#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.

#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.