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.
Thursday 26 July 2018
#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!
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