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.
