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.
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.
