#grumblegrumble

Omuntu atasiima can really drain the life out of you!
Like that woman who was my mother’s customer, when she still tailored clothes at home. Madame could COMPLAIN! It was not even second, but first nature.
From sighing about the length of a sleeve (when it was the exact measurement that was taken), moaning about an extra frill on the hem (that she says was not in the fashion book), to whining about the color of thread.
She was a handful but Mummy kept a cheerful face, endeavoring to make all her customers look good in spite of the many pears, apples, bananas and inverted triangles she encountered.
From my vantage point under Mummy’s sewing table (and I learnt a lot from there, including how to sew nighties for my doll) I got to know that certain types of fabrics and prints suit some body types and others are a no-go area.
Madame Moaner fell in the inverted triangle category - which means there was more in some places and a total lack in others.
On one occasion as she flipped through the McCall fashion book, her eye landed on a model in a body-hugging sheath dress. She told Mummy to make her look like the leggy woman.
In spite of the polite advice that a little bit of flare could add a little shape and flatter in some places, Madame Moaner was adamant - it would be the sheath or … yeah, the sheath.
“Haya, utarudi for fitting on Thursday”
I was at school but Mummy told me that there was a near disaster in the 12x12 sewing room. Because, before she even fit the dress, Madame Moaner had demanded to know why it had a zip on the side because “it was not on the dress in the McCall fashion book!”
Two- trying to fit the inverted triangle, rolls and all, into the sheath was rocket science.
And when she finally got in, sweat and near tears, and did a little sashay in front of the mirror, her gasp said it all.
“But I told you I did not want it so fitting! I said put some little flare at the bottom, you know like… like this!” she moaned.
Mummy yasoberwa because the advice Madame Moaner had so ignored in the beginning, was now the one she was dishing out.
******
Gwanga Mujje lives in the fourth house, the last one in my row. I christened her “Gwanga Mujje” because she is always at the forefront of a call for action against the landlord when something happens on the estate. Like the time when the rumor of the night dancer was making rounds and she called for a meeting demanding an extra askari. And that if Landlord did not respond with the extra man, then we should not pay him the rent for the next month.
But Ggwanga has another side - the one which complains. The one - which - goes - on - and - on - and - on - and - on - about — yeah, you guessed right — the house-maids she employs to look after her young kids and keep her home clean and tidy.
The template: they are thieves, they are liars, they are poor, they are uneducated, they are silly, they are senseless.
(For fear of offending Ugandans, I will not mention the tribe she usually picks from) but one after another, she goes back to the same region.
“That girl ate my child’s porridge!”
“That fool stole last night’s nva!”
“That buffoon cannot even help my child with homework!”
“Why did I even employ someone who cannot mop the floors!”
“That kabila are bayaaye, they are lazy good-for-nothings!”
The maids do not usually last very long. Very soon there’s another and then the tirade against them is repeated.
And when they leave, we are bombarded with long tales about how they stole her daughter’s clothes, how they were only skilled at eating, sleeping and watching her DSTV, how they gossiped with other maids, how … Oh!!
******
Then there was the woman in the taxi on a morning when everyone who felt it necessary to walk against corruption came out.
Of course, the taxi operators took advantage of this patriotic act to hike the prices and squeeze out an extra coin. So, instead of the usual 2,000 shillings, we had to add and extra 1,000.
She waved down the taxi at Bobi Wine stage. The conductor announced the fee.
Even before she had settled into her seat, “Muli babbi!” De tivvs you are!
The driver stopped the taxi and asked her to repeat her statement.
She did. Loudly. Some passengers (the for-me-I-just-kept-quiet brigade) nodded in agreement.
No one had forced her to get on, he said, she could hop right out.
A few meters later, we stopped for a passenger with all manner of cargo from a chicken, to the maize for its food.
“Big Bad Man from Kamwokya” was booming from a music equipment shop on the side of the road.
A loud jeer. Then, “Kozzi what time do you want to get us to our destination when you are stopping - stopping for everyone??”
He didn’t respond.
After a few minutes, “Turn down your ki-radio naawe!”
But there was no radio in the car, it was the music shop speakers blaring with Big Bad Man from Kamwokya song.
At Ku Mbuzi, the roasters were hard at work. Some early bird customers had parked close by.
“Kale, how can you begin your morning by eating meat? Kyokka some people! And then they complain that they do not have money!”
At Mpererwe, Besigye’s anti-corruption walk drama had caused a bit of a traffic jam. He was being forced to turn around and go back home.
“Toleeta Museveni! Twakoowa! Msssscheeeww!”
I buried myself in my book.

two friends and a phone

A loud scream. Incoherent speech. Frenzied cries. Raised voices. In the dark. Two men, walk on, probably returning home after a hard day’s work, maybe they’ve even failed to raise the kaveera their wives are eagerly waiting for. They only glance briefly at the area from where the screams emanate. Faithful, fully paid-up members of the ‘For Me I Just Kept Quiet’ brigade.

I rush back when I heard the word “Hajji”. Is this a case of domestic violence happening before my very eyes and ears?

The young woman is hysterical. Her phone has been stolen.
“My phone, essimu yange, essimu, essimuuuuu!” she wails, throwing herself down heavily on the pavers in the good Doctor’s driveway.
Her hands go to her head. “Essimu yange. Emitwalo jange ataano!”
This is confusing. A phone, 500,000 shillings. Have they both been stolen?

She jumps up, “Siiko, Siiko munnange, mbulira essimu gyeli! Siiko wange, emaali yange eri ludda wa?”

In some situations, much as you want information, you also need to take a step back and first ascertain the situation so you don’t fall headlong into it.
For all you know, she could be talking to herself nga emizimu gya ba Jjaja are on her head. Because the Siiko who was being addressed is nowhere to be seen.

The jump becomes a jog. Round and round, in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail. In the dark, her silhouette looks like she is doing some kind of dance, a drill, some exercise.
Darting to and from the perimeter fence, racing across the good Doctor’s driveway and back again. Like that.
Then she disappears- falling onto the ground, where she writhes, rolls over and over, raising her hands, pounding the pavers, beating her thighs.
This is a woman in mourning.

We have now established that there was a demise of some sort. A phone. Worth 500,000 shillings. The young woman’s name is Bridget.
She is a student.
This is her second such possession in the space of five months.
That the earlier one had also been stolen somehow.
That she had scrimped and saved and saved and scrimped to be able to purchase this new gadget, not even five weeks old. But it is now gone. Disappeared. Poof. Kaput. Gone. With. The. Wind. Fabulous.

Then I also discover that apart from the key players - Bridget and the thief - there is the Siiko who is being implored to return the precious coveted item.
She is huddled in a corner, curled into one of the pillars of the perimeter fence of the good Doctor’s driveway, probably wanting to disappear into the baked bricks or become one of them.
The light from the headlamps of one of the bodabodas – they gather like moths to the light – show several strands of unruly hair that have escaped from a back puff. Her fat cheeks are wet.

“Tugende ondage essimu!” Bridget is spluttering, weak with pain.

The Real Siiko attempts to stand up, but sits down again quickly, returning to her foetus-like position. She feels safer like that.
The crowd is made up of mostly women.
One, in her nightie and black hair-net, is asking Siiko for exact details of the story.
Siiko is attempting to recount but dissolves into a helpless cry about how she is not being allowed to tell the story from where it started.

“You girl, how did you come to be in possession of the phone?” Madam Nightie with a Hairnet demands.
Siiko get up.
This time her legs do not buckle.
Her face is short, stuffed.
Like an old pussycat.

She starts explaining that a man had approached her. That he had told her her name, adding that he could tell that she had plenty of problems.
“Woiiii! God help me! I was conned, I was conned. I was cooooonnnnned! Abasajja banfeze! Heiiiiii!!” she bawls.
“You’re lying!” This from a Mama in a Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear. It comes down to near her ankles. She switches on her katorchi phone and shines it in Siiko’s face.

I want to hear Siiko’s story to the end.

“My name is not Siiko. I am called Scovia!”

“Alright Scovia, what exactly happened?”

Mama Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear that went down to near her ankles is back. She has just consulted with Bridget who is howling, prostrate on the pavers.

“Siiko you are a thief!”

“Nooooooo” Siiko wails. “Hear me out. Why do you judge me when all of you have ever fallen prey to conmen? Hear me out!” she screams in frustration.

Her version of events is that the man had told her about her many problems and offered a solution. He asked if one of the things she desired was a phone? If so, which type.

‘Infinity Phone’, she had said.

‘Can I see a picture of it, so that when I am asking the gods, I will say that Siiko of Kitiiyo village desired this very make?’

And Siiko had said would show him the exact make she so desired.

And so she had sat on the man’s bodaboda motorcycle and ridden to Bridget’s house.
Bridget was sleeping. Siiko said she wanted to borrow the phone for a few minutes to make a quick call.
Bridget had not thought twice, after all, Siiko was her friend.
So Siiko had unplugged the charger and taken the phone. That was the last time Bridget would set eyes on her beloved gadget.

Just then, Bridget recoveres from her trance on the pavers.
The jog is back in full force.
Like a woman possessed, she runs up to Bridget.
I wait for the blow. A slap. Something like that. I stepped away. It does not come.
Bridget falls to her knees and gently, very gently, holds Siiko by the hips.
“Mukwano Siiko, ntwala essimu gyebagyibbidde!”
Then she leaps up and towers over Siiko.
She touches her friend’s wet cheeks and whimpers, “Kikwano! Abasajja baagenze wa?”
The whole scene is rather disturbing.

Trying to get an answer from Siiko is like getting blood from a stone.
She gapes like a fish out of water.
No words come out. Bridget prances away again in a hypnotic-like state.

A woman carrying a huge black rucksack appears from nowhere. “Bannyabo,” she says authoritatively, “Leave this Siiko alone. I think your attention should be focused on this other woman and her mental state. She is very distressed.”

And so the women turns to Bridget who was now trying to dislodge one of the good Doctor’s pavers from his well-preserved, freshly-laid driveway.

They surround her and lift her by the arms and legs as she tries to wriggle from their grasp, shouting, “Okusoma kwange kuwedde! Nfudde nze! Emitwalo gyange ataaano gigenze bwegityo!" 

Siiko stares as Bridget is carried through the gate. One of the women returns.

“Siiko, come here!” She grabs her hand and leads her down the driveway.

God knows how it ended.

when you are so done!

I’d had enough of this man breathing down my neck, making insinuating remarks about my inabilities, throwing around all sorts of sexual innuendos, overworking me.
And so on a bright Monday morning, a few minutes after I reported to work, I resigned my job.
Following the ‘shock’ announcement, I tossed the papers I had been holding onto the desk, in the process sending them flying across the floor, picked up my handbag and stalked off. I was tired of being made to feel worthless. I had had it. I was so fed up. So DONE.
That was 17 years ago.
The sun felt warm on my face. I was happy, out of prison. I sauntered into the restaurant downstairs and ordered a plate of chips and chaps and a Fanta soda. The owner was surprised to see me. I usually ate there on some evenings. Not at 9am.
‘I just quit’, I told her, feeling very victorious.
She gave me a quizzical look. “Quit what?”
“My job. Can I have another chap?”
“So what will you do now? You have kids. How will you look after them? You have no job.”
“Just put the chap on my plate.”
To be very honest, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had not even thought through my drastic decision. I had zero savings. I had no side hustle. I depended on my salary to pay for everything. And apart from my kids, I had other dependents. At that time, 220,000 shillings catered for school fees, house rent, clothes, football practice, extra homework, food and the etceras.
I called up my friend Mark at the office. “Come to Sarah’s please. We need to talk.”
He was there in a few minutes, eager to know what the din upstairs had been about. Everybody was curious. Some had heard the commotion and peeked slyly through the open door.
“You know what I have been through Mark, I cannot handle it any more. I am so done with that bearded beastly tub of a bugger! He made me leave the office late on Saturday, after loading me with a hamper of work. It was only the two of us there and he insisted on making advances, even when he knows I want nothing to do with him and have spurned him so many times! Eventually he allowed me to leave and said I would finish the work on Monday. It’s Monday morning now, and the minute he waddled in, he demanded to see the work. I said I was in the process of completing it and would hand it in by midday. He didn’t want to listen, just started going off on me. I cut him short, threw the papers onto his desk. ‘I am, done!’, I said. ‘I am so f******** done!’ The incredulous look on his podgy face spurred me on. I raised my voice. ‘I resign! Settle my accounts and leave me the hell in peace! I will let your bosses know exactly what you have subjected me to for two years!”

####################
And so I started out, with absolutely no idea about what the future held.
One thing I remember though, is that feeling of the sun on my face. It had been so long since I felt that way, the warmth, seeing the people on the street.
For the past two years, all that I'd been hearing were deadlines, targets, empty threats of ‘I can sack you right now!”. Bull!
The man had been on my case since I did the interview. One of the questions he had asked in the second interview - which he conducted himself - was, “Are you married?”
And when I said, “No”, it was followed by a quick, “Do you have a boyfriend then?”
Another ‘No”.
Little did I know that I had just become a target. His little punching bag.
One day, I was in the office early, after dropping the kids at school. As I organised the papers in the tray at the front desk, Mr. Boss strode in feeling all braggadocio-like.
“Morrrning Linda!” He made it sound like ‘Lenderr'.
I breathed a silent ‘Not now!” in my mind. “Morning.”
He came up to the desk. And like the sly fat fox that he was, attempted to plant a kiss on my lips. I did not pull back fast enough and his cologne- infused hairs poked my face. I shoved him off. He turned on his heel and marched his short stout frame into his box office.
How dare you! I wanted to shout. Instead, I ran to the toilet cubicle and cried for a few minutes. The brazenness of this man! When I came out, two other people had arrived. I strode up to his office and sat down. He looked at me, a smug look on his face.
“Don’t you ever do that again!”
“What can you do?” he sneered.
“I said, don’t you ever!” And then the tears came again.
“Look, if you want to leave, I can get you a job at WBS, its very easy. Just a few calls and you’re out. Simple. Now, get out of my office!”
And that was that. Dismissed.
One evening, I was assigned to night duty. The station from where we did our broadcast was located about three miles from the main road. High up on the hill. I arrived early with the evening driver who then left for other duties. The other person on duty Charles, was a quiet, elderly man who was good at minding his own business.
I had watched on many times as he suffered his fair share of rantings from the boss, peppered with accusations of incompetence and followed by threats of being fired.
I was working in the other room when I heard the desk phone ring. Charles picked it up. After a few minutes it ended with, “Yes, GM.”
“Linda, GM wants to see you.” My heart froze.
“Where? About what?”
“He said that you go to his house.” He lived in one of the buildings at the station.
My legs felt like lead.
“Come in.”
He led me to a table in the corner of the living room.
“I want you to make advertising tags on each of these articles.”
I was blank.
“Write something catchy for each of these arrticles. They are for the different shows ve are planning to advertise.”
I had not the slightest idea what he wanted but I set to work.
Less than 10 minutes later, he was back, hovering over me. By then I had realized to my horror, that there was no one else in the house. It was just him. Then I remembered him m mentioning a few days ago, that his wife and young kids would be going off to India.
He waddled off, back to the kitchen. I continued to work, tense.
“Lenderr!”
“Yes, GM.”
“Come herre. To the kitchen!”
I got up hesitantly. The thought of walking to the front door and leaving occurred, but I obeyed my master.
“Don’t call me GM, call me Patel.”
He was frying what looked like a kilogram of onions. On the counter next to the cooker stood some bottles of spices. And a bowl of diced carrots and potatoes.
He was going on about the merits of onions and describing how they should be fried but I was not listening. I just nodded my head, worrying about my exit in case he tried to pull anything funny. Which he was wont to do. I could not put it past him.
With the vegetables bubbling happily on low heat, he retreated to the confines of his room, but not before asking if I would like a drink as I finished my work.
I asked for a glass of orange juice. And just as I had imagined - he had cleverly added a bit of alcohol in it. My hackles rose. I needed to get out of this place, and fast.

######### I started writing really fast, scribbling onto the sheets of paper. I didn’t care if it made sense. I would just leave quietly and face the music tomorrow. Just as I was about to leave, he slithered back into the living room. Soft music wafted through the house from the bedroom's open door.
“Lenderr, have you finished the vorrk (work)?”
“I am about to,” I mumbled, anxious to leave.
“Ah, leave it, leave it. That vill be for tomorrow.” He was suddenly being so kind.
“Come, let’s have something to eat first.”
Shucks! This leech.
“I already ate, I’m okay.”
He tried to coax me, but I stood my ground. My sixth sense was hammering loudly. I was so on edge.
“Okay, then if you will not eat, finish yourr drink.” My glass was untouched.
“I do not drink alcohol GM.” My voice was firm.
He feigned ignorance. “No, that is orange juice, only orange juice. Look, I’ll show you the bottle.”
Bullshit! I was thinking.
With his options exhausted, his next move was more than daring.
“Okay, come and dance vith me.”
I could have screamed. Then I noticed that he had changed from his work clothes into white tunic and harem pajama-like pants.
“No, I will not do that!”
I ran out the front door and back to the broadcast room where I collapsed into a heap. This man was so vile, so uncouth, so dirty.
About an hour later, the night filming crew returned with the equipment. I called one of them aside, someone I trusted and poured out the whole story.
“Guma. Be strong. You are not the first one. He also did it to Esther. She suffered so much with him but she did not give in. You can handle it. That is how many men are. ”
I was angry. I expected him to throw his hands up in shock and go charging like a ram at the Indian’s door. And after we spoke, he shrugged his soldiers, said he was tired and asked if there was any food left.
One time he asked me if I was having an affair with his driver. Another time he wanted to buy me a dress for Valentine’s Day. The other staff were talking. Someone told me what people were saying. I was suffering inside, caught between a rock and a hard stone. This was my first formal job in Kampala, I had children to look after and bills to pay.
And what was worse, I did not know my way about, having lived in a different country for many years and then been deposited in a boarding school deep inside a far-off district.

############

The experiences at that workplace left me wounded. I think I suffered some form of PTSD. It didn’t matter that the sun was shining hot, I was always covered up. A sweater, a shawl, a jacket. I was not cold. I just felt the need to be covered. To ward off any unwanted suggestions my body offered. Or at least that was what I thought. That my body was attracting the wrong kind of attention. Other times it offered me comfort, a warm envelope, safety, protection. In the womb.

I heard that a few months after I left, more employees resigned. Soon, the boss was in the cross-hairs. He was eventually fired. He had been desperately searching for opportunities in Canada where he could emigrate with his family. Those opportunities were hard to come by.
One mid-morning as I went down the stairs at my new job, I spotted, through the spaces between them, a familiar figure a few flights lower. It was huffing and puffing its way up. My heart leapt with the familiar stirrings of fright.
I looked left and right but there was no door behind which I could hide. The only option was to run back up the stairs.
But just then, I told myself to be still, be strong and face the enemy- that was if he was even the one.
He was the one. In the flesh. Bearded, teletubby, gummy bear, with the same brown leather briefcase that made him look deceptively busy.
He must have been shocked to see me because he asked, “What you arre doing herre?”
“I work here.” Puffed-up me.
“Vherre?”
“Here.”

The last I heard was that the Kuber chewer had emigrated to some far off country.
Good riddance to very bad rubbish.

#kasadha'sspace

The only constant about the LC One Chairman’s office is the dust. It is everywhere- the walls are coated in a fine film, the floor is a dirty grey-brown, the green paint on the iron door carries its fair share of powder, and the three old broken suitcases that sit miserably in one corner (the manufacturer would have a fit if they saw the state of their products) - were once black.

Uganda’s former Presidents stare down. Obote once, and then twice. Muteesa. Amin. Lule. Binaisa.
In Museveni’s picture, in which he is much younger, the skin on his face is tighter, his mustache is black and, admittedly- he looks rather handsome!
 
I get confused counting the number of calendars competing for space on the walls of the tiny 10 by 10 space.
There’s one dating four years back, donated by a secondary school in Mutungo.
Most of them are from 2018, all shapes, sizes and colors. Come to think of it, there is none for 2019!
A framed picture of Chairman Kasadha in a navy blue suit and striped green and white tie adorns the space above his chair.
It hangs on a huge nail in the wall.
It must have been the one he used for the campaigns. Now he wears vitenge shirts and there are fine lines on his forehead.

He must be a football fanatic.
There’s a full color newspaper pull-out for the Premier League on which someone has scribbled in tiny letters.
A poster advertising the importance of immunization hides between one of safe motherhood and the dangers of cutting down trees.

The wooden desk, that has seen better days, has all manner of paper sitting in piles, and he occasionally dives into a folder to pick a form or a letter, then proceeds to open each of the three drawers on the left, before he starts rummaging around for a Biro or white-out liquid.
He holds the pen high and then brings it down, making it hover and dance a few centimeters above the paper before the elaborate writing exercise begins.

In addition to his dining chair, whose seat has come apart and been supplemented by a hard throw pillow, and the kalonda in Kasadha's office, there are two old sofa chairs for visitors.
One is so deep that if a human plops into it, they could actually disappear.
When there are no villagers seeking services, the chairs are occupied by hangers-on who have nowhere else to go.
And because Kasadha enjoys conversation, he welcomes them warmly.

And so it happened that I needed Kasadha's services.
A letter, introducing me to the bank for a new savings account.
It was a wild attempt since it was early morning and I was on my way to work.
Luckily, he was open.
The chair next to the door looked suspiciously inhabited by bedbugs.
I sat on the edge.

After the theatrics of letter-writing, Kasadha informed me that he was also issuing village IDs.
And when we got talking, I learnt that I could re-register for a national ID.
Kasadha scrabbled around the papers on his busy desk, emerging with a national ID application form which he proceeded to help me fill (Thank God, because I am a a paid-up member of the Global Formophobia Society, especially with the questions about the surname and given name and mother’s village and father’s parish!)

I fixed an appointment to meet the mobile ID agents.

///////////////

The office was rather busy when I arrived.
A father and his two-year-old girl who was getting irritated by the agent badgering her to stay still so that her photo could be taken.
After some time she shouted, “Daddy, for me I am tired!” but the agent would not let go.
The agent proceeded to lecture him, a man old enough to be her father, to quickly, and correctly fill out the form, make up his mind if his mother’s village is Kiteezi or Lusanja, and to make it his responsibility to check for the child’s NIN after three months.

The agent reminded me of a pussycat.
Plump, cat-shaped face with unruly permed hair.
When she bent forward to show him where to sign on the form, her short blouse shifted higher, exposing purple frilly knickers under her tight grey pants.

Then it was my turn.
“Nyabo, tuula ku ntebe.”

She had borrowed the chairman’s dining chair and I sat in the uncomfortable plastic one with a half-broken leg opposite her. She waved my form about, as she ordered the girl’s father and a layabout in the office to hold the lesu behind me when the time came to take my picture.

“Given name?”

“Sharon.”

“Surname?”

“Navuga”

“Maiden name?” Her eyes shifted to my already filled-out form. “Eh, nyabo, are these all your names?”

My head was reeling. I wanted to ask her if she had ever heard of Idi Amin Dada and all his titles.

“Level of education?”

“Degree.”

“Bachelors or Masters?”

I didn’t know whether she was beginning to sound like a robot or a nurse in a government hospital.

“Are you employed? Where?”

Now that was not on the form.

“NTV.”

The answer brought welcome winds of change. Her demeanor changed. Her features softened. Language of communication switched to English.
“Eh, you are the people who give us good programmes like Deception?”

Just then, a woman walked in carrying a tray bearing plates laden with food. The agent's attention shifted. “Let's do the photograph.”

One take was enough.

//////////////////

She turned to the young man waiting his turn. Nurse mode returned with a vengeance.

“Ate gwe ssebo?”

“I want nashnaayiddi.”

“National ID? Wajjuza foomu?”

He hadn’t filled out the form. Unlucky for him.

“Oli wa gwanga ki?”

“Mufumbira.”

“Weddira ki?”

He said he belonged to the Ngo clan.”

“Ngo?? The Bafumbira do not have Leopards!”

She reeled off some hard clan names. “Go and ask your father where you belong! Now, let me eat, for me I am hungry!”

And she reached for the plates.

#sevensofar

The first one.
It happened in a hospital.
When she was just 13.
Under the watchful eye
Of a doctor
Who said
That her body was too young.
To handle the rigours of childbirth.
He saved her from the man
Who had put her in family’s way.
Because he was married anyway.

The second time.
At 19.
Was her classmate at college.
He told a friend.
Who told another friend
Who knew a doctor friend.
Who put something inside her.
That cruelly ejected
The life growing inside of her.
The man, her classmate.
Called her spoiled goods
He couldn’t deal
And he left her.
For...
Another classmate.

Number three.
In a little backroom.
Of a dingy house
That called itself
A clinic.
In the front they
Did medical work.
But at the back
Was the devil’s workshop.
In a few hours.
She was freed.
Of that which
Had threatened to
Ruin her future.
He left her soon after.
Called her a whore.
Who couldn’t keep
Her legs shut.

Fourth time unlucky.
The condom broke.
After a party.
He was drunk
She had two glasses.
A one-night stand.
He had declared.
A crush on her.
Three months later.
He didn’t wanna know.
That must be one of
Your many men.
I cannot have babies.
I am young
Leave me alone.
This time she was stuck
Afraid that.
Her body could not
Take any more.
But when she walked.
Into that place
The one that was famous
For these kinds of things.
They welcomed her.
The fee was reasonable.
It would be clean
Free of pain
And so
Painlessly,
a life was cut short.
An innocent life.

But then one day.
She met a friend.
And they talked.
The friend said.
I cannot have bastards.
Because their fathers.
Just wanted.
Some fun with me.
Gave me money.
I got pregnant for them.
Then flushed their babies.
I’ve done seven so far.

The silence hangs heavy
The room is cold
Cold like her heart.

#officelomance

The conductor in the taxi to work was brash. “Fare to Kampala is 2,500 shillings, Kalerwe 2,000!”
Of course he was overcharging but he didn’t give a damn.
It was a take it or leave it affair.
I couldn’t afford to be late so I hopped on.

“2,500 to K’la, 2,000 Kalerwe!” he stated to everyone who moved towards the car, slamming the door in the face of anyone who dared to haggle.
At one point, a passenger who had not “properly” heard the fare attempted to argue.  
The way he put up his two fingers to show its 2k, or the door! 
You could think he was going to beat her. 

Fast forward to Mpererwe. 
Two young ladies got on. 
One took a seat at the back, the other next to him. 
After a few minutes the neighbor struck up a conversation. 
Her voice, and closeness, must have had an immediate effect- like a wonder-drug of sorts, because he dropped his slouch to adopt a straight back, his brow un-creased, and the line that was his mouth broke out into a smile as he cocked his head towards her, listening attentively.
He even forgot to call out to potential clients as the taxi, filled with empty seats, sped towards town. Ah! The power of a woman. It can soften even the toughest of edges (and egos). 

At Kalerwe, his interest got off and gave him two 1,000 shillings’ notes - for her and her girlfriend. He dropped his eyes. 
Like a shy schoolgirl.
I did not hear but I definitely saw him mouth the words- “Zino genda onywemu soda.” 
It was so soft. 
And he handed back her money. 
Stealthily. 

Then we sped off. 
It did not take him long to return to his former ways, threatening one passenger that if he didn’t “add 500 shillings he would find somewhere else to pass, but definitely not through the main door!!”

#milk'emdry

Nostalgia drove me back to the village church I last attended 13 years ago. The longing was borne from a sudden flash of memory- a Sunday morning and I am carrying my young son on my hip while the other toddled beside me, to church.

My grandfather donated the bricks for the building over 40 years ago, and it was a place that gave me some sense of peace and sanity from the troubles of life.

Sometimes I carried a small kiti moto because there were only three benches and a dusty papyrus mat, occupied by hyperactive children at the back.
I remembered how I woke up early to sweep the floor and stared out of the pane-less windows asking God to look down on me with favor.

Last Sunday, I made up my mind to relive the experience, only that this time there would be no baby on my hip and I would not be carrying a kiti moto.

Unfortunately, I reached nearly 15 minutes late, parking in the shade next to a Prado (13 years ago, cars outside this building were a myth!) opposite the entrance of the building.
I hoped I could slip in and find somewhere to sit at the back when the congregation finished the hymn.
The back bench was full but there was an empty seat somewhere in the middle.
The papyrus mat was still tucked in its corner, filled with little children who cared nothing about adult things.

“Nnyabo, jjangu o'tuule wano!” The Mubuulizi cut short her announcement for the first reading.
Eh, was she suggesting I sit at the front?

I cringed, because from memory, that front place was usually reserved for big big people and for me I was here for the experience.
It was for those people who only surfaced at Christmas and pulled out purple, red and orange-brownish notes.
“Vvaawo mwana gwe!” She shooed a teenage boy off the bench.  
Bannange, what was with this woman?
Her face transformed into a smile, “Tusanyuse okukulaba nnyabo!”
I mumbled a quick, “Kale nnyabo,” as I squeezed in, embarrassed by this uncalled-for importance I was being accorded.
“Abagenyi baffe abakulu tubaaniriza nnyo!” She was happy to see important guests.
This was turning out to be a really hard paper.

Two readings, a lengthy sermon and about 17 hymns later, the baskets came out.
Collection time.
The two-base-three- soprano choir led the song and money began to pour into the baskets.
When that ended, we sang another hymn.
Another basket came out. The Mubuulizi announced that it was collection for the choir. We moved forward again. Another hymn.

The vestry needed refurbishment and that required money.
Of the 700,000 shillings that is needed, only 30,000 had been collected.
Someone had pledged two bags of cement.
More cash and pledges please.
Another basket.
Hymn.

We would have to fund-raise for the Mothers Union as it was their day to celebrate.
The lady stood at the front, basket in hand, waiting, waiting.
Three women came forward, also dressed in the white busuuti and the blue sash.
They dropped something into her basket.
Hymn please.

The youth choir had qualified for the championships, which were three weeks away.
They needed 800,000 shillings for the two days they’d be there.
One person approached the basket.
The youths said they had some packets of fruit on sale outside.
Each pack was for 5,000 shillings.
Song.

The discussion on the church’s seed project was brief.
There must be money to be enable the planting of the forest to earn it some revenue.
Luckily the church has a huge chunk of land, still untouched by the land dealers.
Choir please?

The Mubuulizi took her seat and the Church Chair took over.
With the niceties aside, he jumped right in.

“Now, bassebo n’e bannyabo, our Mubuulizi you see here, has not been paid her salary for the last seven months. You all know how she lives- hand to mouth. We need to help her. That money is supposed to come from you. Shake out your pockets, reach deep into your bags for those notes and coins you had forgotten about. Let us all contribute kindly towards this cause. The church owes her 210,000 shillings. I will be passing a basket round."

The basket started on our line. I pulled out 5,000 shillings.
“Abalungi mu Yesu, muddize eri Mukama! Mukama mulungi!”
There was exactly 5,500 shillings in the basket when it returned to the chair.
Hymn number 26.

Someone had brought a tray of eggs to be auctioned.
“Abalungi, the church needs money, we need to make our contribution to the diocese. The auction for the tray of eggs starts at 50,000 shillings. 50,000 shillings! Anyone? Who is adding, who is adding?

He came towards us, handing the basket to my neighbor, the owner of the Prado.
It was my cue to leave.
Hopes of reliving any memories had been dashed.

#Finding.Myself.Again

“I’m lost”.

Disappeared in a maze of confusing complications
Many times I nearly succeeded in finding my way
And when the mouth of the cave that swallowed me
Came into view
The huge jaws opened again and gobbled me up
Took me past the throat
And into the belly of
Nothingness. Self-doubt. Unworthiness.

In the maze are signs that read
“At Six Years- sitting under Mummy’s sewing table
making doll’s clothes.”

Another says “12 Years- Gazing out of window
To stare at the people
on the other side of the fence.”

And this one stands out boldly,
“14 Years - When you found your voice
And crept out of your quiet reclusive shell.”

The next is rather fun.
“16 Years - When nothing could stop you.”

“20 Years - when you brought forth life
To become a mother, a nurturing spirit.”

But I’ll admit, though grudgingly,
That it was the first time I experienced
The loss of innocence
It could have been the youth in me
That quickly kicked away the doubt,
That tore at the bush of despondency,
The forest of fear.
The sticky web of indecision, utter bewilderment
A deep mess of ignorance about life
In a state where I believed what I believed
Stuck on the thin line between girl and woman.

For 18 years, I stumbled through the mesh
of growing up and responsibility
Juggling motherhood, work, daughterhood
Walking deeper into the wood.
“God help me,” I cried every night
Not believing that He would.

You see, it took me quite some time
To figure out that life is a process.
And certain things do not fall into place
Just at the snap of your fingers.
My mantra quickly became
“I do not know”, “I am tired”, “I’m so done”.

I know now,
That that was the climax of my hopelessness.
And that from that point on,
Things could only get better.
Slowly by slowly, I found the strength
to start the climb
out of the abyss of self-deprecation
The pit of hopelessness,
The black hole where I lost Me.

And then, in the quest for more meaning
I lost my grip,
slipped and slid several feet down
Landing smack into another cavity.
Here, things grabbed at me
Held me tight in their claws
And began to suffocate me
Long hours of slaving, lethargy of ideas
The life drained out again,
Creativity was stifled, beliefs crumbled,
Self-esteem fled, morale was crushed.
And once again, I returned to the empty shell
I had so tried to escape.

The metamorphosis was slow
But the results were glaring.
They saw it, I felt it
Too worn out to fight this time
I let myself go.
Maybe I would find peace as a nobody.

But in my dog-tired state, I heard a sound
Like a whisper at first.
I refused to lift my head but it persisted
Becoming louder and louder with time
Until it became a voice
In my head, a voice that said
“Get up! Lift yourself!”
And then the words of the US’s black President
He who married Michelle, came to me,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
And the chorus grew, and grew
Rising in volume each time it was repeated
And I leaned on my forearms, sat up.

Another voice murmured,
“You gotta get your groove back!”
And God, with his might,
gave me the push I needed
To get back on my feet.
And though I toddled a bit,
Floundered like a fish out of water,
I got stronger by the day.

And now, even if I can’t yet run,
I walk with my head up straight
The mist is clearing,
I just saw my goals wave at me
Life gave me a thumbs up
And I am ready
To. Find. Myself. 
Again.

#44days

The pain, oh the pain. What am I going to do? What will I do? God, how do I move on from here? How do I? How, O Lord? Help me, help me, help me!!

The cry of a man in anguish.
A man who has been betrayed.
A man who for eight years has loved a woman.
A man who has been through it with her.
A man who has heard countless times how the woman is not good for him.
But a man who has said that, in spite of it all, he will  love her.

But today, the truth has unfolded.
The truth that has caused him to be in this situation.
It is the truth no man wants to hear.
That the child the woman has been carrying and has delivered, the child that he was so happy to have, the child he went home to every night and woke up to every morning, is not his.


Eight years. Eight blasted years.
That was how long they had been together.
In those eight years, he had wooed her, she had accepted him, with a bit of reluctance at the time.
He was a young man, still in school, he had nothing much to offer except love.
And he was broke.
Campus life was not easy, he depended on the government allowance and the little he made off a side business, burning and selling movie CDs, while he juggled with attending lectures, doing tests and examinations.
He had left campus with a second-class upper degree in Social Studies. He would take what life threw at him.

What am I going to tell my family?
What will my mother say?
My people know this is my child.
I told them when she got pregnant.
I shared my journey with them.
They have supported me all through.
Yes, my brother had his doubts about this relationship four years ago, and he told me, but …. Oh, God, what am I going to do? What?

22nd January 2019.
Time: 2pm.
He sits in the doctor’s room across from the mother of his child.
The child is not sick.
She’s not sick.
He’s not sick.
The doctor is saying something but all he hears is, “excluded” over and over again.
“Too many unnecessary technical terms”, he thinks, “this guy needs to cut to the chase. I’ve got stuff to do.”
And midway through the doctor’s droning on and on, “Doctor, you’re using the word excluded over and over, and it’s making me rather uncomfortable. What do you want to tell us?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitates, and shifts in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “That…”
“That what?” His hands have started shaking uncontrollably. That word ‘that’ was heavy, laced with a lot of meaning.
“That you are not the father!”

Bam! Something hits him hard in the chest, like a battering ram, and he falls back.
His eyes are swimming.
His head is pounding.
Thunder in his ears.
Huge black birds coming at him, their sharp yellow beaks wanting to peck him.
His heart is threatening to burst out of his rib-cage.

Then he thinks, ‘I have to be a man!’

“What do you mean I am not the father?” He has regained his composure.
“Exactly that Mr. Buwembo. That you are not the father of this child. That he is not your son.”
And the pain makes a second landing.
This time he feels like something has been ripped from his body, a huge piece of flesh.
He stands up and pats his chest.
Then his head.
Then his legs.
And then he becomes aware that this is beginning to look, and feel extremely dramatic.

The mother of his child, Anna has bowed her head.
Oh, scratch that -- his former child!
She does not hear the baby gurgle as he calls for attention, wanting someone to play with.
Buwembo looks at her and hate fills his heart.
She starts weeping, and she reaches into her bag for a hanky.
"Take the baby."
He cannot.
He will not touch the child.

He does not know what to feel for this little innocent being.
A being for whom he had so much love.
The one who made him smile as he sat through the heavy traffic from work every evening.
The one whose eyes melted his heart.
The little thing who kept him awake for hours in the night, wanting to play, waving his limbs about, and causing him to feel sleepy during the day.

But just for 44 days.

It is indeed a rude realization, an impolite breakaway.
She is now crying uncontrollably.
Huge heaves, blowing loudly into her hanky.
The doctor is quiet.
It is an uncomfortable situation, but he has seen some.  
Actually, Buwembo is one of the calmer types.

Mothers have walked in here, saying all sorts of things, swearing in all sorts of languages about how children belong to the man and asking how he can subject her to such a test.
Many times, the children have turned out to be someone else’s and men have broken down and bawled like babies after the realization that the boys and girls they have loved and cared for, are not theirs.
Others have charged at the mother of the children, wanting to throttle or beat the hell out of her. 
Some have ranted.
Others have punched the air and celebrated the fact that they are washing their hands of the wretched woman and her equally wretched brats, happy to be able to start a new life without the burden of school fees and break money.

“Well,” he says as he regains his composure, and when it dawns on him that there will be no more theatrics.
“Yes, Mr. Buwembo. So you need to sign this form.”
“No Doctor. I will not sign anything. Let her sign. I’m out of here!”
She raises her head, looks at him with pleading eyes.
He is not moved, and averts his gaze.
God, he cannot stand her!
He needs to leave this space.
How can he be sharing the same oxygen with Jezebel?
Thank God she had left his place temporarily.
She must have known all along because she didn’t hesitate when he asked for the DNA test. 
Of course her lack of hesitation meant something was amiss.
God, how could he be so stupid!
Now he asks himself if anything about the baby resembled him.
There had to be something at least.
The nails?
The hair perhaps?
What about the feet?

The words of his friend, and brother echo in his head.
He hears them again, but even as they sound so far away, they are clear.
“You should have left that girl four years ago!” his brother had told him.
Upon the persistent urging of his friend when the child was born, Buwembo had decided to postpone the baptism ceremony and do a paternity test.
“Just check and see, something is not right.” His friend put it down to a sixth sense.
Men do not say much.
When they do, there is much meaning.
This time, he had listened.
And now the worst has come to pass, his fears have been confirmed.
The baby is not his.
Pain. Pain. Pain.

He has spent so much on the whole process.
From the time she told him the good news.
Hospital prenatal visits.
Cravings in the night.
Driving to her parents' house.
And it’s not even about the money, which hovers in the range of nearly four million shillings.
It is the feelings he has put into this relationship, the love he invested, the time, the care, the trust.

‘What will I do, oh Lord? What am I going to do? How will I go on from here? How will I tell my parents? How will they look at me? They will surely judge me! Oh God! I do not know what to do! Will I be able to work? What kind of man am I? Do I even have the capacity to love or be loved? Eight years I have given to this woman. Eight bloody years. I have cared for her with the little that I have. And when she got pregnant, I said I would look after her, to ensure that nothing happens to her and the baby. And this is what she does? Oh, okay.'

His mind is racing, but he cannot find the tears.
They. Just. Will. Not. Come.
He leans forward, head in his hands, feeling the headache coming on strong.
Suddenly he gets up from the chair and walks to the door.
He is a man and he has work to do.
But as he touches the door handle, a big tear slides unbidden, down his cheek, and he breaks down and sobs like a baby, collapsing in a heap, his body wracked with raw pain.

#pastsins

We had been talking for hours, catching up on old times. She had spent the last two years and seven months in Nairobi and Mombasa doing business. And though she didn’t say exactly what business she was doing, some of the advice that peppered our conversation raised my suspicion that she had been involved in something sinister.

‘God, am I judging her?’ I thought. After all, she was okay giving an account about the three abortions she had procured just so she could keep her relationship going.
“No way was I returning to Kampala with other men’s children!”

The first was a one-night stand. With a guy she met at the market where she’d gone to buy fabric from the heavily- bleached Congolese women who smuggled them into Kenya.
He was the one at the stall, the Madame was away for a few hours.
And when they got talking, both in broken Kiswahili, she fell for the few French words like ‘oui’ and ’s’il vous plaît’ that he mentioned unconsciously.

He followed her to her the rooms she shared with two other young women.
They ended up in bed.
A month later, she discovered, to her dismay, that she was with child.
She did not see or hear from him again.
Madame told her that he was her cousin.
He had flown to Belgium three weeks ago.

That marked the end of that baby.
In a back-end clinic where the fetus had been thrown into a red plastic bucket with two others.

The next two kiddos were with the same guy.
They had dated on and off for five months.
And she had flushed the babies.
No qualms.

Well, she was happy to be back. Life in Nairobi was hell. And all the while she missed her two boys. Surprisingly, their father, that fat, sloppy, good-for-nothing thing of a man was glad to see her.
Even though he’d never wanted to marry her or show any love, he cared for the kids and gave her money for food and school.
But that didn’t take away the fact that he was a slob.
He only came to her occasionally and when he was done, he slid off her and returned to his room. Yes, they slept in different rooms.

It had been like that for some time.
She had grown tired of the charade - her slipping back into their bedroom at 5am, just to give the boys the picture that things in the home were good.
Sneaking into each other's rooms was tiring.

And then she heard that Pato had been saying things to the girls that brought him food at the shop. Someone whispered that he had occasionally invited one to spend a few hours in the night when Nissy was away upcountry visiting her mother.
Then, the fact that she was the real definition of a housewife (only that she didn’t have the ring) was driving her up the wall.
That, and having to depend on a man for everything.
She had to do something for herself.
Leave the kids and go look for money, capital to invest.
Money that was hers.

But here she was.
Back.
Empty-handed.
With no idea where to even start.

****************
Lunch was delicious. A special meal for old friends. Matooke, rice, liver, doodo. The conversation flowed freely.
“Girl, something’s been bugging me for a long time. Years, actually.”
This chic had a lot going on.
“A huge, huge secret. Man, if only you knew! God! This is so hard!”
My quizzed look egged her on. Of course I wanted to know!
She looked at the floor.
“Ah, its okay. I’ll deal with it. I will. I came back determined to finish it, once and for all.”
“What is it Nissy?
She shook her head.
“No, lemme deal with it. Oh, God, why?”
“C’mon, let it out. It’s okay. Let it out. Hey.”

When she was 20, she had started an affair with a married man at work.
Being the naive intern then, she’d allowed Martin to take her out on dates, had giggled when he complemented her, and eventually ended up spending the night with him while on an upcountry trip. This was in spite of the fact that she was living with her boyfriend, Pato.
Before he fell off the wagon, to become the eccentric pig that he was now.

And when her son came, she was ecstatic.
However, when he was about three months old, she began to notice things about him that looked so much like Martin.
The shape of his head.
The extra little finger on his left hand.
Pato was glad to have a son. “My heir!” he boasted to friends and family.

And little Jonny grew more and more handsome every day.
Eyes like his father’s, the eyes that had bedazzled her.
The athletic build.
The broad forehead.
She had no idea if Pato noticed anything, but if he did, he was very diplomatic about it, and said nothing.
And then she had had another son and Pato doted on him as well. And all was good for some time until Pato had started to become more and more distant.

Martin called off the relationship when he realized she was pregnant.
And when her internship period ended, she had left and not seen or heard from him again. But one day, she and seven-year-old Jonny had stopped by a restaurant in town for a bite, and lo and behold, there was Martin, finishing up a late lunch.
They had talked for a few minutes and he took a special interest in Johnny.
“Maybe he saw the resemblance, the little finger, hmmm …”
But she had said nothing.
It was only after Martin left, that she confirmed.
There was no mistaking.
Johnny was Martin’s son.

******************
Now here she was, in the storm of a dilemma.
It hung heavy on her shoulders.
Jonny was 17, going on 18 next month.
Pato was always complaining about him, saying he was becoming a problem - that he didn’t clean his room, his grades were bad, he was moving with the wrong company.

What had happened in the time she had been away?
Yes, Johnny had grown.
He was now a young man, soon to be an adult.
It was obvious he felt his Dad’s disfavor and was glad to see his mother back.
He doted on her like he was six again.
But her heart was heavy.
And it had been like that for a long time.
Should she tell him the truth?
Was it a secret she should take to her grave?
She was torn.
"What do I do?"
I did not know what to say.

**************

She had recently discovered that Martin had been bedridden for four months.
She got up and went into her room and returned with an old picture.
He was tall and lean.
“That was when we had just started going out. This guy looked so good, oh! But, I recently met this chic who worked in his office and she told me he had been in hospital for a month, and that when he was discharged, he was still so sick to return to work.”

She feared that the worst could happen.
That he could die. She wondered where she could find him.
She wondered if he’d want to know that truth.
Even though he had never asked. 
She figured that she could let Jonny know that Martin was his father, but Pato was his Dad.
Dad.
The one who had raised him, and bathed him and loved him.
Like his one son.
Dad.
Nissy reasoned that not fathering a child didn’t mean you could not love him.
Anyone can be a father, but being a Dad was special.
Pato was special to Jonny. 

But again, she worried what Jonny would think about her.
That she was wild?
That she was a cheat?
Wouldn’t that lower his estimation of her?

Worry was tearing her heart apart.
Her thoughts tortured her.
She had become an insomniac, tossing and turning and turning and tossing every night.
She panicked at the mere memory.
And when she looked at Johnny, tears pricked her eyes.

Personally, I felt that she should hold her peace.
Why disrupt her son’s life at this stage?
It could leave him empty, devastated, disturbed.
Why open a can of worms, Pandora’s box, why not let sleeping dogs lie?
All the cliches and idioms sprang to mind.

But I knew deep down that the final solution was hers.

//////////
Nissy called me at 6am.
Pato had known all along, and he had told her so last night.
That he had done a DNA test while she was in Nairobi, and confirmed his suspicions but waited for the right time to tell her.
And now he wanted her to tell Jonny. 

#mansbestfriend

The fight was for his dog.
Maybe he loved it more than he loved himself.
Anti they say, that a dog is man’s best friend. And so when the stone hit the dog and it yelped loudly, it’s owner rushed out to see what the matter was.

The dog-hitter had assumed this was a stray. Far from it.
It happened to have an owner who, on seeing a young man walking off, assumed (correctly) that he was the one who had caused the dog to cry out in pain.

The dog owner charged for the dog-hitter. Pow! On the back. How dare you attack my dog?

The dog-hitter was stunned. Had the dog suddenly transformed into a human being? Because, in his world, every dog that ran around in the street was a stray. Period. If someone had so much love for an animal, it would have been behind a fence, a gate, in a kennel, clean fur, flea-less, drinking milk and crunching bones. Not a mangy like this…. this… this …

Why are you hitting me?

How dare you beat my dog? Pow! Pow! Pow!

Dog hitter sprang into action and hit back. Boof! Slap!

For several minutes, they grappled with each other in the dark, swung punches, exchanged blows, wrestled, grabbed at, and tore shirts. In the dust.
Man's best friend joined in the melee, barking hysterically, snapping and snarling at dog-hitter for attacking his boss.

Then they took a commercial break. Dog’s best friend shouted, I will show you today, that you don’t go around attacking animals for nothing.

He reached for the ground then flung the stone with all his might. It connected with dog-hitter’s skull.
Dog hitter saw red. Blood.
Dog hitter was groaning.

His pals who had ran away in fear, given the ferocity with which he was being attacked, suddenly woke from their stupor and returned to the ring to rescue their own who had gone in for Round Two.

A bodaboda rider passing by stopped and jumped off his bike (these ones are famous for smelling trouble from miles away). With his huge hands, he effortlessly picked dog owner off dog hitter who he was pummeling in the dust. Tossed him away like a bad potato.
What is the matter? What is making you fight like this?

Dog owner repeated his accusation.

The boda rider jeered and told him to stop being stupid because in this part of the world, you can’t beat up another man for a dog. A mere dog. Embwa. Who did that? Go away naawe!

Dog hitter was bleeding profusely from the opening on his head. He leaned on the wall, wailing loudly. Then just like that, he collected himself and walked to where his shocked friends stood.
Dog owner had vanished when he heard mention of police being called to the scene.

Just then man’s best friend ran by. Again.
In anger, dog hitter picked up a stone and hurled it at man’s best friend.

Some people never learn.

#justdressright

Do you know how bad it feels is when you dress wrong for the occasion?

Like when, as a young management trainee, my boss for whom I was acting as PA to an outdoor event (that required lots of walking, and climbing), told me to dress right and look the position. So I turned up the next day in an electric blue baggy tracksuit, an even baggier grey t-shirt (tucked into the pants) and sneakers (he said the event required lots of walking and climbing, right?!).

My boss nearly had a fit. 

Everybody else was wearing crisply-ironed shirts tucked into trousers or skirts, nice dresses, “gentle” shoes, pumps. 

And there I was, looking like something the cat dragged in. That was one of my longest days.

So Valentine’s Day is here.

For some, they spent hours getting ready. Everything was prepared a week ago. It doesn’t matter that they were going to work today, or that they’ll be drowned in a color claimed by the People Power outfit.

For them its red from the get-go. Dress, coat, panty, shirt, vest, boxers, bra, petticoat (do they still wear them?) heels, wig, earrings - kila kindu, you name it, kwa mfuko.

One year, I had a good laugh. Alone. See, in this our media industry, you need to be prepared for anything. Anything. Like going out to cover a press conference announcing Heroes Day celebrations, a parliamentary session, it could be a murder in a remote place, or a demonstration turned rowdy. Anything.

And so, Somebode arrived, all decked out in black and red and heels. Maybe they expected it would be a peaceful day, and that when darkness fell, it would be a matter of sprucing up - lipstick, powder, darkening of eyebrow and voila! ready for dinner with Bae.

But God had other plans.

The story that Somebode was assigned was about why a dusty road which was becoming a health hazard had been in that state for forever.

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. You show up for work, you gotta deliver, otherwise take the day off and celebrate Valentine’s Day with Bae --- BUT --- you better come back with a really good explanation.
Long story short. The assignment worked against her Valentine's Day plans.

Not even the lipstick and powder could save her.

#loud silence

Silence
Deafening silence
He can hear
But he cannot speak.
That right is no longer his
He lost the freedom to express himself
One evening last week.

Nobody knows how he feels
Nobody will know what happened
When he felt the strong tug
As the supply of blood to his brain
Was cut off, blocked
Temporarily stopped.

He heard the doctors say something about oxygen
Something about about nutrients, brain cells
Something about requiring an MRI or a PSD
Something about drugs to break down the clot
Words like aneurysms, cholesterol, constrictions.
Wait - did someone mention surgery?

Children run to his bedside,
Some worried, some not at all
Some wondering if he has a will
And if he will bequeath
Them some property
Visitors come bearing help
Food, money, moral support
Some blaming the doctors
For not doing enough,
Speaking at the top of their voices.

He lies there like a child,
A cabbage in a patch,
Unable to control his muscles
On the right side of his body.
His mouth droops slightly
But what scares him most
Is not how he looks
But the inability to speak.

He remembers that even in the worst
Of his drunken stupors,
He did not slur this much
The guttural noises that rise in his throat
Sound like they belong to someone else.
Because in the flash of second,
He lost it, when she said
That she had sold his bicycle
Because he never used it
And preferred to stagger home
Dead drunk from the bars and hovels.

He remembers that he screamed at her
She yelled back and said
All sorts of terrible things
That did not exclude death threats.

And then the birds came
Angry black birds
They came for his head
And then he saw nothing
But felt himself
Falling, falling.
Then there was silence.
Loud and empty silence. 

©LindaKibombo

#inthatroom

In that room,

On that night

Unspeakable things happened

In silence,

She was violated

Lost her innocence.

Defiled by two boys

Young, nubile, her age

Desecrated, Defiled, Disrespected.

Left empty, polluted, contaminated.

In that room.


In that room,

On that cold cold night,

Homeless and desperate,

She gave up her rights

On that single bed

On that rock-hard

Stained mattress

With no sheets

They poked, probed, prodded

Thrust, plunged, lunged

Pinched her young breasts

Put their filthy hands

Around her throat.

Kneed her legs apart

Forced themselves onto her

Taking turns, several times,

And when

the first light appeared

Kicked her out

Of that room.

©LindaKibombo

#ditchingthediet

Been Eight days
“Working well, working well!”
Until you decide to skip Lunch
‘Coz well, the weather’s so hot!”
And you don’t really
Feel like walking the few yards
In the blazing sun.
And so you settle for a Cuppa,
Unsweetened. You’re getting used
To it.

But before you know it
Spoon whispers your name
“Yes Spoon?” you answer.
Spoon leads your hand to Sugar Bowl
Who has been sitting there
Looking really mournful because
You ignored her in the morning
And then Spoon order Hand to
Scoop some sugar. Shyly.
Another scoop.
And then another. Boldly.

Cuppa silently, gratefully
Receives the sweet crystals
In goes Teabag
Settling comfortably, waiting for
Boiling liquid.
To help her prove
The very reason for her existence.

And without a second thought,
Cuppa is lifted to Mouth.
Tongue agrees
With the acquired taste.
Diet cries herself to sleep.
Because she has been
Through this drill
A million times before.

©LindaKibombo

#doordie

My friend is sick and I have gone to the hospital to be with her.
As I wait for the doctor to complete his procedures,
I walk out of the building to catch some fresh air.
While I am leaning on the balcony, I overhear a conversation between a young woman who is standing a few feet away, and someone on the phone, someone, I am later to learn, is her pastor.
She urgently seeks his advice.
It is a matter of life and death.
And since I cannot hear the voice on the other side, I will imagine what he says.

Caller: Pastor, gyebale ko.
Pastor: Kale, Kristiina. Amiina!

Kristiina: Nze Pastor, nnina ekizibu kinene!
Pastor: The Bible says, “Ask and you shall receive.” What is the problem?

Kristiina: I’m here at the hospital with a fellow church member. Mirembe.
(Pastor must know this Mirembe member of his flock because Kristiina continues breathlessly.)

Kristiina: You see, I am in a quagmire of sorts. She has been in labour for four days now and the doctor says she must be operated if the baby is to be delivered safely.

Pastor: I hear….
Kristiina: Now Pastor, the doctor has told me to sign the consent form but for me I can't.

Pastor: Why?
Kristiina: (Agitated) Pastor, I cannot do that! What if the worst happens?! What will I do? Where will I hide? How will I live with it? No, I will not!

Pastor: Calm down Kristiina, calm down.
Kristiina: No! No! No! I will not calm down! That stupid husband of hers is just fooling me! He says that he is out of town and keeps lying to me that he is on the way but he has not arrived. Now he is saying that he will be here by 11pm and yet the doctor says this is an emergency!

Pastor: ???
Kristiina: Anyway, I am leaving the hospital Pastor. I know God will forgive me. I have been here two days now and the baby doesn’t want to come, so for me I am going back home.

Pastor (pleading): Kristiina, Mirembe is your friend, do not abandon her in her time of need.
Kristiina: Nedda Pastor, remember I have a man. The one you prayed for me to get. Do you want him to leave me?

Pastor: Of course not!
Kristiina: Then I am risking my bufumbo. Do you know that he has started abusing me, mbu I am staying out too late and not cooking for him?

Pastor: (Taken aback)
Kristiina: Yes! If she goes into the theatre now, she’ll probably leave at 2am. Saawa munaana! Whose house do you enter at that time of the morning? Whose?

Pastor: Kristiina, the Bible says…
Kristiina: Today it is not about what the Holy Book says. I am running away from Mirembe, I am. And do you know what Pastor? These days my husband has been doing so much for me. He is giving me extra loving and care. Everything I tell him to do, he does.

(I honestly do not know what Pastor says at this stage but it must have a cooling effect. Because …)

Kristiina: Kale Pastor.

#bossesdayout

Some were up as early as 2am, leaving warm beds for the long bumpy ride to the city.

Bosses had ordered them to ensure that the vehicles were properly fueled as there would be no unnecessary stops.

You see, they would be travelling to Kampala for a very very important meeting. With the Bigi Bigi Man.

Yes. They were also instructed to have a bath, comb their hair and dress smartly because Bosses could not afford to be embarrassed by an unkempt employee.

“No, it doesn’t matter if you don’t have a coat, just ensure that your shoes are brushed and that your trousers are ironed!”

And so the long long drives began, some hundreds of miles from remote Nakapiripirit, Kaabong and Yumbe because the invitation card said the day’s program would begin at 9am.

Along the way, Bosses stopped at the roadside markets for some “breakfast” of grilled chicken, sticks of liver and goat’s muchomo and gonja while Drivers faithfully kept eyes on the road and pretended they were not hungry.

After all, there would be a hefty allowance later, why waste it on food that you can get back home? That chicken that you only have to chase, pin down and cut its throat. Eh, that one.

Driiiveve. Driiive. Driive. Drive.

And so it was that they finally began to spot the high-rise buildings, flyovers, by-passes and the feeling of being Kampala, the city of the Pearl, started to register.

“They said Parliament, do you know where Parliament is? You know for you people, you are only used to driving in Kaseses and Mubendes?”

“Yes Sir!”

But when they arrived at the Ministry's gates, the security personnel shooed them away.

“The parking is full now. Drive to the other side and look for parking near the Serena!”


“Serena, where is Serena?”

“You pass there, and go like that. Up there behind. Go and go then you will see the other cars. UGs, LGs. Not UBD. Move, you are blocking the way!”

The line is already long by the time Bosses and Drivers arrive the other side, up there behind near the Serena and park their cars.

Bosses emerge, stretching, kicking their legs.

The drive has surely been long. Creases in Kaundas are smoothed down. The cap to go with the flowing agbada is lifted from the dashboard and placed deftly on forehead. The angle is important. The color is equally critical.
Garish-colored ties.
Oversized coats.
Briefcases.
No Poroblem bags.
Folders and files in hand.

“You stay here and wait, eh!”

“Okay Sir!”

The question about what time Boss will be out gets stuck in Driver's throat.

It’s too early for a dress down.

He had been silently hoping that he could do a quick dash downtown and get something for his wife. Anyway, we’ll see, we’ll see.

Five hours later.

Drivers had decided to hold their own mini conferences in the backs of some pick-up trucks.

Topics for discussion range from distances driven, the beautiful Kampala and the woman with a good figure who made all this happen. This city of the Pearl of Africa.

Some boast that they have been here before.

There are moans about low salaries, no allowances, stingy big-bellied bad bosses.

Some drivers are beginning to yawn and wonder aloud if there are any cheap eating joints in this neck of the woods.

News flash! None.

Because just across from where they are is the G-R-A-N-D Serena.

Hiding behind it is the Imperial's tiled monstrosity.

Oh, and… wait a minute, the majestic Sheraton is just up the hill.

Eh, so what do people on this side eat? What about down this side?

That is the place where people go to act. Two sumbusas cost 6k. What? Ngula bulamu? Si this bulade thing was supposed to have ended a long time ago?

Seems like lunch will have to be foregone. Is there time for a quick afternoon nap before the long drive home.

Another three hours later and there is no sign that Bosses are done.

There is an unconfirmed rumor that the Bigi Bigi man has not yet made an entrance.

Drat! This is the rio rio kamanyiiro!

The gatherings have disintegrated and participants again retire to the safety of the cars for an afternoon snooze.

And as they sleep and the sun starts to set, Bosses return, guffawing and recounting Bigi Bigi Man’s speech, strong handshake and scrumptious saladizi.

Bosses settle heavily into cars.

“You drive now. We must get back before nightfall.”

Drivers puts pedals to metals.

And Bosses push back seats, fold arms over big bellies and retire to dreamlands.

#oppositionpolitics

The message comes through WhatsApp, on one of those journalists’ groups.

That there will be a press conference organized by Reformers Party and, "We therefore invite you, our media partners to cover the event.”

And so the journalists descend on the venue at some headquarters, office, room, hotel in town to listen to what the fiery opposition want to say.

More often than not, the main speaker comes late.

Grand entrance things.

Keep 'em waiting things.

The spokesperson has already arrived.

To ensure that they calm the journalists in case they threaten to leave because “ for them they are tired of being ‘underlooked’!”

And when the "main convener" does arrive, flanked by other party members who have also been promised a chance to chip in should the need arise.

As desired, there is a flurry of camera flashes before he takes his seat.

So he is assured he will be on TV tonight, or in the papers tomorrow. 

His prepared speech is typed out on A4 paper.

They sit in a line and pull out their grimmest faces as the journalists scramble to put microphones on the table in front of them.

Then he starts, “We, the members of the Reformers Party condemn in the greatest possible way the siphoning and wastage of funds by the NRM government.” 

If it is a rant about police: “ We, the Reformers Party condemn Police criminal behavior with the manhandling of our members in Budhumbula. We cannot sit back and watch, and we have called upon the Human Rights Watch to intervene! We condemn in the greatest way, the acts of the regime!”

Sometimes they threaten to go to court: “Why on earth did they have to stop our celebration? We have informed our lawyers to start proceedings and on Tuesday next week, we shall…”

They can also express disappointment as they wave their hands about wildly: “They tell people lies. We have told them the truth! This is the party that stands for the truth and only the truth!”

Then he pauses and looks around for approval.

Also waiting for the point to sink in. 

Sometimes they could demand the immediate release of a jailed member with immediate effect.

And what about when they disassociate themselves with a certain campaign and brand it illegal?

One of the press conferences that I found hilariously ridiculous was announcing the postponement of an event.

In the middle of a sea of stony-faced party officials, the speaker read from a prepared speech, stumbling over his words as he attempted to speak firmly in an imported English accent.


As he read and read, and occasionally raised his eyes, the message of defiance he was trying to send was lost in translation.

He sounded like something from the Shakespearean days.

Exaggerated, comic and if he could have, should have used “thee” and “hast”.

At one point, he attempted to shake his fist.

C'mon now, this was only an announcement for a postponement. 

I think they have been so conditioned to rail against something that everything needs a show of opposition. 


And when that speech is done, they permit only three questions.

And demand that the journos must stick to the subject addressed.

Hands shoot up.

Someone scribbles them down and they are answered. 

The rest of the members sit silently, stony-faced, but making sure they are captured in the camera shot.

Respect?

Then the journalists ask for a translation in Luganda. “Luugu please?”.

If there is anyone from a foreign media house- they will request for Kiswahili…

#tubaffwewe

Sometimes I liked you

Sometimes I wasn’t so sure

But today I finally know what I feel

Yes.

There is

Immense hatred

flowing out of me

for you.

Like hot lava,

it makes its way out of my body.

Out of my heart

Out of my very being.

It makes me wish it could

consume you

burn you

to a crisp, to a cinder,

To embers that glow no more.

To ash

so that you are nothing.

So that your ugly mouth

can no longer

bare its broken yellow teeth

and that nonsense

that you bleat

the empty threats

that you make

are forever stuck

in your throat

choking you like the bone

from a stolen piece of fish.

Your bulbous nose,

your puffy face,

that has suffered years

of self-inflicted alcohol-abuse

a voice scarred

by decades of imbibing waragi

As you lie and lie

Through the stinky

broken yellow teeth

As you try- but miserably fail

To justify your ugly deeds.

Last time you raised your voice

to cry
To complain that

the ground was not leveled

when you accused your peers

of eating off the golden plate

and not throwing you

enough crumbs

I want to call you a bad word,

Tubaff! 

And what the Kikuyus spit out

F**kini!

That’s who you are.

I don’t remember what it was like

when I liked you

But one thing I am sure of

is that

I loathe you

with an unrivaled passion.

Trash.

Scumbag.

You.

©LindaKibombo

#thosehouses

Those houses…

The ones located in places which
know no mud or slush when it rains.
Areas which do not see any dust or teargas.
Those ones which sit on a half acre of land
at the top of the hill
and at the end of a long, neat, paved walkway,
which you drive up to reach the parking area.
The residences with spacious garages that can
comfortably house three cars.
The ones which are hidden behind
high solid wrought iron gates
and chain link fences along which vines of ivy
and honeysuckle creep and climb
to hide them from the view of peering prying eyes.
Houses whose assurance of security comes from
askaris in uniform,
men armed with a gun and a baton,
surveillance cameras, and dogs
which feed on meat and milk.
The lodgings where
you have to ring a bell at the gate and
when you do, the dogs
start barking ferociously.
The plush homes with well-tended flower gardens,
mowed lawns, sprawling green grounds,
where the songs of the birds, the buzz of the bees
and the piercing quiet, are normal sounds.
The ones in the
so-called "leafy neighborhoods"
In winding roads that go round and round the hills
Roads that are labelled Lanes,
Boulevards, Groves, Drives and Streets.
Whose space on the sides is untouched
to allow for evening strolls,
for joggers, sprinters
and those looking to keep fit as they take brisk health walks
The ones which have signs at the door that shout
“ Welcome to our humble abode”
With wind chimes that tinkle in the wind.
Those bungalows with old red tiled roofs,
Which have been scrubbed clean of the moss
that threatened to grow over them,
The ones with huge bay windows,
flung open to let in the cool fresh breeze,
and the light.
And when the night comes, hundreds of bulbs
make the place look as light as day.
Servants’ quarters for the helps,
kennels for the dogs
Hutches for the pet rabbits,
a tree-house for the kids.

Those houses...
Do not know places
Like Korogocho, Katanga, Kisenyi,
where the residents literally
sleep in each other’s faces
in their cramped, wretched hovels
made of mud and wattle,
wood and plastic bags.
Shacks, holey tin roofs,
Sharing tight spaces with all manner of vermin
Rats, Cockroaches, Fleas, Bedbugs, Lice.
Here, when it rains it pours
Because the myalas, filled with discarded buveeras
and bottles, overflow and
vomit their yucky contents on the
always wet and mushy ground.
Where flying toilets are the order of the day.
and it is not uncommon to step into something
soft and smelly
The choking stench from the sewage,
heaps of rotting garbage.
Whiffs of marijuana smoke, cigarettes.
Gangs of youths, hair unkempt, eyes glassy,
smoking, snorting, injecting.
Children playing in the narrow alleyways.
A mama running a brothel,
She tells the kids, "Go and play,
Your Unco is here and we want to talk,
you will come back later."
The house where 11 people share space
with the jerricans, sigiri, saucepans.
Mangy dogs, stray cats
No chickens wandering aimlessly.

Those houses ... 


©LindaKibombo

#boandi

We broke it off on Friday.

I had wanted us to spend the weekend together and had planned each day with precision. I called at about 7pm. Bo was still at work.

”Very busy right now. Can I call you later?”

I didn’t get to say what I wanted before he hung up.

I had thought he could pick me up on his way home.

And so I settled by the television and watched two episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Next I knew I was waking up and it was 10: 20pm.

I reached for my phone, it didn’t show anyone had called. “Gosh, Bo really is busy!”

My weekend bag was packed and sitting in the chair. Should I drive there myself?
That didn’t look like a good idea and so I waited. And waited.

An hour later, I decided to call. I was cold and disappointed. My plan had included a cuddle in the sofa as we watched a good movie I had picked.

No answer.

Ten minutes. I called again.

Bo's voice was sleep-ridden.

“Oh, Terry, I’m sorry. I meant to call you back, but I got so busy and forgot.”

“It’s okay (but it was not OK!). So, are you still at work?”

“Ummmmm… (now that was a long ummmmmm….) No, I’m at home.

“Home? I thought we could spend the weekend together and that’s why I called earlier. I wanted to ask you to pick me up.”

Silence.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yes,” he grunted.

“I’m sorry Terry. Not this weekend. I’m tired, and really need to rest. You know next week is going to be really grueling with the trips upcountry.”

“Oh, I wish you had told me. But look, we could spend some time together, I promise I will let you rest, I’ll cook for you, I’ll carry my computer and can watch movies and then…”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to. I have food in the fridge left over from last night. I can warm that.”

I was disappointed. But a last-ditch attempt would not hurt.

“Honey, I miss you. It’s been some time, remember last week you had that wedding and the other weekend it was the family gathering, then when ... .”

“Terry, no, I can’t. Can we leave it at that? Please, I’m exhausted.”

I felt my heart thud. This was a scenario that had played out before and when I discovered what had  happened, I had called it quits.

There had been another woman. He admitted that it was a one-off, that’s what he called it, a ‘one-off’, who didn’t have anywhere to spend the night and so she had called on him and he had only one bed in the house and she had come on to him and because he had had a few drinks, they ended up sleeping in one bed but nothing had….

I hadn’t wanted to hear the rest. After fuming for two months, I had allowed him to wangle his way into my heart again. He wooed me back with a road-trip to Fort Portal, to a nice comfortable hotel with an old-fashioned bathtub. He wined and dined me into his arms, promising that nothing would come between us ever again.

But he had been cold and distant over the last two weeks and my guard was up. Could he be seeing her again? Should I have cause to worry? Maybe he really was tired. But again, he had been bad before and so…”

“Okay, I won’t bother you again.”

I looked at my weekend bag sitting forlornly on the chair.

It was saying to me there was no way I could give this up without a fight. “Fight for your man Terry, fight. I have been waiting in the wardrobe for three months, and now you want to tell me we can’t go? C’mon girl!”

“I’m sorry Terry, I’ll see if I can come over next weekend.”


Weekend! Seven more days!

“Look, you don’t have to pick me up, I can drive to your home in the morning. I really do want to spend time with you. I’ve missed you so much."

“Sorry Terry.”

My hackles rose. I was not going to take this rubbish any more. I was going to be selfish and have it my way.

“News flash Bo. I’m done with this. Really I am.”

“What do you mean?” Now he was awake.

“You heard me Bo. I’ve been holding on, being very patient with you. I know you’re avoiding me. You could say I am being selfish, I don’t care right now. What I know is, I am tired of feeling like this and, you know.... anyway, crap! So… so long Bo. Good luck!”

And I hang up, hot and flustered, feeling at a loss.
I was really angry. I got myself a glass of water and threw in five cubes of ice. Maybe it would help me to cool off.

I lay back in the chair and turned the volume on the TV.  

Kasta I had the Real Housewives to keep me company.

Ever since THAT incident, yes, THAT incident, I had been having my doubts anyway. Actually, THAT woman was keeping him company this weekend. I was certain.

Should I drive over and prove for myself?

Sounded good, but I would first have to explain to the askari who would have to call Bo and inform him that somebody was here to see him. Bad idea.

One and a half episodes and three more glasses of water and ice and a series of tortured thoughts later, I was feeling sorry for my actions.

I knew I had acted rashly.


I needed to say I was sorry.

Poor guy. I hadn’t even given him a chance to plead.

By the time I fell asleep, I was a mix of emotions, most of them guilty.

I don’t know how many times I had typed “I’m sorry” but had deleted the text.

I spent the night in the chair with the television on.

#ofcobaltbluethings

You go to KK Beach.

Because its a Sunday evening and you want to chill, eat chips and soda and ice-cream. All the things they consider “bad”.

The music is booming, all Ugandan hits, nothing foreign, not even that one from our neighbors to the East.

As the sun sets, those paddling and pretending to swim in the lake but doing something akin to splashing around like ducks, wrap up, and sway their wet selves to the dance floor to join the many who have been shaking and twisting their bodies like there is no tomorrow, feeling extra cool and imagining they are on NTV’s Hot Steps.

And when you have had enough of sitting quietly and laughing at the crazy moves, you decide to call it an evening.

So off you go to the washrooms. Now, right at the door, there’s a TP holder, so you put your bag and phone on top.
It looks germ free (but public places like these cannot be safe enough and so you visualize how you will Jik and Dettolise your property when you get home).

And as you exit, you see yourself out in the huge mirrors. There’s a little girl, she can’t be more than seven, twerking in the full-length glass.

Another one- about 20 years old- is preening herself for the night.

Wait, is that someone undressing in full view of everyone coming in, freeing herself of the grey skirt and jean coat and stuffing herself into some tight black bikers and a gold and black kundi-show?

Woiii!

Oh, just then a young woman whose dress looks like it had a major fight with a cat staggers through the corridor- in bare feet!!

(And I say I am worried about my bag sitting on the loo paper holder! How selfish!)

As we drive away from the din, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans for the phone

Not there and yet I clearly remember sliding it back.

I lean forward and pat the other pocket.

Nothing.

Another loud woiii!

Panic!

My mind goes blank and then I blurt out, “mY PhoNe!”

My voice comes out kind of shrill, actually no, it has horror painted all over it.

“Damn it! I musta left it on the loo paper holder!”

Immediately, images of my prized gadget in someone else’s hands start flashing before my eyes.

Of someone smiling wickedly as they come across my five-year old cobalt blue phone with its cracked screen and hundreds of pictures of my nieces and nephews.

Oh!

The thought is sickening.

The driver, traumatized by my screeching, brakes suddenly.

A crazy three point turn is activated.

We nearly rev into a small shop as we make the sharp turn back to the beach. Will the entrance fees guys make me pay again?

Oshhhsshhh! Just the thought of explaining myself makes me sick to the stomach.

After a (thankfully) brief explanation, they let me in (phew!).

All the while, the chant in my head is on.

“My phone! My phone! Wooiiii! My phone! Wooiiiii Woiiiiiii! Woe is me! My phooooonnnneeee! Haiiiiii!”

I make a mad dash into the loos, half walking-half-running.

The women pruning themselves at the mirror probably think I ate too much fish.

Who cares? I must rescue my beloved.

The stall door is locked.

I think, “Maybe I got the wrong one?” and shove another one open.

It doesn’t have a loo paper holder by the door.

Just then, the right door opens and a pale-skinned swimmer emerges, costume halfway down.

I want to scream, “Gerraoura way!”

My eyes shoot down to her hands.

Nothing.

All she’s tugging on are wet costume straps.

And then my eyes land on the loo-paper holder.


There’s nothing there!

Woiiii!

My hands go up to my head.

If you have ever suffered loss, of something precious- I mean when it is lost, really lost, then we are relatives.

If you haven’t, please don’t wish it on your evil co-wife.

My heart is skipping, throbbing in my temples.

I walk out of the washrooms feeling defeated.

Shoulders slumped. Dejected, miserable.

Trudge back to the car.

I can now give true meaning to something the cat dragged in.

I open the car door and haul my misery onto the seat.

Something clatters to the floor.

It’s cobalt blue.