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.