that that question threw her off balance.
“Eh? Yes, you see, I was a Christian before I got married to this man, but he made me become a Muslim when he got a second wife. That woman is the one bringing this zahama to our home, and yet me I decided that I was not going to cook with another woman so I went to the witch doctor so that he could leave her!”
“So you ALSO went to the witch doctor?”
She takes some time to answer the question and looks on the floor, making patterns with her foot.
“Yes, what did he expect me to do? I had to go and get something to make him love me again!”
“It seems there’s a lot of ‘going to the witch doctor” in your home?”
“Yes! What do you expect me to do?”
She was getting really worked up and shaking the baby so hard, I feared for its health. It wailed harder.
“Feed the child nyabo!”
“I don’t have breast milk! We haven't eaten since yester…”
Just then, her phone rings. It’s a Techno with a loud, very weird ringtone.
“Wanji!” She yells. “Ndi wano, agenda k’unteeka kumpewo! Baleeta camera!”
I am aghast. Nobody has promised to put her on air. And nobody has promised to bring a camera to film her.
She talks some more with her sister as I stand up and stretch. When she is done, I tell her we need to get the baby out of the cold.
“That was my sister,” she said. “The lodge owner has ordered them out! Kyokka they have not eaten since yesterday!”
“How much do you owe him?”
“30,000 shillings. But we haven’t eaten since yesterday and the children are so hungry!”
“And how is your daughter? The one with the seizures?”
“My sister says she has recovered!”
To be honest, I didn't know what to do for her. I realized I was trying to hold on as long as I could find a solution.
As luck would have it, a work colleague sauntered by. “What’s the matter? Why is the woman crying?”
I narrated what the woman had told me, but it was as disjointed and full of gaps as I could understand it. My colleague sat down opposite the mother and asked more questions. She said she needed to get to the bottom of the problem. I walked away and back to my desk for a few minutes. It was getting dark and I worried what would be of this woman and her children.
When I returned to the reception a few minutes later, my colleague was dialing the Police. She said that after getting the “whole” story, and if there was a threat to life involved, the Police was best placed to deal with it.
The Police Spokesperson for Kampala Metropolitan Emilian Kayima offered to help and called back within a few minutes. He said that the Police in Nansana would be sending a car to pick up the lady, and then go to Kamwokya and pick the kids and their aunt. Soon enough, the Police truck arrived and we handed the mother over to a Policewoman who said she was from the family department.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)