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.
Wednesday 14 November 2018
#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.
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