#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.