#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.