Thursday 20 December 2018
#inthebin
In a da bin
Is where he is.
No, not where he belong
But because she thrown him
In a da bin.
In a da bin
Coz he did sumtin stupid
Sumtin she dinna like
And so she said he
Deserve to be
In a da bin.
In a da bin for
Three months and four days
He been counting since
She stopped talking to him
And tossed him there
In the quiet place called
In a da bin
One Saturday night he said,
Dahling, I going out with a da boys
Watch a bit of ball and all.
And he da com back
Two in a da morning
And she scream and yell
And cuss him out.
And then
Throwed him
In a da bin.
From a da bin,
Sometime he open, and
Peep outta da bin.
He see her face,
Her mouth set, a tight line,
And he close the lid
And slink back
Into da bin.
He wannad to say,
Dahling, we can talk
If I did anytin’ wrong
when I was with the boys
That Saturday night,
Ya tell me because
We cannat be livin’
Like this.
You outta da bin,
And me in a da bin.
Now he say to himself
I can’t stand
Bein’ in a da bin
For no more.
I’m tired of her treating
Me like I am a rubbish
A bad cabbage, rotten tomato
Them are what, not me,
who belong
In a da bin.
©LindaKibombo
Wednesday 14 November 2018
#flyingtoilets
A few months ago, NTV ran a story on several homes in Luuka district that have no toilets. One man readily admitted that he was a culprit, another refused to climb onto the back of the Ministry of Health pickup truck that would transport him to the Police station. Another protested that he is too busy in the fields to dig a latrine, while someone else heroically leapt off the vehicle as he attempted to race to safety.
I’ll also never forget the visit to the cushy home of a ‘corporate’ colleague’, a home that had all the gadgets in the world to make him comfortable. But guess what? When I asked to use the toilet, he hung his head. He had no toilet and coyly admitted that he did his bidness at work because the landlady had never thought of installing this facility in the house!!! Unbelievable really!
I cannot recall the number of times my mother literally chased after villagers who did their thing in the bush. Number One - normal. Number Two- littering their own gardens- and other people’s as well- mbu manure. My mother was a member of the village Local Council Two and among her key responsibilities was the matter of sanitation and hygiene.
One morning reports reached her ears that there was a family of eight- father, mother and six offspring, ranging from the ages of 8 to zero- who did not have a pit latrine in their home. As was the practice, she paid them a visit. The man of the house was out. Mama Gafas was suckling her last-born, an infant about two weeks old. The compound was littered with pieces of broken basin, dry banana leaves, blackened sufurias - Mama Gafas was clearly not with it.
Mum: (after the “osibye otya nno and gyebale ko” niceties) Kakati, ensonga endese kye kigambo kya kabuyonjo. (Mama never beats about the bush) The purpose of my visit is to address the matter of a toilet.
Mama Gafas: Ye nnyabo.
Mum: Eri wa? Where is it?
Mama Gafas: Toyi?
Mum: I mean, where do you do your stuff? (Can’t say it in Luganda, it sounds too "shitty”)
Mama Gafas: (Hoping to brush her off, pointed behind her) Eri wali emmanju.
Mum: (With emphasis) Wa? Ntwala yo. Show me.
Mama Gafas: Nyabo, abaana bakulagirire.
Mum: No, you take me there. Lead the way.
Mama Gafas reluctantly got up, shooing away the children who were tagging along. Mum walked behind her cautiously, scared of stepping in any steaming mess.
They entered the thick brush.
Mum wondered how they came here in the night.
Mama Gafas, barefooted, was not following a trodden path. As they walked deeper, a branch stuck to Mum’s skirt and she stopped to pull it off.
Suddenly, there was the sound of running. Heavy footsteps. Mama Gafas had bolted with baby on her breast.
Mum’s fears were confirmed.
There was no toilet.
I’ll also never forget the visit to the cushy home of a ‘corporate’ colleague’, a home that had all the gadgets in the world to make him comfortable. But guess what? When I asked to use the toilet, he hung his head. He had no toilet and coyly admitted that he did his bidness at work because the landlady had never thought of installing this facility in the house!!! Unbelievable really!
I cannot recall the number of times my mother literally chased after villagers who did their thing in the bush. Number One - normal. Number Two- littering their own gardens- and other people’s as well- mbu manure. My mother was a member of the village Local Council Two and among her key responsibilities was the matter of sanitation and hygiene.
One morning reports reached her ears that there was a family of eight- father, mother and six offspring, ranging from the ages of 8 to zero- who did not have a pit latrine in their home. As was the practice, she paid them a visit. The man of the house was out. Mama Gafas was suckling her last-born, an infant about two weeks old. The compound was littered with pieces of broken basin, dry banana leaves, blackened sufurias - Mama Gafas was clearly not with it.
Mum: (after the “osibye otya nno and gyebale ko” niceties) Kakati, ensonga endese kye kigambo kya kabuyonjo. (Mama never beats about the bush) The purpose of my visit is to address the matter of a toilet.
Mama Gafas: Ye nnyabo.
Mum: Eri wa? Where is it?
Mama Gafas: Toyi?
Mum: I mean, where do you do your stuff? (Can’t say it in Luganda, it sounds too "shitty”)
Mama Gafas: (Hoping to brush her off, pointed behind her) Eri wali emmanju.
Mum: (With emphasis) Wa? Ntwala yo. Show me.
Mama Gafas: Nyabo, abaana bakulagirire.
Mum: No, you take me there. Lead the way.
Mama Gafas reluctantly got up, shooing away the children who were tagging along. Mum walked behind her cautiously, scared of stepping in any steaming mess.
They entered the thick brush.
Mum wondered how they came here in the night.
Mama Gafas, barefooted, was not following a trodden path. As they walked deeper, a branch stuck to Mum’s skirt and she stopped to pull it off.
Suddenly, there was the sound of running. Heavy footsteps. Mama Gafas had bolted with baby on her breast.
Mum’s fears were confirmed.
There was no toilet.
#notyetfree
Stripped of your dignity
bedding down on the floor,
blankets and sheets do not exist in this part of the world
and not even a mattress to ease
the chill of the grey, chipped cement.
bedding down on the floor,
blankets and sheets do not exist in this part of the world
and not even a mattress to ease
the chill of the grey, chipped cement.
You wait for first light like a bride eagerly waiting for her groom
Because it is the only glimmer of hope that you still hold on to.
But even then you cannot leave the space
in which you are confined with 86 others,
lying side by side in the dark,
breathing in each other’s breath,
inhaling each other’s silent smelly farts
listening to each other's snores,
their groans, their grunts, their moans.
Grouped together with debtors, killers, defilers, pickpockets
Thugs who have no qualms about wrongdoing.
Bedbugs crawling freely,
up and down, left and right
like thieves in the night.
Mosquitoes getting drunk on your blood
Staggering away
their buzzing wings irritating.
Fleas jumping and biting
Leaving you sore and itching.
Black rats as big as baby cats crissing, crossing
Your bodies form part of the highway along which they dart.
Overgrown roaches roaming,
Nibbling at your feet.
Sleep fails to come and you lie on your back
thinking, wondering how you got here
But your thoughts are like a circle
going round and round,
merging one into another with no end in sight.
And you lay on your back and gaze
at the iron sheets,
You notice the one thousand holes
And the moonlight seeping in.
You are not yet free.
©LindaKibombo
Because it is the only glimmer of hope that you still hold on to.
But even then you cannot leave the space
in which you are confined with 86 others,
lying side by side in the dark,
breathing in each other’s breath,
inhaling each other’s silent smelly farts
listening to each other's snores,
their groans, their grunts, their moans.
Grouped together with debtors, killers, defilers, pickpockets
Thugs who have no qualms about wrongdoing.
Bedbugs crawling freely,
up and down, left and right
like thieves in the night.
Mosquitoes getting drunk on your blood
Staggering away
their buzzing wings irritating.
Fleas jumping and biting
Leaving you sore and itching.
Black rats as big as baby cats crissing, crossing
Your bodies form part of the highway along which they dart.
Overgrown roaches roaming,
Nibbling at your feet.
Sleep fails to come and you lie on your back
thinking, wondering how you got here
But your thoughts are like a circle
going round and round,
merging one into another with no end in sight.
And you lay on your back and gaze
at the iron sheets,
You notice the one thousand holes
And the moonlight seeping in.
You are not yet free.
©LindaKibombo
#hesaid
He said my palms are too rough
And that a bottle of Nivea lotion cost a few shillings.
That my feet had cracks which would tear his sheets
And that they didn’t deserve to be dressed in sandals.
And that a bottle of Nivea lotion cost a few shillings.
That my feet had cracks which would tear his sheets
And that they didn’t deserve to be dressed in sandals.
He said I laughed like a whore
Because when I cannot control my mirth
I ha-ha out loud and shake like a volcano.
He said my hair was like steel wool
Couldn’t I invest a wig - like Beyonce?
He also said I had tires around my waist
A petite Michelin Man of sorts
And that he was finding it hard to wrap his arms around me.
And then he called my short nails ugly
And that I should get acrylics which every “good” girl wore.
“Your face is too plain”, he said,
“At least rouge your lips and powder your face.”
That my hips were straight and my behind too flat
And that, “These days, padded panties were on sale downtown.”
He mocked my lisp because I called him “Thteven” and not Steven
I wish he only knew how cute everyone else said I sounded.
He said there was everything wrong about me but that in spite of all that, that he loved me.
But added, as a sort of by the way,
That, “You must have wriggled out of God’s grasp as He moulded you.”
And when I had had enough of him saying and saying and saying what he said,
I said,
“I am fearfully, and wonderfully made.
I am God’s workmanship
He created mankind in His own image, and likeness
in true righteousness and holiness
And that is how I choose to look at things.
Mister, you can take your love and stuff it elsewhere!"
©LindaKibombo
Because when I cannot control my mirth
I ha-ha out loud and shake like a volcano.
He said my hair was like steel wool
Couldn’t I invest a wig - like Beyonce?
He also said I had tires around my waist
A petite Michelin Man of sorts
And that he was finding it hard to wrap his arms around me.
And then he called my short nails ugly
And that I should get acrylics which every “good” girl wore.
“Your face is too plain”, he said,
“At least rouge your lips and powder your face.”
That my hips were straight and my behind too flat
And that, “These days, padded panties were on sale downtown.”
He mocked my lisp because I called him “Thteven” and not Steven
I wish he only knew how cute everyone else said I sounded.
He said there was everything wrong about me but that in spite of all that, that he loved me.
But added, as a sort of by the way,
That, “You must have wriggled out of God’s grasp as He moulded you.”
And when I had had enough of him saying and saying and saying what he said,
I said,
“I am fearfully, and wonderfully made.
I am God’s workmanship
He created mankind in His own image, and likeness
in true righteousness and holiness
And that is how I choose to look at things.
Mister, you can take your love and stuff it elsewhere!"
©LindaKibombo
#soundsofmusic
Hearing the loud music when I finally reach the taxi stage after a
long day, is the assurance that I am in safe territory (okay, that home
is in the vicinity, just 10 minutes away).
Several bars and outlets, all offering a varied choice on what they imagine will attract customers. Maybe what kind they hope will keep clients digging deeper and deeper into their pockets for more booze. The barman (or woman’s fancy). Could be the reason why the first bar plays church hymns off an old cassette player.
Unfortunately this is drowned out by a blast of Congolese lingala from the establishment next door. Never has more than ten clients, mostly middle-aged pot-bellies who unashamedly relieve themselves in the village football field in full view with their UATs and UAVs parked close by.
The nightclub that sits behind these two is always full of moving bodies. If approached from another angle, all one sees are heads bopping to Ugandan tunes. The regulars are mostly young males feeling cool in pencil-tight pants, and a few skimpily-dressed chicks. Boom kadaba boom baboom kadaba!
The fourth place hosts three karaoke nights a week and the yodeling inside there is audible from near and far. Outside, groups of young men gather round a pool table, slamming balls, cheering and punching the air when the last ball crashes into the pocket.
As one moves from the “townier” side of the village to the more local zone, lower down the hill and into the valley, you are accosted by more sounds of music.
Rare kadongo kamu blaring from a barber’s wooden stall that balances dangerously on four rickety stilts. On most nights, a woman, and two little children sit outside, miserably eating their supper as they wait for him to finish shaving a late-night customer’s head so they can retire for the night. (It is highly suspect that they sleep here).
A few meters on, on the opposite side where rainwater has eaten away half of the road, is a hovel that tunes in to Radio One’s evening show Rhythm of the Night. The patrons of this watering hole speak in a dialect that contains words like akashongoro, kazire and amaarwa.
Not so far away sits a CD recording center with pin-spot disco lights that dance round and round in the dusty road. Everything about the new establishment shouts, “Hey, I’m here!” It is located on a new building which is religiously mopped sparkling clean every morning and afternoon, come rain or sunshine.
Occasionally, one or two youths are gyrating to the music. Another sits at a computer tapping tapping the mouse to select another mega hit.
Sometimes there are three to five young men bobbing their heads from side to side like they are high on something.
One time, the selector was playing a recorded speech of the Ghetto President and everyone else was sitting still, arms crossed over chest, religiously listening to a reminder that power belongs to the people.
After this row of raucousness, comes some peace and quiet, save for the little shop whose owner is a faithful viewer of Pastor Yiga’s TV station, he of the Abizaayo fame.
And just before the turn to the estates, the turn where a pit latrine sits right next to the road, lives a young couple who have no regard for peace and quiet. He can be playing a combination Sheeba’s Chopping Board (John Rambo) song and there’s Premier League match cheering on the TV in the background.
A few feet away is a dingy hovel that once served as a salon, a shop, and then a hardware store. The 8x8ft contains two low wooden benches, a dirty table covered with a faded Glucose tarpaulin and a sideboard that serves as the counter.
The room is bathed in a green glow, the music loud, uncoordinated and muffled.
Drunks are still stumbling out at eight the next morning, some remain sprawled on the benches.
Others are out cold on the verandah.
Several bars and outlets, all offering a varied choice on what they imagine will attract customers. Maybe what kind they hope will keep clients digging deeper and deeper into their pockets for more booze. The barman (or woman’s fancy). Could be the reason why the first bar plays church hymns off an old cassette player.
Unfortunately this is drowned out by a blast of Congolese lingala from the establishment next door. Never has more than ten clients, mostly middle-aged pot-bellies who unashamedly relieve themselves in the village football field in full view with their UATs and UAVs parked close by.
The nightclub that sits behind these two is always full of moving bodies. If approached from another angle, all one sees are heads bopping to Ugandan tunes. The regulars are mostly young males feeling cool in pencil-tight pants, and a few skimpily-dressed chicks. Boom kadaba boom baboom kadaba!
The fourth place hosts three karaoke nights a week and the yodeling inside there is audible from near and far. Outside, groups of young men gather round a pool table, slamming balls, cheering and punching the air when the last ball crashes into the pocket.
As one moves from the “townier” side of the village to the more local zone, lower down the hill and into the valley, you are accosted by more sounds of music.
Rare kadongo kamu blaring from a barber’s wooden stall that balances dangerously on four rickety stilts. On most nights, a woman, and two little children sit outside, miserably eating their supper as they wait for him to finish shaving a late-night customer’s head so they can retire for the night. (It is highly suspect that they sleep here).
A few meters on, on the opposite side where rainwater has eaten away half of the road, is a hovel that tunes in to Radio One’s evening show Rhythm of the Night. The patrons of this watering hole speak in a dialect that contains words like akashongoro, kazire and amaarwa.
Not so far away sits a CD recording center with pin-spot disco lights that dance round and round in the dusty road. Everything about the new establishment shouts, “Hey, I’m here!” It is located on a new building which is religiously mopped sparkling clean every morning and afternoon, come rain or sunshine.
Occasionally, one or two youths are gyrating to the music. Another sits at a computer tapping tapping the mouse to select another mega hit.
Sometimes there are three to five young men bobbing their heads from side to side like they are high on something.
One time, the selector was playing a recorded speech of the Ghetto President and everyone else was sitting still, arms crossed over chest, religiously listening to a reminder that power belongs to the people.
After this row of raucousness, comes some peace and quiet, save for the little shop whose owner is a faithful viewer of Pastor Yiga’s TV station, he of the Abizaayo fame.
And just before the turn to the estates, the turn where a pit latrine sits right next to the road, lives a young couple who have no regard for peace and quiet. He can be playing a combination Sheeba’s Chopping Board (John Rambo) song and there’s Premier League match cheering on the TV in the background.
A few feet away is a dingy hovel that once served as a salon, a shop, and then a hardware store. The 8x8ft contains two low wooden benches, a dirty table covered with a faded Glucose tarpaulin and a sideboard that serves as the counter.
The room is bathed in a green glow, the music loud, uncoordinated and muffled.
Drunks are still stumbling out at eight the next morning, some remain sprawled on the benches.
Others are out cold on the verandah.
#missyandthebuffet
Lunchtime. Missy pays for her food, proceeds to pick a plate while remarking about its size. That today it is small. Anyway …
First dish is matooke. “Put a ka-little… ahah that is too much, sooka you remove this.”
That done, she sashays onto the next dish.
Just then she notices a ka-string of ndagala peeping from the matooke mound.
She barges into the person behind her to tell the server to remove it.
Server meanwhile is in the middle of serving that next person.
With the piece of annoying ndagala removed, Missy takes two generous helpings of rice while commenting loudly to the server, “Naye, why didn’t you cook brown rice, y’know the one which is fried, the one which is like pilau? Like what you cooked on Friday, you remember?”
Server doesn't say anything.
Next dish is posho and in the other platter is a variety of tubers - lumonde, cassava, arrowroot.
Miss Choosy lives up to her name. “Oba what can I eat? Hmmm…. hmmmm….”
Meanwhile, she is holding up the line, at least three people behind her have had their serving of matooke and don’t want it to go cold.
She turns to the guy behind her. “Wamma, ndye ki?”
The guy (and here, I have to bow to him) tells her to take lumonde and mayuni because cassava will make her sleep. She lets out a silly giggle and pokes into the food.
Moving on - to the serving platters containing groundnut sauce and fresh beans.
Another war in her head begins, “Groundnut sauce… but nga it doesn’t look ready. She scoops a spoonful and brings it close to her nose. “But I think it doesn’t smell that bad. Let me take some.” Generous pouring over the minuscule mound of matooke.
Very soon, we are the witnesses of another internal argument about the beans. “Fresh or dry? Wamma Chef, you come here. (BTW this is the same person serving the matooke).
(Now elevated to) Chef is visibly irritated and so are the hungrier people in the queue. Audible sneers and jeers, yours truly inclusive.
Someone orders chef not to move and to continue with what brought her to the serving table in the first place.
Miss Choosy decides against the beans, her nose in the air.
Next - a choice between boiled goat stew and a heavily spiced beef mix.
Another battle in the mind.
Silly smile pasted on, she seeks advice from her longs-suffering colleague, “Eheh! Casper, tulye ki? Wamma, you come and tell me.
All the while she is spooning through the boiled goat stew, fishing for the hugest chunk of meat.
And when it is finally located, “Casper, I think the goat is the thing.”
Meanwhile, she is spilling boiled goat stew all over the thick beef stew and muttering to herself.
The line has grown to nearly 15 hungry, and angry individuals. This woman could soon be boxed.
Casper, probably sensing trouble, gently pokes her in the back as a signal to hurry.
She quickly spoons some thick beef soup onto the already packed plate.
I fear she is about to ask about the missing greens and extol us with their health benefits.... But thankfully, she doesn't.
Finally to the oh-so-glorious deep-fried chicken.
There will be no debate about this one.
She pokes about the dish, discarding a measly looking wing, a not-so-meaty thigh, and finally emerges with an extra fleshy breast.
Next - Fork, knife, serviette.
Then… a lightbulb moment. “A second piece of chicken wouldn’t hurt!”
Unwrapping the serviette for the fork, she swiftly returns to the chicken platter which her colleague is attacking with the same gusto.
She digs it into the previously discarded thigh.
But as she moves to find a seat, a matter which has elicited another loud debate (from her), the thigh slips off the plate and bounces to the floor.
First dish is matooke. “Put a ka-little… ahah that is too much, sooka you remove this.”
That done, she sashays onto the next dish.
Just then she notices a ka-string of ndagala peeping from the matooke mound.
She barges into the person behind her to tell the server to remove it.
Server meanwhile is in the middle of serving that next person.
With the piece of annoying ndagala removed, Missy takes two generous helpings of rice while commenting loudly to the server, “Naye, why didn’t you cook brown rice, y’know the one which is fried, the one which is like pilau? Like what you cooked on Friday, you remember?”
Server doesn't say anything.
Next dish is posho and in the other platter is a variety of tubers - lumonde, cassava, arrowroot.
Miss Choosy lives up to her name. “Oba what can I eat? Hmmm…. hmmmm….”
Meanwhile, she is holding up the line, at least three people behind her have had their serving of matooke and don’t want it to go cold.
She turns to the guy behind her. “Wamma, ndye ki?”
The guy (and here, I have to bow to him) tells her to take lumonde and mayuni because cassava will make her sleep. She lets out a silly giggle and pokes into the food.
Moving on - to the serving platters containing groundnut sauce and fresh beans.
Another war in her head begins, “Groundnut sauce… but nga it doesn’t look ready. She scoops a spoonful and brings it close to her nose. “But I think it doesn’t smell that bad. Let me take some.” Generous pouring over the minuscule mound of matooke.
Very soon, we are the witnesses of another internal argument about the beans. “Fresh or dry? Wamma Chef, you come here. (BTW this is the same person serving the matooke).
(Now elevated to) Chef is visibly irritated and so are the hungrier people in the queue. Audible sneers and jeers, yours truly inclusive.
Someone orders chef not to move and to continue with what brought her to the serving table in the first place.
Miss Choosy decides against the beans, her nose in the air.
Next - a choice between boiled goat stew and a heavily spiced beef mix.
Another battle in the mind.
Silly smile pasted on, she seeks advice from her longs-suffering colleague, “Eheh! Casper, tulye ki? Wamma, you come and tell me.
All the while she is spooning through the boiled goat stew, fishing for the hugest chunk of meat.
And when it is finally located, “Casper, I think the goat is the thing.”
Meanwhile, she is spilling boiled goat stew all over the thick beef stew and muttering to herself.
The line has grown to nearly 15 hungry, and angry individuals. This woman could soon be boxed.
Casper, probably sensing trouble, gently pokes her in the back as a signal to hurry.
She quickly spoons some thick beef soup onto the already packed plate.
I fear she is about to ask about the missing greens and extol us with their health benefits.... But thankfully, she doesn't.
Finally to the oh-so-glorious deep-fried chicken.
There will be no debate about this one.
She pokes about the dish, discarding a measly looking wing, a not-so-meaty thigh, and finally emerges with an extra fleshy breast.
Next - Fork, knife, serviette.
Then… a lightbulb moment. “A second piece of chicken wouldn’t hurt!”
Unwrapping the serviette for the fork, she swiftly returns to the chicken platter which her colleague is attacking with the same gusto.
She digs it into the previously discarded thigh.
But as she moves to find a seat, a matter which has elicited another loud debate (from her), the thigh slips off the plate and bounces to the floor.
Friday 9 November 2018
#thenewtwenny
The Forties beckoned,
"Come in, come on in!" they said gaily.
"Get comfortable, feel free to be who you REALLY are!"
"Come in, come on in!" they said gaily.
"Get comfortable, feel free to be who you REALLY are!"
The Forties offered me
a comfortable seat and glass of red wine.
I sat quietly by the fireside, waiting to savor what else they had on offer.
The Forties said
They would be hosting a ten-year party.
"We want to show you that forty really IS the new twenty!"
"What’s in the decade-long party?" I ventured timidly,
not knowing what to expect from the promised fanfare.
Calmly, they replied, "You just wait and see."
Forties told me, "You’ll be called Mama by everybody. You will
worry less what they think. You will have more insight
into those things you were previously baffled about.
Forties said, "Take heart, you will not suffer any more baby showers, those dratted showy gatherings are so a thing of the past."
"You can now choose from cocktail parties, grand brunch and oldies get-togethers.
Not to mention a seat at the high table for every family gathering."
Forties come with some greying, failing eyesight,
Hard of hearing, aching knees, things go rapidly south.
Did I also hear that jowls sag and the brow furrows??
And so you will need extra tabs of Vaseline and moisturizer.
"Your time is ticking, you need to stop
experimenting and get really real. No more games 'coz
you ain't 39 anymore.
Your spring chicken days are so over
Welcome to the beginning of the off-layer stage!"
The Forties assure you that when you bald, it is not a crisis.
Y'know, like the mid-life thing that our brothers suffer
The one that makes them realise how unfulfilled their dreams are,
That causes their eye to wander and adds a spring to their step.
Forties bring with them the realization about
who you really are, what you really want.
(Although, hmmmm... In some cases, they carry along a little suitcase of worry).
But do take heart.
It is a celebration of having worked hard to figure out life.
It’s JUST the middle, the transition, the old age of youth.
Oh! Forry! Forry, the New Twenny!"
©LindaKibombo
a comfortable seat and glass of red wine.
I sat quietly by the fireside, waiting to savor what else they had on offer.
The Forties said
They would be hosting a ten-year party.
"We want to show you that forty really IS the new twenty!"
"What’s in the decade-long party?" I ventured timidly,
not knowing what to expect from the promised fanfare.
Calmly, they replied, "You just wait and see."
Forties told me, "You’ll be called Mama by everybody. You will
worry less what they think. You will have more insight
into those things you were previously baffled about.
Forties said, "Take heart, you will not suffer any more baby showers, those dratted showy gatherings are so a thing of the past."
"You can now choose from cocktail parties, grand brunch and oldies get-togethers.
Not to mention a seat at the high table for every family gathering."
Forties come with some greying, failing eyesight,
Hard of hearing, aching knees, things go rapidly south.
Did I also hear that jowls sag and the brow furrows??
And so you will need extra tabs of Vaseline and moisturizer.
"Your time is ticking, you need to stop
experimenting and get really real. No more games 'coz
you ain't 39 anymore.
Your spring chicken days are so over
Welcome to the beginning of the off-layer stage!"
The Forties assure you that when you bald, it is not a crisis.
Y'know, like the mid-life thing that our brothers suffer
The one that makes them realise how unfulfilled their dreams are,
That causes their eye to wander and adds a spring to their step.
Forties bring with them the realization about
who you really are, what you really want.
(Although, hmmmm... In some cases, they carry along a little suitcase of worry).
But do take heart.
It is a celebration of having worked hard to figure out life.
It’s JUST the middle, the transition, the old age of youth.
Oh! Forry! Forry, the New Twenny!"
©LindaKibombo
Thursday 1 November 2018
#atthereception
Visitor walks into office area. Lady at the reception is scrolling
through mobile phone, totally engrossed, permanent smile pasted on her
face.
Visitor (cheerily): Good evening.
Visitor (cheerily): Good evening.
Receptionist: Hallo. (Gives visitor a glance and resumes mobile phone binge)
Visitor (taken aback): Will you attend to me please?
Receptionist (Shooting daggers at Visitor): What do you want?
Visitor (takes a few seconds to register this behavior): Oh! Ok. Nothing!!! (Said with a pinch of venom)
Receptionist puts mobile phone on the desk and starts tapping away at keyboard, occasionally lifting her eyes to the computer in front of her and doing a silly smile. It is obvious the social media binge has been taken to another level. Visitor has suddenly become non-existent.
Visitor (Ezzztreeeemly agitated): Madame, I need you to attend to me. (Silence)
How dare you talk to me like that? Who do you think you are? You think you are the first person to sit at the front desk and take calls. I also know what it means to sit in that place and use a computer. Do I Iook like your your co-wife, eh???! Muwala, you are one rude piece of sh**! Gosh! Is this what your company is like???
Receptionist casts her another dangerously condescending look but says nothing.
Visitor continues venting away until one of the people she came in with tells her to pipe down and pulls her to a seat. But she’s not finished and her voice rises several decibels higher.
Finally, one of the staff who has heard the commotion from the inside office walks up to her. They speak for a few minutes and only then does she lower her voice.
The concerned member of staff suggests that they take this somewhere else.
On the way out, the eyes of Visitor and Receptionist meet. Paaa!
Receptionist contorts her face and then sniggers loudly at Visitor.
It is at that moment that all hell breaks lose.
Something in Visitor snaps.
She stops, approaches the desk.
Her eyes are fixed on the orange stapler.
Quick as a wink she grabs the device and aims it at the open laughing mouth.
Receptionist senses trouble coming and swiftly ducks.
The stapler whizzes past her head and clatters to the wooden floor.
Member of staff aka lifesaver, is visibly disturbed by this dramatic violent turn of events and pulls Visitor outside.
Receptionist is horrified and dissolves into tears.
Visitor (taken aback): Will you attend to me please?
Receptionist (Shooting daggers at Visitor): What do you want?
Visitor (takes a few seconds to register this behavior): Oh! Ok. Nothing!!! (Said with a pinch of venom)
Receptionist puts mobile phone on the desk and starts tapping away at keyboard, occasionally lifting her eyes to the computer in front of her and doing a silly smile. It is obvious the social media binge has been taken to another level. Visitor has suddenly become non-existent.
Visitor (Ezzztreeeemly agitated): Madame, I need you to attend to me. (Silence)
How dare you talk to me like that? Who do you think you are? You think you are the first person to sit at the front desk and take calls. I also know what it means to sit in that place and use a computer. Do I Iook like your your co-wife, eh???! Muwala, you are one rude piece of sh**! Gosh! Is this what your company is like???
Receptionist casts her another dangerously condescending look but says nothing.
Visitor continues venting away until one of the people she came in with tells her to pipe down and pulls her to a seat. But she’s not finished and her voice rises several decibels higher.
Finally, one of the staff who has heard the commotion from the inside office walks up to her. They speak for a few minutes and only then does she lower her voice.
The concerned member of staff suggests that they take this somewhere else.
On the way out, the eyes of Visitor and Receptionist meet. Paaa!
Receptionist contorts her face and then sniggers loudly at Visitor.
It is at that moment that all hell breaks lose.
Something in Visitor snaps.
She stops, approaches the desk.
Her eyes are fixed on the orange stapler.
Quick as a wink she grabs the device and aims it at the open laughing mouth.
Receptionist senses trouble coming and swiftly ducks.
The stapler whizzes past her head and clatters to the wooden floor.
Member of staff aka lifesaver, is visibly disturbed by this dramatic violent turn of events and pulls Visitor outside.
Receptionist is horrified and dissolves into tears.
#mydaddy
My children call my father Daddy.
Because of the circumstances under which they have been raised, he has been a constant in their lives in so many ways.
Together with the woman they call Mummy. My mother.
You cannot question the love and affection Daddy has for his grandkids.
He has a special name for each one of them. Paulus, Maffiyu, Bibbu, Chaya, Tendomecious, Beyya, Nana, Pilipu, Kabunga.
Apart from a single incident, Daddy has never ever raised a hand to strike any of his grandkids.
Children who have shared a bed with him and Mummy. Kids he has bathed, fed, carried to and from school, cuddled, nuzzled.
Helped with their homework, watched cartoons with them, laughed at their jokes, repeated their stories, sat for hours with them in hospital and held their hands as they cried through injections.
He does not spoil them.
And they love him back.
They respect him, they tell him their stories, they laugh and joke with him, and when they go to visit him, they can talk for hours.
The love between them is impalpable.
Not one of threats, endless beatings, threats, punishments, long letters, abuse and shows of power.
Because of the circumstances under which they have been raised, he has been a constant in their lives in so many ways.
Together with the woman they call Mummy. My mother.
You cannot question the love and affection Daddy has for his grandkids.
He has a special name for each one of them. Paulus, Maffiyu, Bibbu, Chaya, Tendomecious, Beyya, Nana, Pilipu, Kabunga.
Apart from a single incident, Daddy has never ever raised a hand to strike any of his grandkids.
Children who have shared a bed with him and Mummy. Kids he has bathed, fed, carried to and from school, cuddled, nuzzled.
Helped with their homework, watched cartoons with them, laughed at their jokes, repeated their stories, sat for hours with them in hospital and held their hands as they cried through injections.
He does not spoil them.
And they love him back.
They respect him, they tell him their stories, they laugh and joke with him, and when they go to visit him, they can talk for hours.
The love between them is impalpable.
Not one of threats, endless beatings, threats, punishments, long letters, abuse and shows of power.
#unclaimed
Three objects.
One living. Two non-living.
A traffic policeman, a motorcycle and a dead dead man.
He lies awkwardly, the left side of his face on the cold, hard tarmac where he has fallen along the busy road.
There’s an awkwardness about his posture, like something is badly broken or twisted. Like he was attempting a leap off the bike, fleeing from the danger that is now gone.
Has it been ten minutes? Longer? An hour perhaps.
It looks like a hit and run. Unless he hit the railing at the side of the road and fell back.
The policeman is taking notes, the pages flapping in the wind on the open highway.
Has he searched the man’s pockets for any form of identification? Was there money? House keys? A stick of marijuana?
He could have called for help already. In form of a police patrol pick-up vehicle that will arrive with reinforcement to carry and load the body onto the dirty floor under the makeshift seats.
Who is the dead man? Was he a bodaboda rider? Was he a husband? How old was he? A father perhaps?
How did he fall off the bike?
Did he attempt a clever but ill-thought swerve in front of an oncoming vehicle whose driver panicked and could not avoid him?
Was the driver just learning on the wheel?
Was the "accident” deliberate?
Accidental perhaps?
Was he on his way to work?
Had he just told his wife that, “Kaneewubeko ko wano katono mangu nkomewo?” knowing that the errand would only take him a few minutes to run?
And now she was calling, calling, calling his number and he didn’t answer, until a strange voice picked up and emotionless, droned, “The owner of this phone is dead!” and then the line went silent.
Did he have a plan for the day? Was he celebrating the announcement that Bobi Wine's Kyarenga concert had been given the green light, happy that Omubanda wa Kabaka was gonna give the show of his life?
Was he riding to the stage where he usually works?
Will his colleagues look at his coat, abandoned on the peg on the pole where they all hang theirs, and wonder why he’s late for work today?
Our taxi, like so many other cars this morning, whizzes by, carefully avoiding the three objects.
Some heads turn, and there are few, “Oohs!”, “Bambis” and from the ones who are waking from slumber as the vehicle does a sharp swerve, “Kiki ekibaddewo?”
They want to know what happened.
“Omusajja wa boda bamusse.”
They all assume he is a commercial motorcycle rider and that he is dead. That someone killed him.
In a few minutes, we will all have forgotten the body lying on the cold hard tarmac, our minds occupied with the day ahead, thinking about Jennifer's voluminous resignation letter, the lumbe in Gomba on the weekend, your sick mother, an ailing business, the bogus boss, a philandering spouse who attempted to check your phone messages last night when you went to the bathroom.
The kinds of things that occupy a normal human being’s mind.
The motorcycle owner could end up in the Lusaze cemetery, where most of the unclaimed go.
Or if he’s lucky, the policeman will have located his family and he will be accorded a decent send-off.
This man. Someone’s son, brother, father, brother-in-law, cousin, love rival.
One living. Two non-living.
A traffic policeman, a motorcycle and a dead dead man.
He lies awkwardly, the left side of his face on the cold, hard tarmac where he has fallen along the busy road.
There’s an awkwardness about his posture, like something is badly broken or twisted. Like he was attempting a leap off the bike, fleeing from the danger that is now gone.
Has it been ten minutes? Longer? An hour perhaps.
It looks like a hit and run. Unless he hit the railing at the side of the road and fell back.
The policeman is taking notes, the pages flapping in the wind on the open highway.
Has he searched the man’s pockets for any form of identification? Was there money? House keys? A stick of marijuana?
He could have called for help already. In form of a police patrol pick-up vehicle that will arrive with reinforcement to carry and load the body onto the dirty floor under the makeshift seats.
Who is the dead man? Was he a bodaboda rider? Was he a husband? How old was he? A father perhaps?
How did he fall off the bike?
Did he attempt a clever but ill-thought swerve in front of an oncoming vehicle whose driver panicked and could not avoid him?
Was the driver just learning on the wheel?
Was the "accident” deliberate?
Accidental perhaps?
Was he on his way to work?
Had he just told his wife that, “Kaneewubeko ko wano katono mangu nkomewo?” knowing that the errand would only take him a few minutes to run?
And now she was calling, calling, calling his number and he didn’t answer, until a strange voice picked up and emotionless, droned, “The owner of this phone is dead!” and then the line went silent.
Did he have a plan for the day? Was he celebrating the announcement that Bobi Wine's Kyarenga concert had been given the green light, happy that Omubanda wa Kabaka was gonna give the show of his life?
Was he riding to the stage where he usually works?
Will his colleagues look at his coat, abandoned on the peg on the pole where they all hang theirs, and wonder why he’s late for work today?
Our taxi, like so many other cars this morning, whizzes by, carefully avoiding the three objects.
Some heads turn, and there are few, “Oohs!”, “Bambis” and from the ones who are waking from slumber as the vehicle does a sharp swerve, “Kiki ekibaddewo?”
They want to know what happened.
“Omusajja wa boda bamusse.”
They all assume he is a commercial motorcycle rider and that he is dead. That someone killed him.
In a few minutes, we will all have forgotten the body lying on the cold hard tarmac, our minds occupied with the day ahead, thinking about Jennifer's voluminous resignation letter, the lumbe in Gomba on the weekend, your sick mother, an ailing business, the bogus boss, a philandering spouse who attempted to check your phone messages last night when you went to the bathroom.
The kinds of things that occupy a normal human being’s mind.
The motorcycle owner could end up in the Lusaze cemetery, where most of the unclaimed go.
Or if he’s lucky, the policeman will have located his family and he will be accorded a decent send-off.
This man. Someone’s son, brother, father, brother-in-law, cousin, love rival.
Wednesday 24 October 2018
#peoplewatching
People-watching.
One of the things I do. A lot. Traffic offers a good choice.
Today, I decided on 10 cars that were stuck and we had been freed to go. For some reason, the traffic policemen at Wandegeya decided they would do a better job than the traffic lights.
Car Number One: A black Range Rover. Female driver was applying war-paint as she looked into a small mirror held in her left hand. As we passed, she was on lip-stage, slowly, sensually, admiringly.
Car Number Two: Male driver. Flipping through the Bukedde newspaper.
Car Three: Ipsum. Male driver. Looks like a father. Because there was a little uniformed girl dozing in the passenger seat. She hadn’t tied her seat belt.
Car Four: Asian man with one hand on the steering wheel. His car was a little out of line and he was trying to peer past the cars in front of him.
Car Five: Another nose buried deep in a newspaper. Monitor.
Car Six: The elderly female looked tired and harassed. Bad morning? Late for work?
Car Seven: Spacio new model. Couldn’t see the drivers as the blackened windows were drawn up.
Car Eight: Taxi. Empty save for three people. A driver whose eyes are fixed on the road, his face glum. The conductor in that space near the door. And a laughing traffic Nyange. Had he asked for a lift? Then why was he laughing and the others not joining in?
Car Nine: A sleek silver Mercedes Benz. I’m not a car person so I have no idea which model. The female driver and her passenger are having an animated conversation. The passenger has a phone in her lap. They’re both in sleeveless dresses. Corporate office ladies?
Car Ten: A weather-beaten (what my sister calls) contraption of a car. UAK- something. Yes, it looks rather unsafe, the paint on its once-white body is chipped in many places, tires are worn and the female driver in an afro is speaking on a smartphone.
One of the things I do. A lot. Traffic offers a good choice.
Today, I decided on 10 cars that were stuck and we had been freed to go. For some reason, the traffic policemen at Wandegeya decided they would do a better job than the traffic lights.
Car Number One: A black Range Rover. Female driver was applying war-paint as she looked into a small mirror held in her left hand. As we passed, she was on lip-stage, slowly, sensually, admiringly.
Car Number Two: Male driver. Flipping through the Bukedde newspaper.
Car Three: Ipsum. Male driver. Looks like a father. Because there was a little uniformed girl dozing in the passenger seat. She hadn’t tied her seat belt.
Car Four: Asian man with one hand on the steering wheel. His car was a little out of line and he was trying to peer past the cars in front of him.
Car Five: Another nose buried deep in a newspaper. Monitor.
Car Six: The elderly female looked tired and harassed. Bad morning? Late for work?
Car Seven: Spacio new model. Couldn’t see the drivers as the blackened windows were drawn up.
Car Eight: Taxi. Empty save for three people. A driver whose eyes are fixed on the road, his face glum. The conductor in that space near the door. And a laughing traffic Nyange. Had he asked for a lift? Then why was he laughing and the others not joining in?
Car Nine: A sleek silver Mercedes Benz. I’m not a car person so I have no idea which model. The female driver and her passenger are having an animated conversation. The passenger has a phone in her lap. They’re both in sleeveless dresses. Corporate office ladies?
Car Ten: A weather-beaten (what my sister calls) contraption of a car. UAK- something. Yes, it looks rather unsafe, the paint on its once-white body is chipped in many places, tires are worn and the female driver in an afro is speaking on a smartphone.
Tuesday 11 September 2018
#internationalconferences
Last weekend, one of the members of a big, big family was traveling to Accra. For… you guessed right… an international conference (I would call it regional, really).
The send-off luncheon for this member of a big big family who was traveling to attend the international conference was being held at the house of his sister, my neighbor.
A Super Custom vehicle bearing (in the range of) 25 adult heads arrived at the gate at exactly a quarter to 8am, and hooted loudly.
The sister of the member of the family going to outside countries for an international conference, clanged open the gate, and the Super Custom loaded with (in the range of) 25 adult heads, some sitting on laps and pelvises drove in.
The excited (in the range of) 25 adult heads trooped out noisily. Two huge saucepans, three bunches of matooke, two live roosters, and a “leg” of cow were pulled from under the chairs of the Super Custom.
More commotion as the food was carried into the house. And then the big big family caught sight of the member who was soon to catch the aeroplane to Accra for the international conference. “Uluullluuuu! Ulluuulluuuu!”
The beehive of activity in the house was evident from the noise that emerged as a front door that is kept locked at all times was flung open, with children running in and out, to and from the shop.
“Gwe omwana, genda ku duuka oleete yo bu sacheti bwa Simba Mbili!” I need curry powder, hurry up!!
“Timose! Yongera yo enyaanya!” Someone frying the chicken needed more tomatoes.
“Owaye! Emicungwa omukazi gyakuwadde nga mikadde!” The grocer had sold the child oranges that were too old.
Amid the din and the smoke from a wood fire in the backyard, the chickens were slaughtered, e, the “leg” of cow was boiled, the matooke was steamed, and finally, after several hours, the food was inhaled.
With the hefty lunch quickly tucked away, the prayers began. To bless this blessed member of the big big family to have a safe trip and a two-day stay in that faraway country whose capital is Ghana. And for God to grant him many many more trips of this nature so that he can see the world. Also, for the Almighty to grant other members of this big big family the same blessings as their relative.
Then it was time for the trip to Entebbe airport. The members of the big big family trooped out of the house all dressed and made up. The international conference delegate in a one-size-too-big suit took the window seat at the front, a briefcase on his lap. Two other people- a child and adult - squeezed in between the delegate and the driver.
And when they were all stuffed in, and the door had been slammed shut, and the driver started the ignition, then the car started to move, they broke into loud song.
All the way to the airport to wave bye-bye to their relative who would be attending a two-day international conference.
The send-off luncheon for this member of a big big family who was traveling to attend the international conference was being held at the house of his sister, my neighbor.
A Super Custom vehicle bearing (in the range of) 25 adult heads arrived at the gate at exactly a quarter to 8am, and hooted loudly.
The sister of the member of the family going to outside countries for an international conference, clanged open the gate, and the Super Custom loaded with (in the range of) 25 adult heads, some sitting on laps and pelvises drove in.
The excited (in the range of) 25 adult heads trooped out noisily. Two huge saucepans, three bunches of matooke, two live roosters, and a “leg” of cow were pulled from under the chairs of the Super Custom.
More commotion as the food was carried into the house. And then the big big family caught sight of the member who was soon to catch the aeroplane to Accra for the international conference. “Uluullluuuu! Ulluuulluuuu!”
The beehive of activity in the house was evident from the noise that emerged as a front door that is kept locked at all times was flung open, with children running in and out, to and from the shop.
“Gwe omwana, genda ku duuka oleete yo bu sacheti bwa Simba Mbili!” I need curry powder, hurry up!!
“Timose! Yongera yo enyaanya!” Someone frying the chicken needed more tomatoes.
“Owaye! Emicungwa omukazi gyakuwadde nga mikadde!” The grocer had sold the child oranges that were too old.
Amid the din and the smoke from a wood fire in the backyard, the chickens were slaughtered, e, the “leg” of cow was boiled, the matooke was steamed, and finally, after several hours, the food was inhaled.
With the hefty lunch quickly tucked away, the prayers began. To bless this blessed member of the big big family to have a safe trip and a two-day stay in that faraway country whose capital is Ghana. And for God to grant him many many more trips of this nature so that he can see the world. Also, for the Almighty to grant other members of this big big family the same blessings as their relative.
Then it was time for the trip to Entebbe airport. The members of the big big family trooped out of the house all dressed and made up. The international conference delegate in a one-size-too-big suit took the window seat at the front, a briefcase on his lap. Two other people- a child and adult - squeezed in between the delegate and the driver.
And when they were all stuffed in, and the door had been slammed shut, and the driver started the ignition, then the car started to move, they broke into loud song.
All the way to the airport to wave bye-bye to their relative who would be attending a two-day international conference.
Tuesday 4 September 2018
#emperorsnewclothes
***By Hans Christian Andersen***
Many, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain them. His only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers, and going to the theatre did not interest him. The only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to go out and show himself off with new clothes as often as possible. He had a coat for every hour of the day. As often as you would say of a normal king,' “He is busy ruling the kingdom,” you could say of him, “The emperor is in his dressing-room trying on new gear.”
The great city where he lived was a very busy place, every day many strangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day, two swindlers came to this city and pretended to everyone that they were weavers. They said that they could make the finest cloth anyone could imagine. Their colours and patterns, they said, were not only very beautiful, but were made of a special material invisible to any person who was stupid.
'That must be wonderful cloth,' thought the emperor. 'If I were to be dressed in a suit made of this cloth I would be able to find out which people in my kingdom are stupid and therefore should not be in their jobs. I must have this cloth made for me without delay.'
And he gave a large sum of money to those rascals, in advance, so that they should get to work immediately. They set up two looms and pretended to be very hard at work. They asked for the finest silk and the most precious gold-cloth. All the expensive material they got they hid away for themselves and worked at the empty looms till late at night.
'I’d love to know how they are getting on with the cloth,' thought the emperor. But he felt worried when he remembered that anyone who couldn’t see it was stupid. He thought that of course he would be able to see it, but decided to send someone else first to check it out, just in case. Everybody in the town knew how remarkable the clothes were and were dying to see how bad or stupid their neighbours were.
'I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers, thought the emperor. He can see how it looks, for he is very clever.
The good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the empty looms. 'Goodness gracious!' he thought and opened his eyes wide, I cannot see anything at all, but he did not say so. Both swindlers told him to come near and asked him if he did not admire the lovely pattern and the beautiful colours, pointing to the empty looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. 'Oh dear,' he thought, 'Can I be so stupid? I would never have thought so, and nobody must find out! Is it possible that I am too stupid to do my job? No, I cannot admit that I wasn’t able to see the cloth.'
“Have you got nothing to say?” said one of the swindlers, while he pretended to be busy weaving.
“Oh, it is very pretty, really beautiful,” replied the old minister looking through his glasses. “What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I will tell the emperor that I like the cloth very much.”
“We are pleased to hear that,” said the two weavers and described to him the colours and explained the curious pattern. The old minister listened carefully, so he would be able to tell the emperor what they said and so he did.
Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold-cloth, which they said they required for weaving. They kept everything for themselves and not a thread came near the loom, but they continued, as before, to pretend to work at the empty looms.
Soon afterwards the emperor sent another good man to the weavers to see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly finished. Like the old minister, he looked and looked but could see nothing, as there was nothing to be seen.
“Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?” asked the two rascals, showing and explaining the fantastic pattern, which, however, did not exist.
'I think I am not stupid,' thought the man. 'Maybe I am not clever enough for my job. I must not let any one know that and he praised the cloth, which he did not see and praised the beautiful colours and the fine pattern.'
“It is very excellent,” he said to the emperor.
Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At last the emperor wished to see it himself, while it was still on the loom. With a number of assistants, including the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever swindlers, who now worked as hard as they could, but without using any thread.
“Is it not magnificent?” said the two old men who had been there before. “Your Majesty must admire the colours and the pattern.” And then they pointed to the empty looms, for they expected that the others could see the cloth.
'What is this? thought the emperor, I do not see anything at all. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Too stupid to be an emperor? That would indeed be the most terrible thing that could happen to me.'
“Really,” he said, turning to the weavers, “your cloth is wonderful, really wonderful.” He nodded contentedly as he looked at the empty loom, because he didn’t want to say that he couldn’t see anything. All his attendants, who were with him, looked and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they said, like the emperor, “It is very beautiful.” And all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take place. “It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent,” they said. Everybody seemed to be delighted, and the emperor appointed the two swindlers “Imperial Court weavers.”
The whole night before the day on which the procession was to take place, these two rascals pretended to work, and burned more than sixteen candles. They wanted people to see that they were busy finishing the emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom, and worked about in the air with big scissors, and sewed with needles without thread. At last they said: “The emperor’s new clothes are ready now.”
The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall. The swindlers held their arms up as if they held something in their hands and said: “These are the trousers!” “This is the coat!” and “Here is the cloak!” and so on. “They are all as light as a cobweb, so light in fact, that it feels as if you have nothing on at all, but that is just the beauty of the clothes.”
“Indeed!” said all the assistants, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to be seen.
“Does it please your Majesty now to undress,” said the swindlers, “that we may help your Majesty in putting on the new suit in front of the mirror?”
The emperor undressed and the swindlers pretended to put the new suit on him, one piece after another. The emperor looked at himself in the glass from all sides.
“How well they look! How well they fit!” said all. “What a beautiful pattern! What fine colours! That is a magnificent suit of clothes!”
It was announced that it was time to start the procession.
“I am ready,” said the emperor. “Does not my suit fit me wonderfully?” Then he turned once more to the looking-glass, so that people would think he was admiring his clothes again.
Two boys were there to walk behind the emperor, to hold up the train of the emperor’s clothes, that is the material from his clothes that would otherwise trail behind on the ground. They stretched their hands to the ground as if they lifted up the train and pretended to hold something in their hands. They did not like people to know that they could not see or feel anything.
The emperor marched in the procession under a beautiful canopy and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows exclaimed: “Indeed, the emperor’s new suit is amazing! What a long train he has! How well it fits him!” Nobody wanted to admit they saw nothing, for then it would mean they were too stupid. Never were the emperor’s clothes more admired.
At last a little boy piped up. “But he has nothing on at all! He’s completely nude!”
“Good heavens! I’m sorry about that,” said the embarrassed father. “He’s just a simple boy who doesn’t know any better.” But soon, the whole crowd was whispering what the child had said.
“He does have nothing on at all!” cried all the people, realising the truth. The emperor suddenly realised they were right, but he thought to himself, Now I must keep pretending until the end or I’ll look even more stupid.
So the emperor tried to walk with even greater dignity, while the crowd laughed and teased him all the way to the end. Afterwards he sent his soldiers to arrest the two swindlers, but they had fled the city with all the money and precious material.
Many, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain them. His only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers, and going to the theatre did not interest him. The only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to go out and show himself off with new clothes as often as possible. He had a coat for every hour of the day. As often as you would say of a normal king,' “He is busy ruling the kingdom,” you could say of him, “The emperor is in his dressing-room trying on new gear.”
The great city where he lived was a very busy place, every day many strangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day, two swindlers came to this city and pretended to everyone that they were weavers. They said that they could make the finest cloth anyone could imagine. Their colours and patterns, they said, were not only very beautiful, but were made of a special material invisible to any person who was stupid.
'That must be wonderful cloth,' thought the emperor. 'If I were to be dressed in a suit made of this cloth I would be able to find out which people in my kingdom are stupid and therefore should not be in their jobs. I must have this cloth made for me without delay.'
And he gave a large sum of money to those rascals, in advance, so that they should get to work immediately. They set up two looms and pretended to be very hard at work. They asked for the finest silk and the most precious gold-cloth. All the expensive material they got they hid away for themselves and worked at the empty looms till late at night.
'I’d love to know how they are getting on with the cloth,' thought the emperor. But he felt worried when he remembered that anyone who couldn’t see it was stupid. He thought that of course he would be able to see it, but decided to send someone else first to check it out, just in case. Everybody in the town knew how remarkable the clothes were and were dying to see how bad or stupid their neighbours were.
'I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers, thought the emperor. He can see how it looks, for he is very clever.
The good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the empty looms. 'Goodness gracious!' he thought and opened his eyes wide, I cannot see anything at all, but he did not say so. Both swindlers told him to come near and asked him if he did not admire the lovely pattern and the beautiful colours, pointing to the empty looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. 'Oh dear,' he thought, 'Can I be so stupid? I would never have thought so, and nobody must find out! Is it possible that I am too stupid to do my job? No, I cannot admit that I wasn’t able to see the cloth.'
“Have you got nothing to say?” said one of the swindlers, while he pretended to be busy weaving.
“Oh, it is very pretty, really beautiful,” replied the old minister looking through his glasses. “What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I will tell the emperor that I like the cloth very much.”
“We are pleased to hear that,” said the two weavers and described to him the colours and explained the curious pattern. The old minister listened carefully, so he would be able to tell the emperor what they said and so he did.
Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold-cloth, which they said they required for weaving. They kept everything for themselves and not a thread came near the loom, but they continued, as before, to pretend to work at the empty looms.
Soon afterwards the emperor sent another good man to the weavers to see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly finished. Like the old minister, he looked and looked but could see nothing, as there was nothing to be seen.
“Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?” asked the two rascals, showing and explaining the fantastic pattern, which, however, did not exist.
'I think I am not stupid,' thought the man. 'Maybe I am not clever enough for my job. I must not let any one know that and he praised the cloth, which he did not see and praised the beautiful colours and the fine pattern.'
“It is very excellent,” he said to the emperor.
Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At last the emperor wished to see it himself, while it was still on the loom. With a number of assistants, including the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever swindlers, who now worked as hard as they could, but without using any thread.
“Is it not magnificent?” said the two old men who had been there before. “Your Majesty must admire the colours and the pattern.” And then they pointed to the empty looms, for they expected that the others could see the cloth.
'What is this? thought the emperor, I do not see anything at all. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Too stupid to be an emperor? That would indeed be the most terrible thing that could happen to me.'
“Really,” he said, turning to the weavers, “your cloth is wonderful, really wonderful.” He nodded contentedly as he looked at the empty loom, because he didn’t want to say that he couldn’t see anything. All his attendants, who were with him, looked and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they said, like the emperor, “It is very beautiful.” And all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take place. “It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent,” they said. Everybody seemed to be delighted, and the emperor appointed the two swindlers “Imperial Court weavers.”
The whole night before the day on which the procession was to take place, these two rascals pretended to work, and burned more than sixteen candles. They wanted people to see that they were busy finishing the emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom, and worked about in the air with big scissors, and sewed with needles without thread. At last they said: “The emperor’s new clothes are ready now.”
The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall. The swindlers held their arms up as if they held something in their hands and said: “These are the trousers!” “This is the coat!” and “Here is the cloak!” and so on. “They are all as light as a cobweb, so light in fact, that it feels as if you have nothing on at all, but that is just the beauty of the clothes.”
“Indeed!” said all the assistants, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to be seen.
“Does it please your Majesty now to undress,” said the swindlers, “that we may help your Majesty in putting on the new suit in front of the mirror?”
The emperor undressed and the swindlers pretended to put the new suit on him, one piece after another. The emperor looked at himself in the glass from all sides.
“How well they look! How well they fit!” said all. “What a beautiful pattern! What fine colours! That is a magnificent suit of clothes!”
It was announced that it was time to start the procession.
“I am ready,” said the emperor. “Does not my suit fit me wonderfully?” Then he turned once more to the looking-glass, so that people would think he was admiring his clothes again.
Two boys were there to walk behind the emperor, to hold up the train of the emperor’s clothes, that is the material from his clothes that would otherwise trail behind on the ground. They stretched their hands to the ground as if they lifted up the train and pretended to hold something in their hands. They did not like people to know that they could not see or feel anything.
The emperor marched in the procession under a beautiful canopy and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows exclaimed: “Indeed, the emperor’s new suit is amazing! What a long train he has! How well it fits him!” Nobody wanted to admit they saw nothing, for then it would mean they were too stupid. Never were the emperor’s clothes more admired.
At last a little boy piped up. “But he has nothing on at all! He’s completely nude!”
“Good heavens! I’m sorry about that,” said the embarrassed father. “He’s just a simple boy who doesn’t know any better.” But soon, the whole crowd was whispering what the child had said.
“He does have nothing on at all!” cried all the people, realising the truth. The emperor suddenly realised they were right, but he thought to himself, Now I must keep pretending until the end or I’ll look even more stupid.
So the emperor tried to walk with even greater dignity, while the crowd laughed and teased him all the way to the end. Afterwards he sent his soldiers to arrest the two swindlers, but they had fled the city with all the money and precious material.
#damnedlists
This foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines.
The one which bears a title “Wedding”, “Mabugo”, “Baby Shower” contribution, or whatever else money is being collected for.
It can arrive anytime. Sometimes it comes when you least expect it. Other times you do.
One example of when you least expect the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, is when a colleague loses a loved one. Not on appointment of course.
In the other case - i.e. when you expect the appearance of the foolscap sheet of paper, is when a colleague tells you that another colleague is getting married, or kwanjulaing. So, it will definitely be at your desk in the next few days.
Anyway, there are times when that foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines does not make an appearance. Rare.
Sometimes you have money to give.
Sometimes you do not want to give.
Sometimes you want to give but you do not have the money to give. Reasons: Bad time of the month. Budget things. Debt at the corner kiosk.
And this can happen to anybody.
Usually, the Bringer brings the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines to your work desk.
Name.
Amount.
Signature.
It could be at a time when your head could is buried deep in paper, when you need to beat a deadline, or when your eyes are glued to the computer. They place the paper in the free space near the computer mouse.
You (looking up at them): Hi. Yes?
Bringer: Yes. Hi.
You (giving Bringer a quizzical look): Yes?
Bringer (wondering why you don’t want to look at the foolscap paper sheet with three columns): Embaga.
You: Oh! Whose? (You read the name at the top of the sheet)
Bringer: Mangaman is getting married.
You: Kozzi, when is it, this wedding? (Your head is doing quick calculations- tomatoes, bread, Visiting Day, weekly homework package, school trip.)
Bringer: 26th July. (They’re now handing you the pen, because they need to move on to the next person before she stands up to leave.)
You (doing a quick scan at the contributors’ list): Kozzi what date is it today? (You are now really trying to buy time and so you grab at your desk calendar and pretend to be looking at dates, quickly thumbing through pages).
Bringer (volunteering): The wedding is next Friday.
You (terrified of looking bad): Oh ok. Kozzi where is it?
(You try a weak joke) How come I haven’t got my card? (a weak laugh quickly follows)
Bringer (irritation needle rising fast): Mangaman pinned the card on the noticeboard. We’re all invited!
You (finally dawning on you that you cannot, will not be able to wriggle yourself out of this one): I don’t have any money on me right now. I need to first go to the bank. (But you know your account is dry)
Bringer: It’s okay. I can collect it later, just write the date on which you’ll have money ready. (Pen is thrust at you)
You: (Feeling utterly and properly trapped.) Ooookaaayyy. Hmmm…. (You write number 25. Then you make a show of pressing the ka slow dot after your number 25. You start writing your name but your eye is doing a swift inspection of the list. Contributor Number One has pledged 500K. Number 3 is giving 350K. Gosh, these are regular people you work with!)
Bringer: No, you should write Number 27. See, this is number 26 (they show you the person before you. 200k.)
You: (realizing that you’ve written your name all crooked) Okay, let me see, let me see, let me see um… Today’s the 16th. Ok. Ha, kale check on me on 20th.
Bringer: But 20th is Sunday. (sighing) Anyway, write down your contribution and then I’ll pick the money on Tuesday. I’ll just indicate on the list that your payment is pending.
You: (Imagining that ‘ugly “Pending” word while the others have appended “Paid” flowery signatures!) Look, just come back on Tuesday. (You do not want to face Bringer of the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, and with Mangaman's name scribbled at the top).
Bringer (resignedly): Okay.
They take their sheet and you thankfully breathe a sigh of temporary relief.
The contribution list.
Is real.
The one which bears a title “Wedding”, “Mabugo”, “Baby Shower” contribution, or whatever else money is being collected for.
It can arrive anytime. Sometimes it comes when you least expect it. Other times you do.
One example of when you least expect the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, is when a colleague loses a loved one. Not on appointment of course.
In the other case - i.e. when you expect the appearance of the foolscap sheet of paper, is when a colleague tells you that another colleague is getting married, or kwanjulaing. So, it will definitely be at your desk in the next few days.
Anyway, there are times when that foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines does not make an appearance. Rare.
Sometimes you have money to give.
Sometimes you do not want to give.
Sometimes you want to give but you do not have the money to give. Reasons: Bad time of the month. Budget things. Debt at the corner kiosk.
And this can happen to anybody.
Usually, the Bringer brings the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines to your work desk.
Name.
Amount.
Signature.
It could be at a time when your head could is buried deep in paper, when you need to beat a deadline, or when your eyes are glued to the computer. They place the paper in the free space near the computer mouse.
You (looking up at them): Hi. Yes?
Bringer: Yes. Hi.
You (giving Bringer a quizzical look): Yes?
Bringer (wondering why you don’t want to look at the foolscap paper sheet with three columns): Embaga.
You: Oh! Whose? (You read the name at the top of the sheet)
Bringer: Mangaman is getting married.
You: Kozzi, when is it, this wedding? (Your head is doing quick calculations- tomatoes, bread, Visiting Day, weekly homework package, school trip.)
Bringer: 26th July. (They’re now handing you the pen, because they need to move on to the next person before she stands up to leave.)
You (doing a quick scan at the contributors’ list): Kozzi what date is it today? (You are now really trying to buy time and so you grab at your desk calendar and pretend to be looking at dates, quickly thumbing through pages).
Bringer (volunteering): The wedding is next Friday.
You (terrified of looking bad): Oh ok. Kozzi where is it?
(You try a weak joke) How come I haven’t got my card? (a weak laugh quickly follows)
Bringer (irritation needle rising fast): Mangaman pinned the card on the noticeboard. We’re all invited!
You (finally dawning on you that you cannot, will not be able to wriggle yourself out of this one): I don’t have any money on me right now. I need to first go to the bank. (But you know your account is dry)
Bringer: It’s okay. I can collect it later, just write the date on which you’ll have money ready. (Pen is thrust at you)
You: (Feeling utterly and properly trapped.) Ooookaaayyy. Hmmm…. (You write number 25. Then you make a show of pressing the ka slow dot after your number 25. You start writing your name but your eye is doing a swift inspection of the list. Contributor Number One has pledged 500K. Number 3 is giving 350K. Gosh, these are regular people you work with!)
Bringer: No, you should write Number 27. See, this is number 26 (they show you the person before you. 200k.)
You: (realizing that you’ve written your name all crooked) Okay, let me see, let me see, let me see um… Today’s the 16th. Ok. Ha, kale check on me on 20th.
Bringer: But 20th is Sunday. (sighing) Anyway, write down your contribution and then I’ll pick the money on Tuesday. I’ll just indicate on the list that your payment is pending.
You: (Imagining that ‘ugly “Pending” word while the others have appended “Paid” flowery signatures!) Look, just come back on Tuesday. (You do not want to face Bringer of the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, and with Mangaman's name scribbled at the top).
Bringer (resignedly): Okay.
They take their sheet and you thankfully breathe a sigh of temporary relief.
The contribution list.
Is real.
Thursday 26 July 2018
#finderskeeperslosersweepers
That nursery rhyme we sang when we were in baby class went something
like:
“ I wrote a letter to my friend, and on the way I lost it. Somebody must have picked it up and put it in his pocket.”
And then you’d try to guess who the picker could be.
Only that today, it was nothing to do with a nursery rhyme but a crisp, folded 50,000 shillings’ note on the sidewalk at Constitution Square.
I was doing my morning walk to work lost in deep thought when I saw a young man crossing the road at high speed, kind of doing a sprint.
He’s stopped and bent down to pick something a few meters ahead of me. My eyes followed him. Who randomly picks a flyer on a walkway at 7:30am?
Then I saw that it was not a flyer. It was money. New money.
Our eyes met briefly as he rose and started walking briskly towards me. Kind of saying, “Sorry, I got to it first”, or, “Finders, keepers. Losers weepers! It’s mine now.”
And then I thought to myself, “If I’d gotten to that note first, would I have picked it up?"
"Would I have then gone looking for the owner?"
"Would I walk on by and pretend that I didn’t care?"
Or "Would I have done a double take and quickly drawn up a mental list of the groceries 50k could buy?"
Then my mind wandered again and sent me back to a time when I lived in the village, when a cousin came to visit with a friend. He had a plan to develop his land and they were to stay a few days.
Two days later the friend, a small wiry young man, came home in indescribable pain. His finger was swollen, that condition they call “entunuka” (My best friend Google tells me it’s called Paronychia- a bacterial or fungal infection, a nail disease).
Kati, he couldn’t eat or sleep from the throbbing pain.
He asked if he could lower his finger into the hole in our pit latrine because someone had advised it would offer instant relief and was the best treatment.
And that when he looked around, ours was the cleanest, the one where he could kneel for an hour.
Of course Mum dismissed the whole idea as ridiculous and advised him to go to a clinic and get an antibiotic.
“But this is not an infection!” he argued.
“Then what is it? Look, that pus needs to be removed, it needs to dry, because that is what is causing you untold pain!” Mum shot back.
The boy was being very difficult, holding his sick hand between his knees, his face the definition of misery.
“But nyabo. This is dogo, witchcraft! Help me!”
Now she wanted to laugh but she kept a straight face.
Then he came clean. “Okay, let me admit. I picked up some money that had been thrown in the masang’azira, the cross-roads. We had nothing to eat and the counts were a godsend. But someone told me that such money has bad luck attached to it, and now my finger is going! Just allow me to use your toilet.”
Oba byagweera wa?
But I know that he left the village that evening never to be seen again.
I’m sure that the next time he saw a coin lying on the ground, he either turned and went back, or kept his distance and crossed the road.
“ I wrote a letter to my friend, and on the way I lost it. Somebody must have picked it up and put it in his pocket.”
And then you’d try to guess who the picker could be.
Only that today, it was nothing to do with a nursery rhyme but a crisp, folded 50,000 shillings’ note on the sidewalk at Constitution Square.
I was doing my morning walk to work lost in deep thought when I saw a young man crossing the road at high speed, kind of doing a sprint.
He’s stopped and bent down to pick something a few meters ahead of me. My eyes followed him. Who randomly picks a flyer on a walkway at 7:30am?
Then I saw that it was not a flyer. It was money. New money.
Our eyes met briefly as he rose and started walking briskly towards me. Kind of saying, “Sorry, I got to it first”, or, “Finders, keepers. Losers weepers! It’s mine now.”
And then I thought to myself, “If I’d gotten to that note first, would I have picked it up?"
"Would I have then gone looking for the owner?"
"Would I walk on by and pretend that I didn’t care?"
Or "Would I have done a double take and quickly drawn up a mental list of the groceries 50k could buy?"
Then my mind wandered again and sent me back to a time when I lived in the village, when a cousin came to visit with a friend. He had a plan to develop his land and they were to stay a few days.
Two days later the friend, a small wiry young man, came home in indescribable pain. His finger was swollen, that condition they call “entunuka” (My best friend Google tells me it’s called Paronychia- a bacterial or fungal infection, a nail disease).
Kati, he couldn’t eat or sleep from the throbbing pain.
He asked if he could lower his finger into the hole in our pit latrine because someone had advised it would offer instant relief and was the best treatment.
And that when he looked around, ours was the cleanest, the one where he could kneel for an hour.
Of course Mum dismissed the whole idea as ridiculous and advised him to go to a clinic and get an antibiotic.
“But this is not an infection!” he argued.
“Then what is it? Look, that pus needs to be removed, it needs to dry, because that is what is causing you untold pain!” Mum shot back.
The boy was being very difficult, holding his sick hand between his knees, his face the definition of misery.
“But nyabo. This is dogo, witchcraft! Help me!”
Now she wanted to laugh but she kept a straight face.
Then he came clean. “Okay, let me admit. I picked up some money that had been thrown in the masang’azira, the cross-roads. We had nothing to eat and the counts were a godsend. But someone told me that such money has bad luck attached to it, and now my finger is going! Just allow me to use your toilet.”
Oba byagweera wa?
But I know that he left the village that evening never to be seen again.
I’m sure that the next time he saw a coin lying on the ground, he either turned and went back, or kept his distance and crossed the road.
#beyondthenumbers
You’re in the news room and reports filter in that there’s been an
accident. A bad accident. When did it happen? Where, give me a location?
And then the million dollar question - How many dead?
The bigger the number, the higher up it goes on your docket.
One person. Hmmm….
Bodaboda rider…. Hmmm... Was probably some careless unlicensed chap.
Taxi speeding along Iganga-Tirinyi highway and several injured … another long hmmmmmm……
Masaka road, hmm…. . They always happen.
Member of Parliament escapes narrowly but car is written off - Okay, place somewhere in the first segment.
President’s convoy- let's be careful with the details.
Four teenagers perish on happy ride to school. Okay, let’s get on to that. Hurry!!
And then the million dollar question - How many dead?
The bigger the number, the higher up it goes on your docket.
One person. Hmmm….
Bodaboda rider…. Hmmm... Was probably some careless unlicensed chap.
Taxi speeding along Iganga-Tirinyi highway and several injured … another long hmmmmmm……
Masaka road, hmm…. . They always happen.
Member of Parliament escapes narrowly but car is written off - Okay, place somewhere in the first segment.
President’s convoy- let's be careful with the details.
Four teenagers perish on happy ride to school. Okay, let’s get on to that. Hurry!!
And then one day it involves a bus, a tractor, a cargo truck loaded with beer.
Did you say three vehicles? Eyewitnesses take videos and share them on WhatsApp groups. Glass and blood are everywhere. The numbers are conflicting but speculation is that they’re in the range of 35. School children involved.
Now these are numberrrrrrs! Story number one.
Police posts a statement confirming the incident and giving assurance of round the clock investigations.
In the taxi everyone is talking about the accident.
Bad roads are blamed. At some point it is the Police.
Others complain about unqualified, tired, overworked drivers.
But somewhere, someone is receiving a phone call. It is 10:52pm. The number belongs to a relative. A close relative. But when she answers, the voice is foreign. The information they receive is numbing. Because the voice is saying this phone belongs to their relative. That there’s been an accident. A bad bad accident. That they have called the last number this person called. The receiver wonders why the caller is telling her this? They are now speaking in a hurry. Then she hears the dreaded word. Dead. Afudde. And she wonders, “Who? Ani afudde?”.
The caller says he is somewhere on the Gulu highway. Then the line goes dead.
And the newsroom gets back to the grind. Story number one. Because these, THESE ARE numbers.
Rest in peace David.
Did you say three vehicles? Eyewitnesses take videos and share them on WhatsApp groups. Glass and blood are everywhere. The numbers are conflicting but speculation is that they’re in the range of 35. School children involved.
Now these are numberrrrrrs! Story number one.
Police posts a statement confirming the incident and giving assurance of round the clock investigations.
In the taxi everyone is talking about the accident.
Bad roads are blamed. At some point it is the Police.
Others complain about unqualified, tired, overworked drivers.
But somewhere, someone is receiving a phone call. It is 10:52pm. The number belongs to a relative. A close relative. But when she answers, the voice is foreign. The information they receive is numbing. Because the voice is saying this phone belongs to their relative. That there’s been an accident. A bad bad accident. That they have called the last number this person called. The receiver wonders why the caller is telling her this? They are now speaking in a hurry. Then she hears the dreaded word. Dead. Afudde. And she wonders, “Who? Ani afudde?”.
The caller says he is somewhere on the Gulu highway. Then the line goes dead.
And the newsroom gets back to the grind. Story number one. Because these, THESE ARE numbers.
Rest in peace David.
#thedissinggame
I was the silent witness to a scenario between a buyer and seller in the washrooms at work.
Potential buyer tried on three pairs of trousers while the seller waited by the sinks.
After fitting into a pair, the buyer would come out of the toilet stall, dress hitched around the waist, asking the seller if she looked good in the pants. And the seller nodded her head all the time (don’t they?).
The buyer then settled on one pair, red.
Seller looked disappointed as she had hoped she could sell at least two pairs.
Buyer: Kozzi you said how much?
Seller: 25k.
Buyer: Each pair?? Nga last time you sold to me at 20k! Actually, I’m going to give you 15k.
Seller: That was then. I got these at a more expensive price.
Buyer: I have 15k today.
Seller: No, that is too low. Kale, give me 20k at least.
Buyer: No, that's what I have. (Then, handing back the garment) The pants did not even look good on me. The waist is too tight, and the material is rather worn.
Seller: (Looking really downcast as she folds the clothes to put back in her rucksack. Then pleading...) Just give me 20k. You see, I have even put in my transport.
Buyer: (now changing like the weather) Your clothes are not good. Take them away.
Seller: (resignedly) Kale, you give me the 15k.
Buyer: ('pretends' to hesitate) Good. Pack them in a kaveera for me.
And then she happily (and victoriously) handed over the 15k.
For pants. That she had been dissing. Not so long ago.
Potential buyer tried on three pairs of trousers while the seller waited by the sinks.
After fitting into a pair, the buyer would come out of the toilet stall, dress hitched around the waist, asking the seller if she looked good in the pants. And the seller nodded her head all the time (don’t they?).
The buyer then settled on one pair, red.
Seller looked disappointed as she had hoped she could sell at least two pairs.
Buyer: Kozzi you said how much?
Seller: 25k.
Buyer: Each pair?? Nga last time you sold to me at 20k! Actually, I’m going to give you 15k.
Seller: That was then. I got these at a more expensive price.
Buyer: I have 15k today.
Seller: No, that is too low. Kale, give me 20k at least.
Buyer: No, that's what I have. (Then, handing back the garment) The pants did not even look good on me. The waist is too tight, and the material is rather worn.
Seller: (Looking really downcast as she folds the clothes to put back in her rucksack. Then pleading...) Just give me 20k. You see, I have even put in my transport.
Buyer: (now changing like the weather) Your clothes are not good. Take them away.
Seller: (resignedly) Kale, you give me the 15k.
Buyer: ('pretends' to hesitate) Good. Pack them in a kaveera for me.
And then she happily (and victoriously) handed over the 15k.
For pants. That she had been dissing. Not so long ago.
#budgetday
Who remembers a time when we looked forward to the budget reading; a
time when the story of what would be taxed - beer, cigarettes, kerosene -
made front page news on the day, and people would go, “Ah!” and “Oh my
God!”?
At the important event, the Finance Minister's brown leather briefcase —— containing sheaves of foolscap paper filled with all sorts of figures, and big words like expenditure, absorption, disbursements, households, framework, and peppered with black and white graphs—— would be held up for all to see.
At the important event, the Finance Minister's brown leather briefcase —— containing sheaves of foolscap paper filled with all sorts of figures, and big words like expenditure, absorption, disbursements, households, framework, and peppered with black and white graphs—— would be held up for all to see.
Photo journalists jostled for the best angles, cameras
click-click-clicked away, the Minister flashed a wide smile and hold the
pose for a few minutes just to be sure they had enough choice to pick
from.
Then s/he would ascend the steps to the room where the long-awaited speech would be delivered.
And then the next day, it was a sure deal that all newspapers would paste the photograph of a beaming Minister of Finance and the notable briefcase to share space with the lead story and the headline.
And people crowded round the news vendors’ stands to read for themselves, and to ponder what the next year really held for them.
Today, we are privy to the proposals in Parliament, proposals served with threats of levies on this and that, because we are gossips, we are tax dodgers, we need to contribute to the construction of the roads we use!
The minister’s budget speech is public property even before he starts presenting it.
We know that the VIPs will stride into the Conference Center feeling very important, the army of TV journalists will interview them, they will sit in an air-conditioned room, pull out bottles of mineral water and PK chewing gum to keep them awake, and then sit and clap and nod their heads through hour-long speeches.
MPs will shift uncomfortably in their chairs wishing themselves in any other place.
For some, their eyelids will struggle against gravity, being weighed down with sleep.
Others will have planned beforehand to sit near their friends to make the session more bearable with conversation.
And even before the event is over, the newspaper editors will have already copied and pasted the speech and allocated it pages and pages to the next day’s edition.
Because you see, tomorrow nothing will be so new owing to this digital era where the televisions and radios will have shredded every detail, economic experts on talk-shows will have explained and expounded on the gains and losses, and woe betide any TV station that doesn’t have the Budget reading as top story.
And then there's the biggest competitor of them all, the new kid on the block --- social media!
Who looks forward to the budget reading?
Then s/he would ascend the steps to the room where the long-awaited speech would be delivered.
And then the next day, it was a sure deal that all newspapers would paste the photograph of a beaming Minister of Finance and the notable briefcase to share space with the lead story and the headline.
And people crowded round the news vendors’ stands to read for themselves, and to ponder what the next year really held for them.
Today, we are privy to the proposals in Parliament, proposals served with threats of levies on this and that, because we are gossips, we are tax dodgers, we need to contribute to the construction of the roads we use!
The minister’s budget speech is public property even before he starts presenting it.
We know that the VIPs will stride into the Conference Center feeling very important, the army of TV journalists will interview them, they will sit in an air-conditioned room, pull out bottles of mineral water and PK chewing gum to keep them awake, and then sit and clap and nod their heads through hour-long speeches.
MPs will shift uncomfortably in their chairs wishing themselves in any other place.
For some, their eyelids will struggle against gravity, being weighed down with sleep.
Others will have planned beforehand to sit near their friends to make the session more bearable with conversation.
And even before the event is over, the newspaper editors will have already copied and pasted the speech and allocated it pages and pages to the next day’s edition.
Because you see, tomorrow nothing will be so new owing to this digital era where the televisions and radios will have shredded every detail, economic experts on talk-shows will have explained and expounded on the gains and losses, and woe betide any TV station that doesn’t have the Budget reading as top story.
And then there's the biggest competitor of them all, the new kid on the block --- social media!
Who looks forward to the budget reading?
#overdebar
As the guys watch France torture Argentina, I'm watching them (the guys) too.
The France supporters:
They sit easy, concentrate, occasionally chat and throw jibes at each other with one eye on the screen. This is the normal state of affairs for most of the game.
When the goals begin to happen, they stand up, their eyes open wide, and when the ball shakes the back of the net, they yell and punch the air. Then they settle back and discuss that goal. When Argentina's tatooed Di Maria strikes the back of the net, they are still easy.
Half time happens, no sweat. C'mon there's still a second half. "Ole! Ole! Le Bleus all the way!"
Second half and Argentine Mercado leads the way. Hmmm...
Then things take a sudden twist - three swift goals from Pavard and Mbappe. Mbappe shoots another. This is promising, very promising, and France supporters go into a frenzy jumping up and hugging each other. And when they sit down again, they let their arms carelessly swing over the chair arm-rest as they analyse this sweetness.
One supporter has ascended into speaking in tongues but it sounds like, "Katonda wa'wa?! Yala yala!" Another person suggests a headline for tomorrow- "Messi Messed", and they all laugh.
Camaraderie all around.
Aguerro scores in the 90th minute but there's no cause for abnormal heartbeats.
The Argentina supporters:
At the beginning of the match, they are talking animatedly, having friendly arguments, patting each other on the back, and reeling off the names of the players like multiplication tables. As the minutes tick by and France takes the penalty, they lean forward and grip the edges of the chair. When the first goal happens, they do not join in the celebration. Instead their hands go up to their heads in evident worry. Anxiety. Then the second goal of the match - Di-Mario's - happens and their faces light up. Hope still holds...
With Mercado things are looking up and they are thinking, "Wow! We're sure as hell taking this!"
Then--- in an instant, the sky begins to darken. France must have put something into their half-time drinks! Parvard, Mbappe. Then this boy Mbappe again! Some Argentina supporters cannot take this and abandon their seats to the back of the room.
Things are looking really ugly. The ones who stay are smiling but not really smiling. How can it be 4-2? This is PRESSURE!
Aguerro shows up in the dying minutes, in attempt to restore hope. Now all they're looking for is an equaliser.
The Sports Betters:
These, by far, are the most interesting to observe. At the looks on their faces and their body language.
Of course they have placed money on Argentina, whether they support the Albicelestes or not. They betted on Messi saving their day. They could have staked their rent money for all we know.
When the first France goal happens, a light sweat greases their brow. But they still hang on. All is not lost.
They keep checking their phones, switching on and off. And when Di Maria strikes the perfect goal, still they do not shout, but the uncomfortable shifting in their seats cannot be missed.
When the break happens a few minutes later, they do not hang around the other supporters. Instead, they find something else to do - like going to the toilet. Because it is better than listening to people bleating sh** about 20 people chasing a ball round and round a green field.
Even when the second half starts, they are nowhere to be seen.
About ten minutes later, they slink back in and settle down quietly. Mbappe does a first, and then a second strike. One says in a quiet frustrated voice to an Argentine player, "You kick properly! Ah!"
It's easy to see the betters' breathing has gone ragged, their faces strained, as they occasionally whisper to each other.
Suddenly there's a crazy final attempt from Aguerro. Someone leaps from his chair, knocking it over in his stress.
Ohshshshsh!!!! The ball goes "ova de bar"!
It's money down the drain!
The France supporters:
They sit easy, concentrate, occasionally chat and throw jibes at each other with one eye on the screen. This is the normal state of affairs for most of the game.
When the goals begin to happen, they stand up, their eyes open wide, and when the ball shakes the back of the net, they yell and punch the air. Then they settle back and discuss that goal. When Argentina's tatooed Di Maria strikes the back of the net, they are still easy.
Half time happens, no sweat. C'mon there's still a second half. "Ole! Ole! Le Bleus all the way!"
Second half and Argentine Mercado leads the way. Hmmm...
Then things take a sudden twist - three swift goals from Pavard and Mbappe. Mbappe shoots another. This is promising, very promising, and France supporters go into a frenzy jumping up and hugging each other. And when they sit down again, they let their arms carelessly swing over the chair arm-rest as they analyse this sweetness.
One supporter has ascended into speaking in tongues but it sounds like, "Katonda wa'wa?! Yala yala!" Another person suggests a headline for tomorrow- "Messi Messed", and they all laugh.
Camaraderie all around.
Aguerro scores in the 90th minute but there's no cause for abnormal heartbeats.
The Argentina supporters:
At the beginning of the match, they are talking animatedly, having friendly arguments, patting each other on the back, and reeling off the names of the players like multiplication tables. As the minutes tick by and France takes the penalty, they lean forward and grip the edges of the chair. When the first goal happens, they do not join in the celebration. Instead their hands go up to their heads in evident worry. Anxiety. Then the second goal of the match - Di-Mario's - happens and their faces light up. Hope still holds...
With Mercado things are looking up and they are thinking, "Wow! We're sure as hell taking this!"
Then--- in an instant, the sky begins to darken. France must have put something into their half-time drinks! Parvard, Mbappe. Then this boy Mbappe again! Some Argentina supporters cannot take this and abandon their seats to the back of the room.
Things are looking really ugly. The ones who stay are smiling but not really smiling. How can it be 4-2? This is PRESSURE!
Aguerro shows up in the dying minutes, in attempt to restore hope. Now all they're looking for is an equaliser.
The Sports Betters:
These, by far, are the most interesting to observe. At the looks on their faces and their body language.
Of course they have placed money on Argentina, whether they support the Albicelestes or not. They betted on Messi saving their day. They could have staked their rent money for all we know.
When the first France goal happens, a light sweat greases their brow. But they still hang on. All is not lost.
They keep checking their phones, switching on and off. And when Di Maria strikes the perfect goal, still they do not shout, but the uncomfortable shifting in their seats cannot be missed.
When the break happens a few minutes later, they do not hang around the other supporters. Instead, they find something else to do - like going to the toilet. Because it is better than listening to people bleating sh** about 20 people chasing a ball round and round a green field.
Even when the second half starts, they are nowhere to be seen.
About ten minutes later, they slink back in and settle down quietly. Mbappe does a first, and then a second strike. One says in a quiet frustrated voice to an Argentine player, "You kick properly! Ah!"
It's easy to see the betters' breathing has gone ragged, their faces strained, as they occasionally whisper to each other.
Suddenly there's a crazy final attempt from Aguerro. Someone leaps from his chair, knocking it over in his stress.
Ohshshshsh!!!! The ball goes "ova de bar"!
It's money down the drain!
Tuesday 22 May 2018
#pilingonthepounds
My sister was kind: You’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.
My boss was blunt: You’ve really put on weight, ah!
The driver could not hide his shock: Eh! Ogezze!
A long-lost friend seemed happy: Oh, finally you really have put on some weight.
And the bodaboda man, he was B-R-U-T-A-L: Nga ogezze nnyo naawe! Mbadde sikutegedde! Too fat, he nearly didn’t recognize me.
My boss was blunt: You’ve really put on weight, ah!
The driver could not hide his shock: Eh! Ogezze!
A long-lost friend seemed happy: Oh, finally you really have put on some weight.
And the bodaboda man, he was B-R-U-T-A-L: Nga ogezze nnyo naawe! Mbadde sikutegedde! Too fat, he nearly didn’t recognize me.
And I smiled in the dark because I returned to the time when I was so
sick and so thin for years, and when I finally recovered from my
illness, my waist was thinner than a slay queen’s.
Of course, a thick girth is quite uncomfortable, and costly to the pocket because you have to purchase new outfits, and then you have to go to the gym, and start a special diet of weeds, leaves, and fruit beaten into a nourishing detoxifying juice - which means you have to get a juicing machine.
Other people say my size is “okay” and I should “stay as you are”.
And I thought curvy was in. By the way, aren't there plus-size models laughing all the way to the bank?
There are many reasons the weight piles on as you grow older. My health freak little sister assured me, and I believe her, that eating habits are far from it. Sedentary lifestyles, increase in stress, less sleep, change in hormones- are to blame and believe you me, the fourth floor’s store is fully stocked.
And then there’s the universal law of gravitation, Newton’s law- when everything begins to go South and you don’t feel young and spritely anymore. And your knees creak when you bend them.
Something I’m reading now says, “Our natural muscle mass naturally begins to decline around age 30, and that process, called sarcopenia, accelerates around age 40. Metabolism slows down and the lost muscle is replaced by fat.
My emotionally abusive ex, even in those days when the slay queens had nothing on me, called me “fat”, and it was evident that he relished the way the word rolled out of his mouth. By the way, he couldn’t tie his shoelaces.
When I first went to the US, I saw ten-year olds lugging around excessive folds and rolls on their bodies and looking like 15-year olds.
I’m not there yet. I could be soon. But I will not allow myself to get there, and I will not allow myself any light-headedness over people’s opinions.
Get that sports footwear out Sister, crunch that tummy, stretch those legs, tighten those abs. Stay fit.
PS: I'm not really much of a photo person.
Of course, a thick girth is quite uncomfortable, and costly to the pocket because you have to purchase new outfits, and then you have to go to the gym, and start a special diet of weeds, leaves, and fruit beaten into a nourishing detoxifying juice - which means you have to get a juicing machine.
Other people say my size is “okay” and I should “stay as you are”.
And I thought curvy was in. By the way, aren't there plus-size models laughing all the way to the bank?
There are many reasons the weight piles on as you grow older. My health freak little sister assured me, and I believe her, that eating habits are far from it. Sedentary lifestyles, increase in stress, less sleep, change in hormones- are to blame and believe you me, the fourth floor’s store is fully stocked.
And then there’s the universal law of gravitation, Newton’s law- when everything begins to go South and you don’t feel young and spritely anymore. And your knees creak when you bend them.
Something I’m reading now says, “Our natural muscle mass naturally begins to decline around age 30, and that process, called sarcopenia, accelerates around age 40. Metabolism slows down and the lost muscle is replaced by fat.
My emotionally abusive ex, even in those days when the slay queens had nothing on me, called me “fat”, and it was evident that he relished the way the word rolled out of his mouth. By the way, he couldn’t tie his shoelaces.
When I first went to the US, I saw ten-year olds lugging around excessive folds and rolls on their bodies and looking like 15-year olds.
I’m not there yet. I could be soon. But I will not allow myself to get there, and I will not allow myself any light-headedness over people’s opinions.
Get that sports footwear out Sister, crunch that tummy, stretch those legs, tighten those abs. Stay fit.
PS: I'm not really much of a photo person.
#poormoggy
A mangled mess of light brown fur, brains and bones. Unrecognizable. A
closer look reveals it is a pussycat. It’s bloody body lies in the same
place on the wet tarmac on the highway where a hit and run driver ran
into, and then over it last night. They probably didn’t even feel it,
and forgot all about the accident a few minutes later.
It’s morning now. Motorists whiz by, carefully navigating around the dead animal and the pothole close by.
It’s morning now. Motorists whiz by, carefully navigating around the dead animal and the pothole close by.
Was it a stray?
Someone’s pet?
So where is its owner now?
Do they know that their cat is no more?
Will they come red-eyed and wailing loudly in grief?
Will they take its body home and hold a wake?
This cat could have been a mother, or a father.
A brother, a sister, an aunt perhaps?
Will a Good Samaritan call the police’s emergency line?
And when the police respond, will they immediately jump into action?
And when arrive, will it be with flashing lights and a body bag?
Where will they take it?
Will there be a post-mortem report and appeals for whoever killed the poor moggy to come forth? Will they do a facial composite, or ask if anyone identified the hit-and-run car’s registration plates?
What about KCCA?
Do they pick animal carcasses and bury them in designated prohibited areas?
Or is that the responsibility of the district authorities?
How about the locals?
Will they wait for maggots to invade the remains, and for the smell of the carcass to become unbearable, and then decide that someone has to do the undesirable task of digging a hole and shovelling it into the earth?
Will there be a headstone saying, “Here lies “Name of Pussycat”, Born (….), Died (…..)?
Will there be an obituary in the papers?
What about on social media?
Will people post and say when and where they last saw the cat?
Will someone narrate how they cuddled the cat as a kitten in 2015?
Will they tell us what its last meal was?
Will the commenters "Like" the post and pray that its soul rests in peace?
Do we care?
Someone’s pet?
So where is its owner now?
Do they know that their cat is no more?
Will they come red-eyed and wailing loudly in grief?
Will they take its body home and hold a wake?
This cat could have been a mother, or a father.
A brother, a sister, an aunt perhaps?
Will a Good Samaritan call the police’s emergency line?
And when the police respond, will they immediately jump into action?
And when arrive, will it be with flashing lights and a body bag?
Where will they take it?
Will there be a post-mortem report and appeals for whoever killed the poor moggy to come forth? Will they do a facial composite, or ask if anyone identified the hit-and-run car’s registration plates?
What about KCCA?
Do they pick animal carcasses and bury them in designated prohibited areas?
Or is that the responsibility of the district authorities?
How about the locals?
Will they wait for maggots to invade the remains, and for the smell of the carcass to become unbearable, and then decide that someone has to do the undesirable task of digging a hole and shovelling it into the earth?
Will there be a headstone saying, “Here lies “Name of Pussycat”, Born (….), Died (…..)?
Will there be an obituary in the papers?
What about on social media?
Will people post and say when and where they last saw the cat?
Will someone narrate how they cuddled the cat as a kitten in 2015?
Will they tell us what its last meal was?
Will the commenters "Like" the post and pray that its soul rests in peace?
Do we care?
Thursday 10 May 2018
#knowsomeonewhoknowssomeone
At the turn of the century, I finished school and hit the streets of
Kampala in search of a job. My hunt led me to the Bank of Uganda office
of my Uncle, my mother’s brother- her "nfirabulago".
Of course I had not informed him of my visit (the mobile phone was not that accessible to some of us) and the uniformed receptionists at the front desk gave me a bloody time.
Anyway, my simple request to him was that I needed a job. I didn’t tell him directly that I needed him to press some buttons, turn on some switches and smoothen the ride to my first paycheck. I assumed he automatically understood what I meant. That he could effortlessly dial the numbers on his desk phone, “talk” to some of his friends, and voila! I’d be swinging in the chair behind my own desk the next day.
He’s a deep thinker that one, and he took his time before he replied.
“Have you looked anywhere yet?”
“Um, I have applied to Dembe FM and Radio One. But I also want to do public relations.” (He was in public relations)
“What job are you looking for?”
“I want to be on air, or I want to be a public relations person.”
He took his time before he asked, “What do public relations people do?”
I reeled off what the lecturer had taught us, something to do with maintaining a favorable public image by a company. I knew he was bought.
Silence.
Then, “Oh, ok.”
Then more silence.
After what seemed like eternity with me sitting there looking cluelessly at his face, he picked up the phone and asked the Secretary to come in (They still had those things of shorthand).
He handed her some files and asked her to have them delivered to some Director’s office. So had he just heard what I was asking him to do for me??
Then he turned to me and said, “Kale, I have listened to what you’ve said. Now, you go and continue looking, and then you come back next week and give me a report on the progress.”
Let me tell you right now — I never did go back. I felt he had done me a disservice, that he was not on my side, and that a trip back to his office was useless.
You see, my Uncle is incorruptible. He was the old model of worker. The one who believes you have to work hard for something and be able to enjoy it. The “nothing is gonna be handed you on a silver spoon” sort. The kind who didn’t believe in the lies we had been taught to believe. The lies of “I know someone who knows someone” and therefore everything comes easy.
I remember one night when land thugs attacked my parents in their house. There had been many threats and on this particular occasion, they had first prowled outside the house the night before and come back to attack the next night.
In desperation, I called the then Police spokesperson Judith, and explained my predicament. She was my “friend”. After all I had known her when she still used to wear plainclothes in that little office in Kibuli.
But now she was someone, she had influence, she had clout, she could pull a few strings and rein in the goons.
Probably not wanting to get her fingers burnt, she informed me that there was "little she could do, and that I should contact the nearest area police station” (who had even once arrested my Dad when he went to report a case!!).
And so we decided to take the fight into our own hands. If it meant spending the night outside we would. If it meant waiting for them to come and kill us, then so be it. After all, no-one is immortal.
About a year ago when I was on the verge of pulling my hair out over the expense of cancer drugs which were 'unavailable' at the institute's pharmacy, I narrated my experience to friend.
She said not to worry and gave me a phone number of some Big Suit in Mulago hospital.
"Call that and explain. You will have the drugs in a minute. And in bulk as well!"
Did I call the number?
Fast forward to a good old government worker who is engaged in a dispute over an acre of land on the outskirts of the city, property he says he has owned for the last 23 years. The man with whom he is fighting for ownership had decided that enough was enough and he would take back what belonged to Caesar. Jim arrived to find court bailiffs in the midst of an eviction (his), trees were being chopped, houses had been brought down, plants had been pulled to the ground. He whipped out his phone and dialed the number of the Inspector General of Police. No answer. Another DPC said an order was out for repossession and there was little he could do. I think Jim was used to the good old days- when, away from wielding some power, it was a matter of knowing a particular somebody and the wheels would roll soundlessly. Knowing someone was clearly not working for him and he eventually ended up in court.
In many instances we have witnessed people stopped by traffic police for having worn out tyres, whipping out their phone to call a munene in some office to intervene.
Do you need a new express passport? Don’t fret, I know someone who can get it for you by the close of business today.
You want a place in a “good” school? Oh, the headmistress is the wife of my brother’s friend.
What about coverage of that PR story? Don’t you worry about it, just call the Sales Manager, you’ll get all the media and more.
Ati shortage of sugar? Easy peasy, the uncle of the manager of the sugar factory owes me a favor.
Your niece needs an internship, don’t worry, I am the executive director of the business (it doesn’t matter that she is not interested).
Is it a fake land title you need? Eh, that one is easy. My sister- in- law is the typist.
Kakati, omuntu wa wansi, the one who doesn’t have a voice, the one who doesn’t know someone who knows someone, akikola atya?
How do we survive?
Ani gw'omanyi gwe?
Of course I had not informed him of my visit (the mobile phone was not that accessible to some of us) and the uniformed receptionists at the front desk gave me a bloody time.
Anyway, my simple request to him was that I needed a job. I didn’t tell him directly that I needed him to press some buttons, turn on some switches and smoothen the ride to my first paycheck. I assumed he automatically understood what I meant. That he could effortlessly dial the numbers on his desk phone, “talk” to some of his friends, and voila! I’d be swinging in the chair behind my own desk the next day.
He’s a deep thinker that one, and he took his time before he replied.
“Have you looked anywhere yet?”
“Um, I have applied to Dembe FM and Radio One. But I also want to do public relations.” (He was in public relations)
“What job are you looking for?”
“I want to be on air, or I want to be a public relations person.”
He took his time before he asked, “What do public relations people do?”
I reeled off what the lecturer had taught us, something to do with maintaining a favorable public image by a company. I knew he was bought.
Silence.
Then, “Oh, ok.”
Then more silence.
After what seemed like eternity with me sitting there looking cluelessly at his face, he picked up the phone and asked the Secretary to come in (They still had those things of shorthand).
He handed her some files and asked her to have them delivered to some Director’s office. So had he just heard what I was asking him to do for me??
Then he turned to me and said, “Kale, I have listened to what you’ve said. Now, you go and continue looking, and then you come back next week and give me a report on the progress.”
Let me tell you right now — I never did go back. I felt he had done me a disservice, that he was not on my side, and that a trip back to his office was useless.
You see, my Uncle is incorruptible. He was the old model of worker. The one who believes you have to work hard for something and be able to enjoy it. The “nothing is gonna be handed you on a silver spoon” sort. The kind who didn’t believe in the lies we had been taught to believe. The lies of “I know someone who knows someone” and therefore everything comes easy.
I remember one night when land thugs attacked my parents in their house. There had been many threats and on this particular occasion, they had first prowled outside the house the night before and come back to attack the next night.
In desperation, I called the then Police spokesperson Judith, and explained my predicament. She was my “friend”. After all I had known her when she still used to wear plainclothes in that little office in Kibuli.
But now she was someone, she had influence, she had clout, she could pull a few strings and rein in the goons.
Probably not wanting to get her fingers burnt, she informed me that there was "little she could do, and that I should contact the nearest area police station” (who had even once arrested my Dad when he went to report a case!!).
And so we decided to take the fight into our own hands. If it meant spending the night outside we would. If it meant waiting for them to come and kill us, then so be it. After all, no-one is immortal.
About a year ago when I was on the verge of pulling my hair out over the expense of cancer drugs which were 'unavailable' at the institute's pharmacy, I narrated my experience to friend.
She said not to worry and gave me a phone number of some Big Suit in Mulago hospital.
"Call that and explain. You will have the drugs in a minute. And in bulk as well!"
Did I call the number?
Fast forward to a good old government worker who is engaged in a dispute over an acre of land on the outskirts of the city, property he says he has owned for the last 23 years. The man with whom he is fighting for ownership had decided that enough was enough and he would take back what belonged to Caesar. Jim arrived to find court bailiffs in the midst of an eviction (his), trees were being chopped, houses had been brought down, plants had been pulled to the ground. He whipped out his phone and dialed the number of the Inspector General of Police. No answer. Another DPC said an order was out for repossession and there was little he could do. I think Jim was used to the good old days- when, away from wielding some power, it was a matter of knowing a particular somebody and the wheels would roll soundlessly. Knowing someone was clearly not working for him and he eventually ended up in court.
In many instances we have witnessed people stopped by traffic police for having worn out tyres, whipping out their phone to call a munene in some office to intervene.
Do you need a new express passport? Don’t fret, I know someone who can get it for you by the close of business today.
You want a place in a “good” school? Oh, the headmistress is the wife of my brother’s friend.
What about coverage of that PR story? Don’t you worry about it, just call the Sales Manager, you’ll get all the media and more.
Ati shortage of sugar? Easy peasy, the uncle of the manager of the sugar factory owes me a favor.
Your niece needs an internship, don’t worry, I am the executive director of the business (it doesn’t matter that she is not interested).
Is it a fake land title you need? Eh, that one is easy. My sister- in- law is the typist.
Kakati, omuntu wa wansi, the one who doesn’t have a voice, the one who doesn’t know someone who knows someone, akikola atya?
How do we survive?
Ani gw'omanyi gwe?
Tuesday 17 April 2018
#friedeggs
You are posted in Jinja but have traveled to the city on an errand.
And because that errand takes so long to execute- things of "wait a bit, come back at 5pm", you end up picking whatever you have to at 7pm.
It is too late to travel back to Jinja, and besides that, it is raining.
And so you opt to go to a friend’s place- that place where you always stay when you come into town. That kind of friend who does not mind if you walked in at midnight. She’s your “tight”.
You arrive at a few minutes to 8pm. There are three pairs of footwear at the door. Nurse pumps, orange rubber slippers and a man’s black shoes.
Knock! Knock!
She comes to the door. You hug and exchange niceties as she leads you into the warm sitting room.
The first thing you notice is the man reclining comfortably in the sofa, a two-seater, with his stockinged feet resting on the chair right opposite. Shirt is open at the top button, sleeves folded, tie off. His voice carries over the bulango on the radio which is blaring loudly in the corner of the room. On a side-table sits a plate with fried egg, the deep yellow maggi maganda type. And close by is a mug of steaming milky tea.
Your eyes meet. He looks stunned. Like someone caught with his hand in the till. His sentence stops midway. His gaping mouth is like the entrance of a cave and you can see some of the yellow egg that he is chewing.
You don’t know whether to greet him because this scenario doesn’t look right. For one, its just the two of them in this house on this rainy evening; two, he seems extra comfy in her company; three, for as long as you’ve known her- you went to school together, she has never mentioned this man. And four— you are certain that he is someone else’s husband. Someone you know very well because you were at their wedding.
Before you can open your mouth or let your handbag drop to the floor, he suddenly excuses himself, “Ka nkomewo katono!”, and practically flees into the confines of the one bedroom of the house, that one bedroom which has one bed and one mattress which you and your friend share on the days when you spend the night.
Now that Mr. is here, you start wondering where you will spend the night. Should you leave and run through the rain again for the late night (unsafe) taxi?
#newbabymama
She descended the stairs painfully, basin and bag on her head, baby on her bosom.
I asked if I could help.
She said "yes" and handed me the heavy baggage.
She told me she was leaving the hospital after being admitted for a week. That she had been discharged earlier in the day.
She wanted directions to the stage where she board a taxi to Gayaza.
She had called her husband about six hours earlier (it was now 5pm) and she was tired of waiting.
I told her she would not make it to the stage in her condition. Freshly C-sectioned, lugging a heavy bag and basin, and her baby.
Could we call her husband perhaps.
No, because her phone had blacked out.
"You can use mine," I offered.
So she did. And smiled as she talked to him. He said he was a few minutes away.
I offered to wait with her.
Her baby boy was swaddled loosely in a cheap blue blanket. It did not look like a baby. She had covered its face completely.
I told her to allow him to breathe. Cover his head, yes, but allow him to breathe.
So we sat at the benches on Floor 2 and waited.
Mulago hospital. The place where, when all else fails, you are referred. No medicine, rude nurses, rotten rusty beds. New mothers lying in the chilly corridors, minutes after a cruel experience in the delivery room. Bloodied, swollen faces look up to you in the Casualty ward. Boda boda accidents mostly. Broken and twisted limbs. Police patrol cars racing in and out of the gates. The lift also badly needs treatment. It is so old and creaky. The floor paneling is worn out, and the wood is showing. You almost have the feeling that you will fall right through.
After about 20 minutes on the hard benches, I dial her husband's number again. He tells me, his voice sounding very out breath, that he had left the hospital because he had searched in vain for her. But he would be ten minutes.
She is staring into space.
After about 10-15 minutes, I call him again. "I'm just round the corner, I'll be with you any time now."
I stand up, ready to see who he is. Actually, I have made up my mind that he must be pretty irresponsible.
Five minutes turn into 10, then 20.
I'm frustrated, but keep my cool. I tell her that I will help her get home. It's very windy and not good for the baby.
She gets up, baby in hand. I grab the bag and basin and we started walking. That's when she tells me how much of a bum her husband is.
I am beginning to doubt this word "husband" which women these days just love throwing around. He is your "hubby" because you are shacking up with him. Girl, he ain't nobody hubban!!
"I tell you madam, I have really suffered in this hospital," she starts. "I came here on Tuesday, was operated upon and my baby was taken to emergency because he was breathing badly. I couldn't even walk to check on him because I was so weak and in pain. I have not been eating, because he left me no money, and yet he told the nurses on the first day, that he had left me enough and would check on me. He has never come."
I notice she is kind of limping. The strap of her plastic sandals is cut. "I asked him to bring me a pair of shoes but he refused, saying I don't need them. I tell you madam, I have really had it. But I just wish I could get home, then everything will be okay."
My heart went out to her. She didn't look a day over 22, and here she is telling stories like she has lived to be over 50.
We get to the bodaboda guy. I give him a lecture about her delicate situation, and that he should transport her and the baby safely. I pay him 2,000 shillings, give her another 5,000, and wave her good bye.
I asked if I could help.
She said "yes" and handed me the heavy baggage.
She told me she was leaving the hospital after being admitted for a week. That she had been discharged earlier in the day.
She wanted directions to the stage where she board a taxi to Gayaza.
She had called her husband about six hours earlier (it was now 5pm) and she was tired of waiting.
I told her she would not make it to the stage in her condition. Freshly C-sectioned, lugging a heavy bag and basin, and her baby.
Could we call her husband perhaps.
No, because her phone had blacked out.
"You can use mine," I offered.
So she did. And smiled as she talked to him. He said he was a few minutes away.
I offered to wait with her.
Her baby boy was swaddled loosely in a cheap blue blanket. It did not look like a baby. She had covered its face completely.
I told her to allow him to breathe. Cover his head, yes, but allow him to breathe.
So we sat at the benches on Floor 2 and waited.
Mulago hospital. The place where, when all else fails, you are referred. No medicine, rude nurses, rotten rusty beds. New mothers lying in the chilly corridors, minutes after a cruel experience in the delivery room. Bloodied, swollen faces look up to you in the Casualty ward. Boda boda accidents mostly. Broken and twisted limbs. Police patrol cars racing in and out of the gates. The lift also badly needs treatment. It is so old and creaky. The floor paneling is worn out, and the wood is showing. You almost have the feeling that you will fall right through.
After about 20 minutes on the hard benches, I dial her husband's number again. He tells me, his voice sounding very out breath, that he had left the hospital because he had searched in vain for her. But he would be ten minutes.
She is staring into space.
After about 10-15 minutes, I call him again. "I'm just round the corner, I'll be with you any time now."
I stand up, ready to see who he is. Actually, I have made up my mind that he must be pretty irresponsible.
Five minutes turn into 10, then 20.
I'm frustrated, but keep my cool. I tell her that I will help her get home. It's very windy and not good for the baby.
She gets up, baby in hand. I grab the bag and basin and we started walking. That's when she tells me how much of a bum her husband is.
I am beginning to doubt this word "husband" which women these days just love throwing around. He is your "hubby" because you are shacking up with him. Girl, he ain't nobody hubban!!
"I tell you madam, I have really suffered in this hospital," she starts. "I came here on Tuesday, was operated upon and my baby was taken to emergency because he was breathing badly. I couldn't even walk to check on him because I was so weak and in pain. I have not been eating, because he left me no money, and yet he told the nurses on the first day, that he had left me enough and would check on me. He has never come."
I notice she is kind of limping. The strap of her plastic sandals is cut. "I asked him to bring me a pair of shoes but he refused, saying I don't need them. I tell you madam, I have really had it. But I just wish I could get home, then everything will be okay."
My heart went out to her. She didn't look a day over 22, and here she is telling stories like she has lived to be over 50.
We get to the bodaboda guy. I give him a lecture about her delicate situation, and that he should transport her and the baby safely. I pay him 2,000 shillings, give her another 5,000, and wave her good bye.
#massagemyscalp
I fix my head in the wet station but then decide to take a double peek at this metro-sexual being. Long face, long body. I really need to see the looks. Then she starts cleaning the face mask off and my hair guy is ready.
The water is warm, he rub-rubs through my hair which is quite dirty. I know the drill. Two washes, lots of scrubbing. Pat dry. Walk back to barber's seat. Comb with metal teeth. Hairdryer. His eyes are more on the TV watching National Geographic or whatever. Today it is something with animals and everybody is giving their animated opinions. Hair clipper. Clip. Clip. I don't want you to chop off so much. Like you did last time. I was not pleased.
Then the metro-face-scrub victim gets up. Bannange! Quick guess puts his age in the 50s. And his skin has started folding. Like- it is at the edge of the wrinkle-stage. Receding hairline. Dyed black. When he is settled comfortably, she starts with the neck massage. His eyes are closed in enjoyment that he does not notice the many eyes staring at him. He leans forward as she rubs more. Then she starts twisting his neck this way and that way.
I can't stare much. But I wonder how much he is paying to have this done. The small pleasure of the day. I don't even see him walking out. The only way I know he is done is when the lady who has been working on him, sits takes the chair next to mine and starts retouching her make-up.
Thursday 22 March 2018
#jerksofalltrades
It was only when I got home that I realised that three of the tomatoes she had given me were old and squashed. Darn her, I muttered under my breath.
But how many times have you wished that the "fleas from a thousand camels infest (insert subject) until their dying day"? I cannot count how many curses I have issued in spite of saying to myself that it is just money that I have lost. But the fact that some people wake up in the morning and plan how to be dishonest rankles. So I came up with a list of 10 "professions" where it is the norm to be devious, and if you are not, then you should be looking for another job. And, I am not saying that all the ones I have encountered are unpatriotic but... remember, that one bad apple spoils the rest. In no particular order... drum-roll..........!!!!
1. Mechanic
If you do not find him crazily weaving your car through the Wandegeya traffic, then expect to find the oil filter of your Rav4 replaced with a broken one. Maybe they have even siphoned your fuel. In their greasy overalls. A workmate's motorcycle broke down recently, and because he was rushing to work in the morning, he took it to the nearest garage and asked them to have it repaired and he would pick it in the evening. Trust those mechanics--- he had just ridden a few meters away when it broke down again. A mechanic will make you trust him with his "sweet" words, calling you "boss" or "mugagga" but then they go ahead and do shoddy work, or no work at all. There's a story I read somewhere about a mechanic who took a Mercedes for spin and ended up spinning it into another car.
2. Hairdressers
One of the reasons I cut my hair was because I was tired of ugly comments- from- you guessed right---- hairdressers!!! By the way, most of them here are unprofessional and have just learnt on the job and landed upon anything they can do. I imagine that a good hairdresser would professionally advise you on what products are good for you, what hairstyle to avoid, what weave you cannot afford and how often you should do your retouch. Pre- short hair there was this lady that I asked to do pencil corn-rows. She grabbed at my hair at the back of my head and meanly told me in a very loud condescending tone that "this hairrrr, no! my dear (patronizingly) your hair is too brittle and you practically have none!" Of course I was disappointed. But I walked into the next saloon and had my hair plaited and made it a point to pass by looking good.
I have also seen these interns (the ones who come early to sweep and clean up yesterday's mess) braiding someone's hair, really tiny braids. I think somewhere in the middle of the poor woman's scalp, they got tired and they suddenly started parting the hair into bigger "squares", giggling and whispering that "she will never know anyway".
3. Butcher
For many years I had this untold fear of these meat-mongers. The meals I cooked were devoid of meat, and when I discovered that I was not enjoying being vegetarian, then I started going to the supermarkets for sausages or minced meat. I discovered later that my fear revolved around being given a piece of rotten meat. I recall that Mum sent me to her "trusted" butcher when I was younger. I took back the kilo, wrapped in newspaper. There were no plastic bags those days. I was taken aback when Mum exclaimed that half of the meat had gone bad. But deviousness really exists among this lot. You point out to someone that this is the steak I want, some bones and no fat, and when he puts it on his chopping block, which is usually at the back of the teeny-weeny room, he quickly slips in some carefully concealed congealed mess, which you only discover when you are cutting it up.
4. Restaurants/ Waiters
I called the waiter over. I had gone to Zanzi's to treat my son to some "sticks" of pork and catch up. The waiter told me that each stick cost 4,000 shillings- I ordered two. After about 15 minutes, after which we had even ordered a second bottle of soda, he confidently plonked six measly pieces of fat and bones on the table. I could not believe my eyes, but it was all I could do. I let my son enjoy the meat (if you can call it that!). Thieves that they are.
A few weeks later, I was at the same place, not by choice, but a friend had asked me out. He ordered three sticks of pork, with "ebigeenderako". He specifically ordered the waiter to "bring the sticks here so that I can see them!" The lesson I learnt was that you need to ensure that you eat pork, and what you have paid for. Otherwise if you try to play the boss, then you eat bones.
5. Taxi conductors
This is a group I thoroughly dislike. In all my use-of-public-transport life, I have encountered only one conductor who said "thank-you". A Moslem wearing a cap. And he was clean-shaven, in clean clothes. The reason I do not like touts, as they are sometimes called, is that they are always on the defensive. Today, a lady sitting behind me shouted "parking!" The conductor heard her and repeated to the driver "parking!" The driver made like he was stopping, then continued on. Obviously, we made some noise. And the conductor had the nerve to say "Naye, you didn't say you were stopping and now you are shouting at me!". Msssscchewww!! I think the wind they are subjected to at the door where they hover somehow confuses their thinking. And they have this notion that they are looked down upon, the reason they always spring up like a jack-in-the-box when there is as much as whisper that they are overcharging. These are people who up fares as they wish. Not that the mileage changes, it stays the same. But when they get to the stage and there are many people waiting, they immediately increase the fares. Then they want to squeeze their bones in that seat next to you, and they want to take up the space for one passenger. I remember writing a piece on "the conductor's place is on the kameeme!" That cooker behind the front seat.
6. Pump attendant
Now these ones... these ones! They are adept at filling your car's fuel tank with "air". I don't know how they do it, but many a motorist has complained about paying for ten liters of petrol that he knows will last him the week, only to drive a few meters away and the car stalls. So when I go to the fuel station, I get out of the car, stand next to the fuel pump and watch as the attendant fills up. And then I hand over my hard-earned money.
7. Fast food places
My aunt had an event at her home and instead of going through the hustle involved with cooking, she hired the services of a fast food place in town to supply food and refreshments. For the guests who were served first, it was all good. Then those who went last were fed all the left-overs from a party the night before. These had been cleverly mixed into the good food but they did not want to waste it. And it had already started to go bad. Another "beef" I have with them is the ridiculous change in prices of their food. Today, chips and "a pair" of sausages is 6,000 shillings, and tomorrow it suddenly sky-rockets to 10,000 shillings. And the quantities just get smaller and smaller. Devious-masters these!
8. Food vendors
I'm talking about the ones in the markets and then there are those ones who sell on the pavement and who will curse you loudly if you so much as accidentally step into their pile of tomatoes. In particular- the ones who sell passion fruit, carrots, tomatoes on the sidewalk meant for me! They always make sure to throw in one or two spoiled pieces.
I once saw a woman who fled and left her wares on the street. She was selling shelled peas in a basket. A cup cost 2,000 shillings. One customer asked her to give him two cups. She poured one cup into the kaveera, and as she was scooping a second one, he suddenly asked why the peas in the bag looked so "few". "Yooyo kawo muzeeyi," she said, avoiding his eyes. "Gwe, olabika onzibye! Ekikopo kyo tekiwera. Leeta ndabe!!" And he made to grab the cup from her. Quick as a wink, she jumped up and took off, her basket tipping over in her haste and green peas rolled over everywhere. "Mwe mutubba! Kalabe!!" the man screamed after her. What had happened was-- to him, the amount of peas did not exactly match the size of the cup, so he asked her to see it. But she scampered off because --- her cup had a huge piece of extra plastic welded to the bottom. This makes her charge more for less. Thief that she is!
9. Police
I won't say much about this group because I have already vented about them in the past. But devious is another of their names. Most of them. They use their uniform, however low in rank they are, to get what they want. One night, my car developed a mechanical problem and I ended up in a minor accident, scratching a police car in the process. It was a tiny scratch but my God! I found out that these were drivers who had really huge chips on their shoulders. After a lot of back and forth, they callously demanded money--- laughing nervously, not saying what amount it was exactly that they were asking for. Then they started theatrics of "everyday you laugh at us because we are paid meager salaries, because we do not eat lunch, because we live in mama ingie pole!!" Bannange!! Now where was all this coming from? It does not matter to me whether you spend the whole day yawning and eating air-pies at the Constitutional Square in the guise of waiting for opposition activists, or if the boots you wear are 15 years old. Anyway, because of their deviousness, I ended up paying 300,000 shillings to repair minor scratches. Scratches are minor, aren't they?
10. Shoe vendors
Now here is where I have beef with the Chinese. Trading in shoes which are clearly below standard, shoes which are not fit for Ugandans' feet, shoes which, when the sun shines really hot, you may end up leaving your sole on the tarmac. Plastic shoes that last three days then snap. Fake leather that starts to peel after a good brush. The shoe pads are made of manila paper.
Another group are these ones who sell shoes under the lamplight at the roundabouts along the Northern by-pass. The shoes are second-hand. I admit, they do look very nice under the orange lights. You check, fit, prance up and down to see how comfortable they are. Good. You haggle. You pay. You get home. You check. Small tear at the back. And then you know the shoe will not last. Darn you! night shoe-vendor.
But how many times have you wished that the "fleas from a thousand camels infest (insert subject) until their dying day"? I cannot count how many curses I have issued in spite of saying to myself that it is just money that I have lost. But the fact that some people wake up in the morning and plan how to be dishonest rankles. So I came up with a list of 10 "professions" where it is the norm to be devious, and if you are not, then you should be looking for another job. And, I am not saying that all the ones I have encountered are unpatriotic but... remember, that one bad apple spoils the rest. In no particular order... drum-roll..........!!!!
1. Mechanic
If you do not find him crazily weaving your car through the Wandegeya traffic, then expect to find the oil filter of your Rav4 replaced with a broken one. Maybe they have even siphoned your fuel. In their greasy overalls. A workmate's motorcycle broke down recently, and because he was rushing to work in the morning, he took it to the nearest garage and asked them to have it repaired and he would pick it in the evening. Trust those mechanics--- he had just ridden a few meters away when it broke down again. A mechanic will make you trust him with his "sweet" words, calling you "boss" or "mugagga" but then they go ahead and do shoddy work, or no work at all. There's a story I read somewhere about a mechanic who took a Mercedes for spin and ended up spinning it into another car.
2. Hairdressers
One of the reasons I cut my hair was because I was tired of ugly comments- from- you guessed right---- hairdressers!!! By the way, most of them here are unprofessional and have just learnt on the job and landed upon anything they can do. I imagine that a good hairdresser would professionally advise you on what products are good for you, what hairstyle to avoid, what weave you cannot afford and how often you should do your retouch. Pre- short hair there was this lady that I asked to do pencil corn-rows. She grabbed at my hair at the back of my head and meanly told me in a very loud condescending tone that "this hairrrr, no! my dear (patronizingly) your hair is too brittle and you practically have none!" Of course I was disappointed. But I walked into the next saloon and had my hair plaited and made it a point to pass by looking good.
I have also seen these interns (the ones who come early to sweep and clean up yesterday's mess) braiding someone's hair, really tiny braids. I think somewhere in the middle of the poor woman's scalp, they got tired and they suddenly started parting the hair into bigger "squares", giggling and whispering that "she will never know anyway".
3. Butcher
For many years I had this untold fear of these meat-mongers. The meals I cooked were devoid of meat, and when I discovered that I was not enjoying being vegetarian, then I started going to the supermarkets for sausages or minced meat. I discovered later that my fear revolved around being given a piece of rotten meat. I recall that Mum sent me to her "trusted" butcher when I was younger. I took back the kilo, wrapped in newspaper. There were no plastic bags those days. I was taken aback when Mum exclaimed that half of the meat had gone bad. But deviousness really exists among this lot. You point out to someone that this is the steak I want, some bones and no fat, and when he puts it on his chopping block, which is usually at the back of the teeny-weeny room, he quickly slips in some carefully concealed congealed mess, which you only discover when you are cutting it up.
4. Restaurants/ Waiters
I called the waiter over. I had gone to Zanzi's to treat my son to some "sticks" of pork and catch up. The waiter told me that each stick cost 4,000 shillings- I ordered two. After about 15 minutes, after which we had even ordered a second bottle of soda, he confidently plonked six measly pieces of fat and bones on the table. I could not believe my eyes, but it was all I could do. I let my son enjoy the meat (if you can call it that!). Thieves that they are.
A few weeks later, I was at the same place, not by choice, but a friend had asked me out. He ordered three sticks of pork, with "ebigeenderako". He specifically ordered the waiter to "bring the sticks here so that I can see them!" The lesson I learnt was that you need to ensure that you eat pork, and what you have paid for. Otherwise if you try to play the boss, then you eat bones.
5. Taxi conductors
This is a group I thoroughly dislike. In all my use-of-public-transport life, I have encountered only one conductor who said "thank-you". A Moslem wearing a cap. And he was clean-shaven, in clean clothes. The reason I do not like touts, as they are sometimes called, is that they are always on the defensive. Today, a lady sitting behind me shouted "parking!" The conductor heard her and repeated to the driver "parking!" The driver made like he was stopping, then continued on. Obviously, we made some noise. And the conductor had the nerve to say "Naye, you didn't say you were stopping and now you are shouting at me!". Msssscchewww!! I think the wind they are subjected to at the door where they hover somehow confuses their thinking. And they have this notion that they are looked down upon, the reason they always spring up like a jack-in-the-box when there is as much as whisper that they are overcharging. These are people who up fares as they wish. Not that the mileage changes, it stays the same. But when they get to the stage and there are many people waiting, they immediately increase the fares. Then they want to squeeze their bones in that seat next to you, and they want to take up the space for one passenger. I remember writing a piece on "the conductor's place is on the kameeme!" That cooker behind the front seat.
6. Pump attendant
Now these ones... these ones! They are adept at filling your car's fuel tank with "air". I don't know how they do it, but many a motorist has complained about paying for ten liters of petrol that he knows will last him the week, only to drive a few meters away and the car stalls. So when I go to the fuel station, I get out of the car, stand next to the fuel pump and watch as the attendant fills up. And then I hand over my hard-earned money.
7. Fast food places
My aunt had an event at her home and instead of going through the hustle involved with cooking, she hired the services of a fast food place in town to supply food and refreshments. For the guests who were served first, it was all good. Then those who went last were fed all the left-overs from a party the night before. These had been cleverly mixed into the good food but they did not want to waste it. And it had already started to go bad. Another "beef" I have with them is the ridiculous change in prices of their food. Today, chips and "a pair" of sausages is 6,000 shillings, and tomorrow it suddenly sky-rockets to 10,000 shillings. And the quantities just get smaller and smaller. Devious-masters these!
8. Food vendors
I'm talking about the ones in the markets and then there are those ones who sell on the pavement and who will curse you loudly if you so much as accidentally step into their pile of tomatoes. In particular- the ones who sell passion fruit, carrots, tomatoes on the sidewalk meant for me! They always make sure to throw in one or two spoiled pieces.
I once saw a woman who fled and left her wares on the street. She was selling shelled peas in a basket. A cup cost 2,000 shillings. One customer asked her to give him two cups. She poured one cup into the kaveera, and as she was scooping a second one, he suddenly asked why the peas in the bag looked so "few". "Yooyo kawo muzeeyi," she said, avoiding his eyes. "Gwe, olabika onzibye! Ekikopo kyo tekiwera. Leeta ndabe!!" And he made to grab the cup from her. Quick as a wink, she jumped up and took off, her basket tipping over in her haste and green peas rolled over everywhere. "Mwe mutubba! Kalabe!!" the man screamed after her. What had happened was-- to him, the amount of peas did not exactly match the size of the cup, so he asked her to see it. But she scampered off because --- her cup had a huge piece of extra plastic welded to the bottom. This makes her charge more for less. Thief that she is!
9. Police
I won't say much about this group because I have already vented about them in the past. But devious is another of their names. Most of them. They use their uniform, however low in rank they are, to get what they want. One night, my car developed a mechanical problem and I ended up in a minor accident, scratching a police car in the process. It was a tiny scratch but my God! I found out that these were drivers who had really huge chips on their shoulders. After a lot of back and forth, they callously demanded money--- laughing nervously, not saying what amount it was exactly that they were asking for. Then they started theatrics of "everyday you laugh at us because we are paid meager salaries, because we do not eat lunch, because we live in mama ingie pole!!" Bannange!! Now where was all this coming from? It does not matter to me whether you spend the whole day yawning and eating air-pies at the Constitutional Square in the guise of waiting for opposition activists, or if the boots you wear are 15 years old. Anyway, because of their deviousness, I ended up paying 300,000 shillings to repair minor scratches. Scratches are minor, aren't they?
10. Shoe vendors
Now here is where I have beef with the Chinese. Trading in shoes which are clearly below standard, shoes which are not fit for Ugandans' feet, shoes which, when the sun shines really hot, you may end up leaving your sole on the tarmac. Plastic shoes that last three days then snap. Fake leather that starts to peel after a good brush. The shoe pads are made of manila paper.
Another group are these ones who sell shoes under the lamplight at the roundabouts along the Northern by-pass. The shoes are second-hand. I admit, they do look very nice under the orange lights. You check, fit, prance up and down to see how comfortable they are. Good. You haggle. You pay. You get home. You check. Small tear at the back. And then you know the shoe will not last. Darn you! night shoe-vendor.
Wednesday 21 March 2018
#walkhome?neveragain!
For Jeremiah Makubuya whose father gave him a sound beating for loitering around town instead of being at school on Tuesday morning, I am certain he will forever have second thoughts about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Police found the five-year old wandering in Kapaapali zone, Mulago area during school-time.
As for Makubuya Senior (I now gather he is a clan-mate- his name is Katende), he has experienced first-hand, the power of social media. He was filmed by somebody on their camera phone, delivering blow after blow, as his child yelped in pain in front of his schoolmates. 18 of the best. And they were loud. Which means they really connected.
Well, I pitied Jeremiah. He must have been in agony. Then, as the punishment was being administered, and afterwards. It is a beating he will not forget in a hurry. As is the case with social media, the video spread like wildfire, as it was shared on Facebook and WhatsApp, and before 2pm, had received plenty of views.
People said it was a teacher and called for the closure of the school. Others wanted the unidentified male arrested together with the lady dressed in an apron, who was watching the happenings as she stood close by with a group of little children. Some pondered the drastic decision of homeschooling.
It later transpired that this was a father punishing his child for an act of indiscipline. Agreed, the beatings were brutal, but some may argue that if that child had been kidnapped or knocked down by a car, things would have been very different. The other debate is that this is a father who cares for his child- we have seen other non-existent fathers who in such a case would say, “Ah, that child is stupid like its mother!”
I know there are other ways in which that message would have sunk, to ensure that Jeremiah does not do another wander around the village. Sit him down and give him a good talking-to.
Show him gory pictures of children who have had their throats slit. '
Put him in a corner for five minutes- one minute for each of his years.
Refuse him food. That’s a basic need, you never do that.
Call a clan meeting perhaps.
One afternoon as I rode home in taxi (home was Mawanda Road), I thought I spotted someone I knew in Wandegeya. There was a group of kids, boys and girls in the Buganda Road uniform, walking and playing and staring at TVs on display in the shops. For a split second, I ignored it, and then something made me turn my head again. I saw MY son in that group of kids. Probably walking home.
Mark was already at home. I asked him where Peter was. He said he hadn’t returned yet. What had been happening of late was that Peter didn’t want to ride with Mark (those things of one getting fed of sitting on the lap of another ) and so I had to give each of them fare (you know how it eats into the pocket?).
Peter arrived around Looking extremely tired, dusty, dishevelled. His backpack was slung over one shoulder. I was waiting at the door, arms folded, mouth pursed into a tight sumbusa.
“Hi Mama. You're home early!”
“What time did school close?”
“What do you mean? We finish at 4pm.”
“Oh, so where have you been all this time?”
“I walked home.”
“You did what?” I was now yelling. “Don’t I give you fare to ride the taxi?”
He looked at the floor.
“I asked you a question. Why do I give you money for a taxi? Do you know how dangerous it is to cross those main roads on your own?”
“A policeman helps us cross the busy roads.” This boy was on a totally different planet.
I was livid. This child was not seeing my point. My fertile imagination had already drawn up all sorts of grisly images- broken bones, skin and teeth on the tarmac, clothes ripped, Mulago casualty ward. Oh!
“Get inside the house. Do your homework, bathe, have supper and get into bed. No football today!"
And then I got onto the phone.
“Daddy!”
“Yes?”
“Can you believe that Peter walked home today?”
“Oh, he did. Did he lose his transport money?”
“I don’t know, I asked him and he cannot offer any credible answers!”
“Calm down.”
“Daaaddy! How can I calm down when this has happened? Does he know the dangers on these our roads? Bannange, this child will be the death of me!”
“Cool down, this can be managed. Please. Okay, talk to Mummy.”
He handed her the phone and I loudly repeated my anguish.
“Why did he walk home? Doesnt he know how dangerous these roads are? What with these careless taxi drivers. We always see these stories on the news.”
At least she was beginning to see my point. I had someone on my side. Yeeeh!
“Is he there? Let me talk to him. Calm down. I will see him on the weekend and talk to him.” (They usually spent weekends with the grannies.)
They spoke for a few minutes and then Peter handed the phone back.
“Daddy for you.”
“Yes Daddy.”
“Lexi, look, don’t burst a nerve,” he said calmly. (That’s Daddy for you. Mr. Calm.)
I was quiet.
“Boys will be boys. This should not surprise or scare you.”
“What do you mean?” It was like he was speaking Mandarin.
“Peter is only being a boy. Let him explore. Let him learn. Let him experience.”
“Uh?”
“Yes, we all did that, we got yelled at and caned for it. But we remember those experiences so well. They let us grow up.”
I shook my head. Thank God he couldn’t see me.
“Okay Daddy.”
“Yeah, calm down. I will talk to him when he comes on Saturday.”
And with that Peter was saved.
During Mark’s graduation ceremony recently, Peter gave a speech.
“Mark, remember how we used to play, how we fetched water from the well, how we followed Mummy everywhere... and how we used to walk home everyday?”
Then he flashed his very infectious smile.
As for Makubuya Senior (I now gather he is a clan-mate- his name is Katende), he has experienced first-hand, the power of social media. He was filmed by somebody on their camera phone, delivering blow after blow, as his child yelped in pain in front of his schoolmates. 18 of the best. And they were loud. Which means they really connected.
Well, I pitied Jeremiah. He must have been in agony. Then, as the punishment was being administered, and afterwards. It is a beating he will not forget in a hurry. As is the case with social media, the video spread like wildfire, as it was shared on Facebook and WhatsApp, and before 2pm, had received plenty of views.
People said it was a teacher and called for the closure of the school. Others wanted the unidentified male arrested together with the lady dressed in an apron, who was watching the happenings as she stood close by with a group of little children. Some pondered the drastic decision of homeschooling.
It later transpired that this was a father punishing his child for an act of indiscipline. Agreed, the beatings were brutal, but some may argue that if that child had been kidnapped or knocked down by a car, things would have been very different. The other debate is that this is a father who cares for his child- we have seen other non-existent fathers who in such a case would say, “Ah, that child is stupid like its mother!”
I know there are other ways in which that message would have sunk, to ensure that Jeremiah does not do another wander around the village. Sit him down and give him a good talking-to.
Show him gory pictures of children who have had their throats slit. '
Put him in a corner for five minutes- one minute for each of his years.
Refuse him food. That’s a basic need, you never do that.
Call a clan meeting perhaps.
One afternoon as I rode home in taxi (home was Mawanda Road), I thought I spotted someone I knew in Wandegeya. There was a group of kids, boys and girls in the Buganda Road uniform, walking and playing and staring at TVs on display in the shops. For a split second, I ignored it, and then something made me turn my head again. I saw MY son in that group of kids. Probably walking home.
Mark was already at home. I asked him where Peter was. He said he hadn’t returned yet. What had been happening of late was that Peter didn’t want to ride with Mark (those things of one getting fed of sitting on the lap of another ) and so I had to give each of them fare (you know how it eats into the pocket?).
Peter arrived around Looking extremely tired, dusty, dishevelled. His backpack was slung over one shoulder. I was waiting at the door, arms folded, mouth pursed into a tight sumbusa.
“Hi Mama. You're home early!”
“What time did school close?”
“What do you mean? We finish at 4pm.”
“Oh, so where have you been all this time?”
“I walked home.”
“You did what?” I was now yelling. “Don’t I give you fare to ride the taxi?”
He looked at the floor.
“I asked you a question. Why do I give you money for a taxi? Do you know how dangerous it is to cross those main roads on your own?”
“A policeman helps us cross the busy roads.” This boy was on a totally different planet.
I was livid. This child was not seeing my point. My fertile imagination had already drawn up all sorts of grisly images- broken bones, skin and teeth on the tarmac, clothes ripped, Mulago casualty ward. Oh!
“Get inside the house. Do your homework, bathe, have supper and get into bed. No football today!"
And then I got onto the phone.
“Daddy!”
“Yes?”
“Can you believe that Peter walked home today?”
“Oh, he did. Did he lose his transport money?”
“I don’t know, I asked him and he cannot offer any credible answers!”
“Calm down.”
“Daaaddy! How can I calm down when this has happened? Does he know the dangers on these our roads? Bannange, this child will be the death of me!”
“Cool down, this can be managed. Please. Okay, talk to Mummy.”
He handed her the phone and I loudly repeated my anguish.
“Why did he walk home? Doesnt he know how dangerous these roads are? What with these careless taxi drivers. We always see these stories on the news.”
At least she was beginning to see my point. I had someone on my side. Yeeeh!
“Is he there? Let me talk to him. Calm down. I will see him on the weekend and talk to him.” (They usually spent weekends with the grannies.)
They spoke for a few minutes and then Peter handed the phone back.
“Daddy for you.”
“Yes Daddy.”
“Lexi, look, don’t burst a nerve,” he said calmly. (That’s Daddy for you. Mr. Calm.)
I was quiet.
“Boys will be boys. This should not surprise or scare you.”
“What do you mean?” It was like he was speaking Mandarin.
“Peter is only being a boy. Let him explore. Let him learn. Let him experience.”
“Uh?”
“Yes, we all did that, we got yelled at and caned for it. But we remember those experiences so well. They let us grow up.”
I shook my head. Thank God he couldn’t see me.
“Okay Daddy.”
“Yeah, calm down. I will talk to him when he comes on Saturday.”
And with that Peter was saved.
During Mark’s graduation ceremony recently, Peter gave a speech.
“Mark, remember how we used to play, how we fetched water from the well, how we followed Mummy everywhere... and how we used to walk home everyday?”
Then he flashed his very infectious smile.
Saturday 27 January 2018
#murderhewrote
I looked at him in masked annoyance. He was the teacher, I was the
pupil, and I was very much aware that there was nothing much I could do.
But this man had played around with my name for a long, long time and
it so irritated me that he found it amusing. Something had to give.
I hated the way he opened his mouth and guffawed loudly after he had said “Linda Bom Bom”, I detested seeing him laugh at his own “joke”. I loathed how his big nostrils flared as he roared away, and how his little eyes turned into slits as his body shook with mirth at my expense.
Thank God he was not my class teacher, and I only met him once a week. At House meetings. Mr. M was the master of Blue House. We assembled on Wednesdays, though the meetings were more frequent when swimming and sports galas were part of the term’s programmes.
Mr. M did not start murdering my name until I got to Standard Three. I think there were others to make fun of before me. I was only eight years old, but this teasing made me really mad.
One Wednesday morning, in tears, I told Mummy about how the teacher was mangling my name. I told her she had to come to school to ask the Headmaster to change me to Red House- the Nelions. There was also Lenana and Tereri. Our Houses were named for the peaks of Mount Kenya.
Mummy was concerned but said not to worry and that he would stop. But it only became worse. Actually, the worst part was that Mr. M insisted on doing it in front of the other kids who all tittered away.
Three name-mangling assemblies later, I decided it was time to find a solution to this bullying. Yes, bullying- that was how I saw it.
Mummy had said it would stop but this didn't look like it was going to happen soon, and so would take the bull (bully) by the horns. I had to act.
It happened on a sunny Wednesday morning, after we had squinted ourselves through Mr. M’s assembly, standing in the lines and fidgeting from foot to foot. He murdered my name as usual, guffawed away, the kids snickered along, and then after the announcements, the assembly was dismissed.
I had my plan of action worked out.
As the other kids ran off to class, I followed Mr. M. In my blue shirt and big white shorts. I was scared, but I couldn’t take it any more.
“Excuse me, Mr. M.” Very humbly. I was shaking.
He stopped and turned back.
“Yes. Oh! Linda Bom Bom!” he boomed.
And in the bravest voice I could muster, I announced, “Mr. M. that is not my name. I am called Linda Kibombo. I have reported you to my mother, and if you do not stop, I will go to the Headmaster and ask him to change my house.”
He looked at me, surprised.
His face transformed- eyebrows raised, forehead furrowed, mouth set in a hard line.
“You must stop it Mr. M. I do not like it. That is not my name. And the other children laugh at me!”
Silence.
I felt the tears prick my eyes and quickly shifted my gaze to the books and ruler he held in his hands.
“Ok. Go to class now!”
And that was how Mr. M stopped the deliberate murder of my name.
I hated the way he opened his mouth and guffawed loudly after he had said “Linda Bom Bom”, I detested seeing him laugh at his own “joke”. I loathed how his big nostrils flared as he roared away, and how his little eyes turned into slits as his body shook with mirth at my expense.
Thank God he was not my class teacher, and I only met him once a week. At House meetings. Mr. M was the master of Blue House. We assembled on Wednesdays, though the meetings were more frequent when swimming and sports galas were part of the term’s programmes.
Mr. M did not start murdering my name until I got to Standard Three. I think there were others to make fun of before me. I was only eight years old, but this teasing made me really mad.
One Wednesday morning, in tears, I told Mummy about how the teacher was mangling my name. I told her she had to come to school to ask the Headmaster to change me to Red House- the Nelions. There was also Lenana and Tereri. Our Houses were named for the peaks of Mount Kenya.
Mummy was concerned but said not to worry and that he would stop. But it only became worse. Actually, the worst part was that Mr. M insisted on doing it in front of the other kids who all tittered away.
Three name-mangling assemblies later, I decided it was time to find a solution to this bullying. Yes, bullying- that was how I saw it.
Mummy had said it would stop but this didn't look like it was going to happen soon, and so would take the bull (bully) by the horns. I had to act.
It happened on a sunny Wednesday morning, after we had squinted ourselves through Mr. M’s assembly, standing in the lines and fidgeting from foot to foot. He murdered my name as usual, guffawed away, the kids snickered along, and then after the announcements, the assembly was dismissed.
I had my plan of action worked out.
As the other kids ran off to class, I followed Mr. M. In my blue shirt and big white shorts. I was scared, but I couldn’t take it any more.
“Excuse me, Mr. M.” Very humbly. I was shaking.
He stopped and turned back.
“Yes. Oh! Linda Bom Bom!” he boomed.
And in the bravest voice I could muster, I announced, “Mr. M. that is not my name. I am called Linda Kibombo. I have reported you to my mother, and if you do not stop, I will go to the Headmaster and ask him to change my house.”
He looked at me, surprised.
His face transformed- eyebrows raised, forehead furrowed, mouth set in a hard line.
“You must stop it Mr. M. I do not like it. That is not my name. And the other children laugh at me!”
Silence.
I felt the tears prick my eyes and quickly shifted my gaze to the books and ruler he held in his hands.
“Ok. Go to class now!”
And that was how Mr. M stopped the deliberate murder of my name.
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