#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. 

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.

#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.

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?

#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?