#abowlofhotsoup

 I’m in the middle of something when the phone rings. I take one look at the screen and silence it. But on second thought…
“Hi.”
“Hi, it’s been some time.”
“Look, I cannot go into small talk now,” he whispers, “I need some money, repayable Monday.”

I hold the phone away from my ear and do a fast rewind. The time he was picked up by two plainclothes police officers. The stint in civil prison three years ago. When his gambler friends bailed him out. When he borrowed and had a memory lapse.

“I cannot help you now.” Did that come out right?

Silence. Then a whoosh.  

“Okay, thanks for the help. Let me see what to do.”

I guess, no, I know, he is in a pot of hot hot soup. Over money. He must be scrolling through his phone for all his pals, whoever has been paid. Even those he hasn’t talked to for years. Its month end. A mad search.

What happened to the bed he bought for 2.5 million shillings? What about the kitchen that was packed with every electronic gadget that, with just the tap on the button, made his life easier? What about the two landline house phones and the new Rav 4?

As he makes the calls, is there someone standing over him, holding a gun to his head? Is a policeman hammering at the door? Did he make promises and the deadline is fast approaching?

#youngtellsold

I had a plan for my three weeks of leave. Exercise. Read. Relax. Sleep. Write. Get my national ID. Renew my driver's license. Etc...

The first morning I woke up early and took a walk. My back revolted and I was in excruciating pain the whole way. That was the beginning. And the end of power walks. 

I got my National ID (story loading). 

I had downloaded lots of books and after the back incident, I slept in and read. 

One evening my nephew Matthew interrupted my reading, telling me about wanting a six pack. I looked at the six-year old lying on the floor of my room and wondered why the hell he was yapping about rippling abdominal muscles.

When he noticed my interest, he started showing off, contorting himself into all sorts of positions and racing around the room like you know who (hint hint: covid lockdown exercise tips). I was amazed at his energy and  prowess and asked where he'd heard this six packs' KB. 

“My friends do it in school!” He proudly announced, “We have to keep fit! Come and exercise with me.”

I was challenged. After the fiasco with my aching back, I had kind of cancelled any sort  of exercise from my list. 

I looked in my wardrobe for my exercise pants.

“No, maybe tomorrow,” I pleaded. Weak.

“Mama, today. Let me sit on your legs and you do crunches.” 

Eh, this paper was getting hard. 

And so I pulled out my exercise mat and did 50 sit-ups with lots of laughter and encouragement. Every day Matthew would remind me, “Mama I can help you get a six-pack, it’s not hard. So tonight, eh?” 

The lesson here is: mentors do not have to be older, it's not a one-way street. I feel that it is a widely held misconception. Here was a child keeping me on check, helping me to keep fit when I had given up. 

Do I have a six-pack now? (Picture loading)

--#theycallithell

#TheyCallItHell

“Here, this is the place. This is where they hit me and left me for dead. Right here. They took my motorcycle and I have never seen it again.”

This is Adamu’s story...

One evening in June 2019, two men flagged me down in Nakulabye. They wanted to go to Mpererwe on Gayaza road. That's the other side of town. We agreed that they'd pay 10,000 shillings. It was about 8:15pm.

We got to Mpererwe at exactly 8:34pm. They paid me. Just then one of them got a phone call. After a few seconds he announced that they were going to Katalemwa but did not know the place. We agreed on the fare and off we went. A few meters up the road, the man got another phone call and asked me to stop. I said we were about to get to their destination. He told me someone was coming to pick them up and I should drop them there. He got off and reached into his pocket. As I waited, the other passenger, the one wearing a kufiya, swung something hard at my head. It was so sudden, I had no time to dodge. He gave me another blow on the chin and I felt a searing pain. I don't remember what happened next.

From different accounts, I heard that an elderly man who was driving by about two hours later, spotted me lying on the ground and called the police. They put me on the back of a pickup truck and dumped my body at the Mulago mortuary. They retrieved my phone from my pocket and called my mother. The next morning, my sisters came to the mortuary wailing and calling relatives to arrange for a coffin.

But first they wanted to see my body. They told me I looked ghastly, I had a hole in my left temple and my clothes were stained with dried blood.  My face was black and swollen and my front teeth were gone. The mortuary attendant asked for 60,000 shillings if they wanted him to clean my body but they didn’t have the money.

As they negotiated, my older sister noticed my arm twitching. She screamed and ran out of the room. The others came racing after her. She was certain I was still alive and asked the attendant to check. My pulse was beating faintly but there was still life in me. They carried me out of the room and put me on the ground, hoping the cold could rouse me.

The attendant said he could call a doctor to check. When the doctor came, he said he could not look at my body in its state and ordered my sisters to first clean me. They washed me with cold water which revived me and that when the pain started.

They had brought a change of clothes, the ones I was to be buried in, and they dressed me. The doctor was asking for 400,000 shillings to be able to get me a place in the ICU. My sister called a few relatives with the ‘good’ news and raised 210,000 shillings.

I was in hospital for seven months, was operated thrice and towards the end I got an infection - they said it was sepsis- and was on the verge of death - again. Thankfully, after another dose of medication, I pulled through and returned home.

By the time of the incident I had been married for one and a half months. My wife told me she cried every day. I am renting a bodaboda now, hopefully I can save for another and also a jaw restructure surgery .

My advice to bodaboda riders is to be cautious about who they carry, the places they go to and the times at which they operate. There are also danger spots.
These days I leave work at 5pm and I only carry women on my way home. If a man stops me, I ignore them.