#friedeggs

 

This scene is set in those days of no mobile phones.
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.

#massagemyscalp

I walk towards the sink where my hair guy is going to give me a wash. There's a masked face sitting in the chair opposite. The white mask is some concotion of avocado, moisturiser, coconut oil and sim-sim oil. The owner of the face is doing a shampoo. The salon lady is rubbing the soap through his hair (read scalp). His eyes are shut tight.
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.