#whichwayparliament?

Our good and honorable Members of Parliament have spent the better part of their waking hours this week, actively building their nation and earning their day’s pay. For many, this is the first time they have held fort this long.
And when this stormy session is finally over, many will retire to the bars and bufunda where they will order cold Bell beers and niceties as they stretch their legs, sip loudly, and belch and tell the mwoki wa ka P-I-G to “make it a full lusaniya n’ebigenderako.” Then they will talk and talk and talk about the week’s happenings and give their repeated opinions over and over and over again.
Others will tell their drivers to cut through the traffic like madmen so that they can get home and see the children before they fall asleep. And when they get to their plush residences, they will tell the driver to hoot very loudly at the gate, and the children will come running out and say “Daddy, I saw you on TV shouting in the microphone about the togikwatako!” And Daddy will say, “Oh, you did? You are very clever! Here, take my i-pad and play games while I talk to your mother.”
Other kids will wonder why they saw their Mummy just sitting there on the green chairs all week, her big red handbag in her lap, and with a very bored look on her face.
Someone will ask her mother why she was was heckling and beating and slapping the chair when another MP made a point.
One wife will ask her husband where he was because when she looked at the TV which she watched all day after their heated discussion last night, she did not see him in any of the wild panning the cameras made. And he will tell her how he stood up several times but was never ever given a chance at the microphone even when he shouted, “Teacher me! Teacher me!” and the teacher chose someone else over him.
One MP will come home gloomy-faced and while opening his tie tell his wife how exhausted he is because he was attending to matters of state, actually to very highly delicate diplomatic duties.
A woman MP will rail at her housemaid for not frying the meat properly and not keeping the matooke warm in the oven like she told her, because for her she pays for UMEME and the oven can be on for however long. Then she will declare loudly that she is not going to eat cold food and storm off to bed where she will deny her husband his rights because “for her, her back is paining and it is gong to pain more tomorrow because of these long and laborious sittings.”
For those who gallantly stormed the chaplaincy and grabbed the “intruder soldiers’” plates and garish colored plastic cups, they will hail themselves as heroes and talk about their experience to anyone within earshot until the wee hours.
Then there are those who laid hands on the unfortunate “urinated-in” mineral water bottles. They will wash and wash their hands and disinfect away all the dirty matter till they can disinfect no more.
The ones who railed and ranted about their holy places of worship being desecrated by those pistol-wielding trespassers- they will pray the Novena over and over again, asking God to declare disaster over those who think they can trample their rights as MPs, and stifle business in parliament, and threaten their freedom and security. They will declare to all and sundry how they are faithful Christians who would not be alive if it were not for the Most High. And then they will go and buy new rosaries and keep the ones that “witnessed” the sacrilege will be kept away in a box to be shown to future family generations.
Others will proclaim how “the devil is a liar!” and declare their doubts about the genuineness of the cleansing prayers for Parliament following that abominable chaos that broke out on those fateful dark days in September when the age limit motion was to be tabled, when some were carried off like chicken thieves, while others had their heads banged and their spines twisted. They will spend hours on their knees praying for the country, imploring God to grant King Solomon-like wisdom to its leaders to make them see sense about this contentious age limit pain in the neck, oh-why-doesn’t-it-end? problem that has kept them arguing, booing, clapping till their hands hurt and looking at their colleagues with daggers for days now.
There are those who have been a no-show all week, some were unfortunately booted out for indiscipline, others - who knows where they are- either they did not wish to be part of this degrading drama, or they could be “indisposed” but watching from the comfort of their sick beds, or reclining in their sitting room sofas- will regret not being there when Parliament was creating history.
Others who have been faithfully involved in the Red Ribbon protest will forage their wardrobes hunting for another red outfit to wear the next time because they have suffered through this week having their only red shirt washed and put up on a hanger to dry as they prayed that UMEME would be good-mannered so that they could iron the outfit and look smart. Some yellow die-hards will look at all the outfits they have ordered over the years as their achievements in supporting their cause.
The rabble rousers who sit in groups of about three or four mainly on the back benches, yelling whenever the opportunity arises, will go to pharmacies for lozenges and cough drops as they moan about sore throats caused by their spirited opposition to whichever opinion they do not agree with.
Others will wonder deep down in their heart of hearts if they stood for what they believed. They will regret why they did not stand up to be counted when the time came, and start doubting if going with the crowd is a good thing after all. They will make a decision that they will stand out from the crowd the next time they are faced with such. They will wonder why they shouted into the microphones instead of just talking because of course, a microphone amplifies the voice, but they will then shrug their shoulders and tell themselves that it was about emphasizing the point. Others will start fearing to go back to their constituents because they did not represent them correctly. They will give all sorts of excuses to be stuck in Kampala doing this and that and being very busy as they fret and agonize over how they will beg for votes in 2021.

#prayerwarrior

This my neighbor in the homebound taxi is notorious for … chanting.
As in chanting religious verses. Yes.
And he doesn’t see the awkward glances from passengers who've had a hard day with bosses breathing down their neck, or whose sales have refused to come through, and all they want to do is doze off as they hope and also pray for a better tomorrow.
Naye me I know this man. I know him well, and as he enters, I am praying, “God please deliver him to the back of the taxi, please.” 
The other day he chanted for six out of the eight miles home, successfully out-competing the radio. But there he is now, plopping himself heavily into the seat, in his bulky agbada and lugging two bags laden with God-knows-what. 
First, a freshly boiled cob comes out of the smaller bag and he proceeds to chomp it down army-worm style down—- in the five minutes we're waiting at the Wandegeya lights! 
I know the drill. The other day it was a mix of ground nuts and hard corn... and then the chanting began. Another time it was these milky biscuit sticks... and then reciting verses went into full gear. 
I try my best not to look at him but from the corner of my eye I can see him unzipping the bigger rucksack. 
Just then, someone calls and he answers the phone. “Wait, I'm traveling! Nja ku koonako!". 
But a quick glance reveals the string of 99 prayer beads being tugged out of the side pocket. I hold my breath. 
Then before I know it... ... the chanting is in full session. 
Bead by bead. And we're still five miles away. 
Anyway, I console myself that kasita he is not like the ones who preach for four minutes and then in the fifth minute they are urging all those who “feel how their preaching has touched them", to pray a conversion prayer.