The other day the spokesperson for the SFU (there are so many security agencies that I lose count) tweeted that he had given a woman in labour a lift in his car. It was dark and she needed to get to the hospital immediately. And just as he sped off towards the hospital, the baby decided it was time to make an entrance. Good soul, Chris Magezi.
That reminded me of an event I witnessed when I was about 9. One afternoon my Mum sent me to the chips' shop. Where the oily potatoes were packed in a small polythene bag and wrapped in a newspaper. With lots of chilli splashed inside the hot packet.
As I waited for the slow waitress to process my order, I perched on a seat at the window. I needed to look at people. It is one of my favorite pastimes- observing humans. Just then, I saw a woman half-running, half-walking from the market side.
Suddenly, almost simultaneously, she let out an almighty yell and sank to her knees in the dust. The screams were so alarming, I thought she was going to die.
People turned around, wondering what was happening.
Then, a quick-thinking man, transformed into the Good Samaritan. He dashed towards her and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the verandah right outside the chips shop.
I was rooted to the high stool at the window where I sat. It was like watching a movie.
“Nipatie lesu!" he yelled in Kiswahili, jumping at a woman carrying a basket of sukumawiki on her head and undressing her of the sheet.
By this time, people were aware of what was happening.
A baby was being born right there on the verandah of the chips shop. On a hot Saturday afternoon. Some women formed a ring around her, and suddenly I heard a baby cry, a strong cry.
I nearly forgot the chips as I dashed out, to tell Mum about what I had just seen.
Wednesday 8 November 2017
#yoursignature
The following happened between 2pm and 3pm at a branch of the bank where we, the Crane Bank rejects were relegated a year ago. At a branch where I have banked and withdrawn money several times. At a branch where I have heard customers jeer and swear under their breath at the tortoise- like pace at which these employees count money and open new accounts.
2:00pm: I sacrifice my lunch break to collect some much-needed money.
2:10pm: I'm in the queue. My eye wanders to a list of new ‘promises’ regarding time spent on feedback on loan applications, processing ATM cards etc, but the one that catches my attention is the one for a client waiting to be served at the counter. Max. time 15 minutes. And if you're not done within that time, call this toll-free number. 0800......... I jotted it down (on the back of a business card in my wallet) because there are times you want to rant about shitty service.
After seven minutes of shifting from one foot to another, with my eye on the clock, the teller calls out to me to pick a withdrawal sheet as she makes a query about the cheque of the lady at the counter . I quickly fill it in and hand it back ( in the midst of suffering a mild formphobia attack).
After what seems like eternity, she gives me a long hard look. I can sense what's coming next. A question about one thing or the other: Is this really you (I'm wearing my hair a centimeter short, tight kaweke coils, today); what is your real name.
Instead she says something about my signature and asks a question. An ambiguous question. After two good minutes of my best lengthening-my-vowels- like- I- was-taught-in-school English, she stares back blankly and I realize that I have wasted valuable time trying to sound responsible.
I start imagining that I look like a fraudster even in my designer-shape sunglasses and mummy sweater. She calls her supervisor, a young lady I think I can be Mum to. The supervisor takes a long hard look at the computer screen, which only they can see, then takes a longer harder look at me, shakes her head and walks off. Madame Teller in her nice coat with a designer collar says to go to the queries section. If I didn't allow the morning rain to ruin my Zen, then I will not permit this "little" bump to cause my heart to flutter unnecessarily.
Over at inquiries, I am third in the line. A quick look at the digital clock confirms that I have been here 26 minutes. I consider pulling out the business card on to which I had scribbled the number on which to vent. The man behind me starts to mutter. I decide I am keeping Zen. The girl at the front of the line is waiting for an ATM card replacement which is refusing to be found. The lady at the inquiries desk jumps off her high chair and pours all the cards on the equally high counter. Then she asks the girl another round of questions which I suspect, she had already asked before. Hmmmm... The murmurs behind me grow louder. I check with my Zen. I'm alright. The woman after the man behind me says, “Imagine being treated like we are not Ugandans!”. Just then the Inquiries Lady needs to make more inquiries and walks to another desk, stopping by the guy at the printer to ask him why there is no paper in the printer, and when he will put paper in the printer, and then smiling at the printer.
Soon she's back with a “come back next week” answer. The man in front of me is not a time-waster and walks off. Then I state what I need, this time in Ugandan English. She types and bangs the keyboard. I give her my driving permit and the withdrawal slip. She looks at them then looks long and hard at computer screen. She tells me I need to sign again (sign what now?) and so I scoot over to the other side. Wait, em…, this the signature on my slip and permit, I tell her. She nods her head and says she can't do much, and I walk back to the teller.
Now I'm fourth in line, shifting from one foot to another and watching bears on the screen, three quarters of which is taken up by an ad for the bank. I want to stride up to the counter like a cowgirl, because I am a customer whose time has been wasted. Then I imagine what all the other customers will think, and say, and curse at me, and mutter, and complain, and I abandon the idea. Another round of shifting from left to right foot.
2:47pm: Finally, I’m walking to the teller and telling her that she should stop wasting my time because I have withdrawn money here before and I canNOT understand what is so wrong with my signature this time and even the Inquiries Lady says that…
She is typing furiously as I expend myself and nearly run out of breath. “Oh, it is the correct signature! I think it has been updated now!”
The clock says 2: 50 pm. Should I call the toll-free number?
2:00pm: I sacrifice my lunch break to collect some much-needed money.
2:10pm: I'm in the queue. My eye wanders to a list of new ‘promises’ regarding time spent on feedback on loan applications, processing ATM cards etc, but the one that catches my attention is the one for a client waiting to be served at the counter. Max. time 15 minutes. And if you're not done within that time, call this toll-free number. 0800......... I jotted it down (on the back of a business card in my wallet) because there are times you want to rant about shitty service.
After seven minutes of shifting from one foot to another, with my eye on the clock, the teller calls out to me to pick a withdrawal sheet as she makes a query about the cheque of the lady at the counter . I quickly fill it in and hand it back ( in the midst of suffering a mild formphobia attack).
After what seems like eternity, she gives me a long hard look. I can sense what's coming next. A question about one thing or the other: Is this really you (I'm wearing my hair a centimeter short, tight kaweke coils, today); what is your real name.
Instead she says something about my signature and asks a question. An ambiguous question. After two good minutes of my best lengthening-my-vowels- like- I- was-taught-in-school English, she stares back blankly and I realize that I have wasted valuable time trying to sound responsible.
I start imagining that I look like a fraudster even in my designer-shape sunglasses and mummy sweater. She calls her supervisor, a young lady I think I can be Mum to. The supervisor takes a long hard look at the computer screen, which only they can see, then takes a longer harder look at me, shakes her head and walks off. Madame Teller in her nice coat with a designer collar says to go to the queries section. If I didn't allow the morning rain to ruin my Zen, then I will not permit this "little" bump to cause my heart to flutter unnecessarily.
Over at inquiries, I am third in the line. A quick look at the digital clock confirms that I have been here 26 minutes. I consider pulling out the business card on to which I had scribbled the number on which to vent. The man behind me starts to mutter. I decide I am keeping Zen. The girl at the front of the line is waiting for an ATM card replacement which is refusing to be found. The lady at the inquiries desk jumps off her high chair and pours all the cards on the equally high counter. Then she asks the girl another round of questions which I suspect, she had already asked before. Hmmmm... The murmurs behind me grow louder. I check with my Zen. I'm alright. The woman after the man behind me says, “Imagine being treated like we are not Ugandans!”. Just then the Inquiries Lady needs to make more inquiries and walks to another desk, stopping by the guy at the printer to ask him why there is no paper in the printer, and when he will put paper in the printer, and then smiling at the printer.
Soon she's back with a “come back next week” answer. The man in front of me is not a time-waster and walks off. Then I state what I need, this time in Ugandan English. She types and bangs the keyboard. I give her my driving permit and the withdrawal slip. She looks at them then looks long and hard at computer screen. She tells me I need to sign again (sign what now?) and so I scoot over to the other side. Wait, em…, this the signature on my slip and permit, I tell her. She nods her head and says she can't do much, and I walk back to the teller.
Now I'm fourth in line, shifting from one foot to another and watching bears on the screen, three quarters of which is taken up by an ad for the bank. I want to stride up to the counter like a cowgirl, because I am a customer whose time has been wasted. Then I imagine what all the other customers will think, and say, and curse at me, and mutter, and complain, and I abandon the idea. Another round of shifting from left to right foot.
2:47pm: Finally, I’m walking to the teller and telling her that she should stop wasting my time because I have withdrawn money here before and I canNOT understand what is so wrong with my signature this time and even the Inquiries Lady says that…
She is typing furiously as I expend myself and nearly run out of breath. “Oh, it is the correct signature! I think it has been updated now!”
The clock says 2: 50 pm. Should I call the toll-free number?
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