#thenewnakasero

Nakasero in Kampala (not the market) was a really plush area some years back. One of those places where not every Tom, Dick and Harry ventured into. No stray cows and dogs, no groundnut hawkers or toffee sellers. No mangys.
Just rich people, with healthy tabbies, and swings, and barbeques and Sunday brunch.
It was nice spacious houses with tiled roofs, humongous compounds, big old trees and quiet roads (that looked like they got a daily wash with Omo and clean water) for its privileged residents to jog, take bicycle rides and walk their dogs in the evenings.
Today, there are office buildings, casinos, discotheques, bars. And car bonds. Like this Pine car bond which has been in the news of late. That its owner allegedly murdered a woman in one of its dingy offices. Because she owed him money.
Many of the men who sell the used cars at these bonds are well-dressed. They look like deported nkuba-kyeyos. They arrive early, and then stand at the side of the road waiting.
Some sit down for an early breakfast of katogo ka bijanjalo or chips and fried egg and avocado and a slice of cucumber.
7am, 8am, 9am, 10am- occasionally someone drives by slowly and makes like to stop- then they all swarm the car, hoping this is a potential buyer.
“Just checking, sorry.”
Other times they sit on upturned wooden crates or tree trunks, conversing about what and forcing out laughs. Sometimes the day, the week, and even the month goes by, and they have not made a single sale

#upthesocial ladder-a parody

I am trying so hard to climb the social ladder but you somehow I can’t past the second rung.  Why?
A good racking of the brain offered me some answers.

Speak hard English, using bombastic phrases and big colorful words for small ones but which somehow sound too simple. Quote writers of today like John Grisham or JK Rowling, or some of old like Ernest Hemingway and Roald Dahl. You should also take paragraphs from magazines like the Financial Times or the Guardian and quote them a bit carelessly when in conversation with folks who you think (and know) have no clue about them.

Keep in mind that social media networking is big- don’t limit your circles to Twitter and Facebook, that’s so long ago. Talk Instagram, SnapChat, Flickr (just make sure you memorize that pronunciation well, ok?)

How about alluding to some very clever folks you came across on those networks? Mention bloggers like Sharon Mundua (gotta know her name now) of “This is Ess” Mrisho and Robert Alai and what they confess to and mention how you subscribe their Youtube channels.

Follow “important” people on your Facebook and Twitter pages- people like President Uhuru Kenyatta, Chameleone, Christiane Amanpour, retweet and respond to their tweets once in a while (of course they won’t reply, but so what?).

Stride into the office with a branded mug of hot coffee- like Turkish Airways or Etihad. Actually, you could pass by Javas on your way to work and have them fill a recyclable paper cup with a latte macchiato. (You know you could also always refill that cup as you strut into the office every morning).

It is also advisable to order pizza to be delivered at lunchtime and to make sure that the box comes in just as your pals are about to go out and eat at that same drab place they eat at every day. Oh, that pizza could occasionally be delivered with a milkshake as well. However, when you do chance out for that their lunch, make sure to stroll there and back with the crew that everyone calls the ITs.

On some days you should carry at least five clear (I must emphasize- cute, for the ladies) lunch boxes of fresh fruit. Kiwi in one, sliced apples in another. Then pawpaw, pineapple and diced beetroot in the others.

Don’t be rocking to Ugandan music in your car, it must be some Chris Brown, Justin Bieber or Rihanna’s latest. Do jazz in the evenings, it shows you are in touch with your tunes.

Be wearing jeans brands like Levis, Benetton, Diesel- not some random made-in-China cloth specifically manufactured for third world countries.

And when you’re throwing words around, remember that pronunciation is key so it must be Ayraq not Eeraq (Iraq), Rawte not Ruut (Route) and Feenance not Fainansi (Finance).

Now, when you’re referring to your childhood adventures, the places you’ve lived, if its not “I grew up in Arusha”, relieve memories of the green, leafy areas of upmarket Kampala- the Kololos and Tank Hill Muyengas. Air of sophistication. Aight?

When it comes to countries you can remember visiting——— when someone else starts talking about the parking lot at Oliver Tambo airport in South Africa, dismiss them with a wave of the hand as you gush about the automated lifts that transport your car up to the parking space in Bangkok (Oh by the way, knowing the capital is a must, it somehow sounds so nice when it rolls of the tongue).
The hard drinks you've conquered must be listed starting with Johnny Walker, then Black Label. Like that… in that order… keep off the Beckams and Coffee Spirits of this our “Manufactured in Kawempe” factories.

Make sure you occasionally mention the cars you’ve cruised. Do it like this: “I called the manufacturers of Mercedes Benz when the glove compartment refused to close.” Or define the brands you know with precision. Like this: “My cousin took his BMW X5M to Kabale doing 500mph”. The more single letters and numbers you use, the more up-the-ladder you end up sounding. Don’t be talking Japanese brands like Premios and Noahs and their low gas guzzling abilities.

Javas, Nandos are for fast food like fries (bambi don’t call them “chips”), burgers and generous slices of Black Forest gateau.

And when the situation requires you to sound more world-traveller-like, throw in some “Tamarai, its a Thai place”, or Meditteraneo for Italian cuisine.

You don't just “fwaaly” waste your nightlife dancing at Ambiance- its gotta be Silk Oxygen, Guvnor or the mysterious Panamera.

Exercise at Hilton’s Uzima Body Spa or at Sheraton’s Health Club. It sounds better when you say “health club” actually. It doesn't matter if you're just going to hang out there for 10 minutes, make sure you leave the office looking fabulous in pretty pink gym pants (for the ladies), rattle your car keys a bit, just so the guys at the office know that you’re about to depart for the  gymnasium.

Your evening diary should consist of attending fellowships to “map ways” to help the disadvantaged, discussing money in investment groups, or “putting your heads together" for the best baby shower we can give Naggundi.

Talking about baby showers, get an up-market hotel and choose a theme color. Don’t buy (or accept for that matter) cheap gifts like baby potties or packets and packets of clothes pegs. If you’re the expectant mother, write a gift list for Nakumatt supermarket or Quality Supermarket Lubowa where the ladies can buy kiddies tablets, womb sleeping swaddles, car seats and books the bouncing baby will read when they’re six. Y’know?

Who are the neighbors kids you played hopscotch with, and who came to your birthday parties? The Kibuukas, the Habara's and the Kutonsas. That “s” at the end is crucial when you want to sound rich background. Not these our Maama Lihanna things.

Now, where do you hang out on Saturdays when you’re wearing your three-quarter pants and polo shirts. Kampuski kafunda in Kalerwe? Nawe naaah! That’s way down there. Kyaddondo rugby club in an ascot cap (baseball caps are so off), or a fedora.

Its advisable to shop in the early evenings. So that when you park the BMW X5M in the parking lot at Shoprite/ Game Lugogo, you will walk out pushing shopping carts laden with brown grocery bags filled with French loaves peeping from the top.

What about the phone you’re holding? Its okay to aspire for the iPhone 7 but if you have a Samsung Galaxy S6, then you’re on the right path. Just make sure its nothing near a small phone like those Nokia ka-torchis or Blackberrys of years ago.

Occasionally use words like “au revoir” or “subiri” because these are foreign languages, and delving into a foreign language could raise you up another rung or two, especially if the language is from Europe and its many seasons or from Dar-es-Salaam. Don’t be babbling about “kugyenda hari” and “maama nze woooowweee".

Who said Ugandans don’t go on holiday? Go, even if its once in two years, just so you can take some pics of you arriving at Entebbe Airport, you eating spiced rice and scones on the Ethiopian Airlines plane, you seeing the clouds, you arriving at your destination, you sipping mojitos at some random beach, you standing outside an ancient monument and you feeding birds at London square.

Sweetie, when red-carpet events beckon you to Serena, go. Somehow, you could end up being photographed for the tabloids and having a colorful caption giving you some talkability for days.
Now, whatsapp groups are a must. Facebook as well. There’s so much space on the Rich Club Babes or the Gentle Gentlemen groups.

And when the day is done, go to bed tired but not without posting a picture of you having a late night goblet of red wine as you unwind. On Instagram of course.

#bizinensieno!

The hairdresser who looks at your hair, pinching it into clumps and says “Naye this heyaaa, texture yo nga eri poorrrrrr!” She prolongs that last word with a sort of sneer on her face.

The boda-boda man who first looks you up and down when you flag him down and announces that he will charge you 3,000 shillings for the trip from Serena to the City Square. For a five minute ride.

The waiter who brings you 10 chips and a measly looking pair of sausages for 10,000 shillings, when the picture on the takeaway menu shows something totally different.

The taxi conductor who yells out “Bbiri-bitaano (2,500 shs) Kasangati-Gayaza” on a cold rainy evening because the stage is packed with people eager to go home. When in fact, the journey costs 1,500 shillings every other day.

The cobbler who sticks your torn shoe with superglue, when he initially promised to sew it.

The woman in the downtown mall who lies to you that the dress looks good on you and when you get home and look in the mirror, you have a double tummy.

The Kikuubo vendor who sells you Kiwi shoe polish in a new can when its actually filled with old paint stolen from a building that is being broken down somewhere in down town.

The second-hand shoe vendor who puts a new insole into a UK-looking pair which you later discover to your horror, is actually made in China, and for third-world countries.

The roaming manicurist who pours kerosene into his nail-polish to make it last longer. Then it chips after a day and leaves your nails looking dry.

The builder who steals your cement, stuffing it into his gum boots and pockets, knowing fully-well that the floor he is laying will chip away in a few months.

The fruit vendor who sells you slices of water-melon and pieces of sugar cane that he knows were harvested raw, and are not sweet.

The snuffly woman frying cassava at the roadside who scratches her nose, takes your money and then proceeds to wrap the sticks in a newspaper without cleaning her hands first.

The wig vendor who tells you the hairpiece is from Brazil and yet it is a cheap “Made in China” third-copy.

The girl at the supermarket till who lazily announces that they don't pack bottles of soda in brown bags so that you will have to carry it in your hand.

The rude shawl vendor who yells at you when by chance, you meet an old friend and give them a hug in front of the square where he’s illegally selling his merchandise. “Mwe! Mugende mweyagalire mu public toilet, mbuzi mwe!”

These are our Kampala businessmen and women.
And do you wonder why they go home feeling so frustrated?

#KabulenganeReloaded

Ma Lihanna’s maid, the one of the “we don’t have electricity” fat lie was shown the door. I’m not really sure when it happened, probably last week when I was away at work. Anyway, there is a new maid whose name I’m yet to learn. But one thing I know is that Ma Lihanna( bless her as she travels the region on her lipstick and perfume sales), is in for an uphill task.
So, there was a loud disco playing in the area last night at around 11:30pm. The estate is usually quiet, save for the invasion by the Balokole who can sing till 2am, but they’re rather far off, and it is only when the wind carries their voices, that it gets really irritating.
Now, this tonight disco was so loud that even I, tucked into my corner bedroom in the Mansion, awoke with a start and couldn't go back to sleep. I got up and drew the curtains aside. Nothing. But this Kabulengane did not sound like it belonged to the Balokole.
The sleuth in me took over. I had to investigate the source of this din, because I am one of those people who cannot bear “injustices” like these.
When I got to the sitting room, I could clearly hear Bebe Cool crooning “Kimanye tubakwana banji, abalina cash nabatalina nsimbi, see what a party night…” I didn't wait for the chorus.
I guessed it was coming from the house over the wall. I threw on my nightgown, and opened the front door into the night, bravely following the noise and feeling like Nancy Drew.
What I saw next made my heart stop. The chink in the curtains was allowing me to see Ma Lihanna’s new maid (I guessed it was her) in a t-shirt material mini- dress, short hair and all, gyrating like the girl in Bebe Cool’s video. I felt like a fraud but this was a sight to behold!
The TV was turned on loud. I don't know on what channel, but one of those that has a late night music show on Monday nights.
Ma Lihanna’s maid was prancing around the sitting room like a mad hen as she did the Kabulengane challenge. She was twisting and untwisting her waist, strutting with her one hand on her head another minute, leaping onto the sofa as she shook her bum, and twerking with her back to the TV. When the male dancers' started their thing, she moved closer to the screen... and then it got to the part of the challenge between the girls in bright tights and the ones wearing Ganda traditional dress, (allow me to go local here) n’egubula asala! Hoii!
The girls- Lihanna and her little sister - were also trying out their dancing skills and would join in at intervals.
I don't know why, but I laughed. Loudly. Not because it was funny but because it looked so ridiculous. 11:30pm. School night. Disco night as well. Kids not in bed. Maid dancing like crazy woman in a trance.
I knocked on the door and told them to turn it down and ordered the kids to bed.

#nokialumia-my love rival

Never in my life had I harbored the thought that such a small gadget would become my big-time love rival and hammer the last nail into the coffin of my relationship.
I fondly recall the days when the Ex was the proud owner of a small red battered Siemens phone that had obviously seen better days. Those were good days with good conversation over Saturday nights out and Sunday lunch. But when he started using rubber bands to keep its back and stomach together, I suggested he get a new one.
Little did I know that I was putting the first shovel into the relationship’s grave. He got a new shiny black Alcatel. It had a nice radio, didn't lose network and it gave him some kind of status. Two months later, he had spotted a new model and also purchased that one.
Soon he was walking with a swagger and no longer talked or listened much. Whenever I started a conversation he would put his pointer finger up and say “Sshhhh! let me finish listening to this.”
That phone quickly got a successor, then another and another other. The old models were buried in his boxers’ drawer.
The lid of the relationship’s coffin creaked open when the Nokia Lumia came on board. Nokia Lumia soon became Nokia Lumia with the Ex waxing lyrical over Nokia Lumia which was now clearly the new girlfriend that never left his side.
Nokia Lumia slept in the Ex’s bed, Nokia Lumia had new clothes (casing) every month, Nokia Lumia was wiped down every 10 or so minutes. I suspect Nokia Lumia was also coaxed to eat sometimes but she was on a diet.
The list of things Nokia Lumia could do- Youtube, podcasts, photos, recording, radio. To make matters worse, by this time, the internet was upon us. Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp, Instagram and whatever else the bad world wide web has to offer.
I was mired in serious competition.
Sadly, the phone had kicked our relationship six feet under. 

#roadcrossinggonebad

You know how when people feel important in their jobs…

As I returned to work after lunch, two traffic police officers walking in my direction suddenly decided it was time for them to cross the road in the middle of fast-moving traffic. This was right outside parliament, near the National Theatre.
I don’t know what gave them the confidence, probably the “don’t you know who I am??” syndrome that comes with the white uniform.
Anyway, the next thing was a loud screeching of tires and one of the officers dashing across the rest of the road like something was after him. The taxi came to a halt right next to his female colleague. Then the drama began. “Gwe! Ovuga otya? Olowooza lino kkubo lya muzeeyi wo!!?? Eh?”
She was wearing this mean macho face with her head tilted to one side and one arm akimbo, chest forward.
The driver looked like he wanted the earth to open its mouth and swallow him.
“Eno Kampala, si Kalangala!” Then she gave taxi a hot slap and executed an even hotter kick on the tires.
“Gweeeeee! Nja kusiba!!! she threatened before she moved out of the way and joined the “coward” on the other side.

#sheepandshepherd

After tossing and turning through a recurring dream of Cranes players unable to afford soda for their victory party, I woke up early and went to church for the morning service. The clergy were late but the pianist kept us entertained. The start was hurried and we eventually got to the sermon.

To be honest, I was sleepy and in my distraction, my eyes landed upon one of the priests sitting in the altar area, partly obscured from the congregation’s view. His sitting posture made me look closer and just to be sure, I even put my specs on.

The priest was on his phone, tapping away, with an amused expression on his face. I kept glancing in his direction and at one point, I saw him look up suddenly, like someone who has been caught red-handed. Then he went back to whatever it was- whatsapp probably.

So here we were, two distracted creatures in church- one the shepherd, the other the sheep.

#TaxiDont's

too tall...

This has been my taxi scrutiny week. You meet all sorts of interesting characters (ok, some are not) in these our 14-seater passenger taxis. Like the slightly-drunk middle-aged man who imagined he could chat up his co-passenger. She was clearly bored. Lucy Parwot also had her fair share, with girls munching on bananas and boiled eggs. So, I came up with my list of DON’TS when individuals are using these our taxis. I’ll keep it sane...

DO NOT dose off and allow yourself to dribble.

DO NOT sleep so hard that your head lands on your co-passenger’s shoulder.

DO NOT sleep and talk. You could say some pretty embarrassing things.

DO NOT- actually, NEVER- eat the following foods in taxis. Overripe ffene, boiled eggs, bogoya or nsenene mixed with raw onions. Groundnuts and pineapples can pass. But…

DO NOT sing loudly when you have earphones on. DO NOT sing loudly when you have earphones on. DO not SING LOUDLY when you have earphones on!!

DO NOT have loud conversations on your phone, or get overly excited or agitated when talking to someone other passengers in the taxi can’t hear. FYI, overhead cellphone conversations are annoying. And DO NOT lie about your locations. Mbu “Ndi Masaka” when you are in Kasangati and the conductor is outside calling “Kampala! Kampala!”

DO NOT play your phone radio bila earphones. Its very irritating when your Super FM is competing with the taxi’s CBS FM which the driver has turned on so loud, he can’t hear when you shout “mu maaso awo!”

DO NOT take up half the seat. Learn how to sit with other people. These seats are for three people only. (ok, the conductors sometimes squeeze four on, and then stand over you and panic when they see a traffic policeman)

DO NOT try to strike up conversations with strangers. If you’re really itching to say something, let it be short small talk, and for God’s sake, let sense come outta ya mouth. Not everybody likes to share sensitive info about husbands who have abandoned the home. And how Besigye should abandon his “defiancy” campaign.

DO NOT fling open the window on a cold morning or chilly night. Or when I’m sitting next to you and and I have spent hours arranging my hair.

DO NOT (oh!oh!oh!) -if you are seated in the back seat- attempt to strike up and sustain a conversation with someone sitting at the front with the driver. Especially if you are going on a long journey.

DO NOT imagine you will enter the taxi with five kids and want to pay for only one seat. Uh-uh. I understand travel is costly, but ask me kindly and I will let one sit on my lap. Just DO NOT force them into that little space where four legs are supposed to sit.

DO NOT- when you sitting behind someone, and suddenly feel sleepy- use the headrest of the person in front of you. Be considerate. Lean back and use yours.

Please TRY NOT to step on other people’s feet or clean shoes as you struggle to go past them.

DO NOT keep mum when the driver is speeding and overtaking like a madman. Especially in a black spot. Some people attack the one brave passenger who has the “guts” to remind the driver that they still value their lives and do not want to become statistics- mbu “four people have been killed in a taxi accident.”

DO NOT open your mouth when you are drunk. This taxi is not a bar where all the waitresses have become your girlfriends.

DO NOT haggle with the conductor when you are already halfway the journey, or when you say “mu maaso awo!” Bargain before you get on so you don't waste other passengers' valuable time.

DO NOT gossip loudly about someone else because your “badness” will be on display, however smartly-dressed you are. TRY NOT burst into loud insane laughter. Other people do not see the fun like you.

And for heaven’s sake, DO NOT imagine you are the taxi driver and tell him how to drive and which shortcuts to take.

#pokomatherisktaker

Pokoma is no more. He lost his life when a car smashed into him two days ago. The impact caused his back and limbs to break in several places. His head slammed into the pavement, disfiguring his face.

Pokoma was a risk-taker. He loved to cross the road when an oncoming car was a few meters, a few seconds away from him. He said it gave him an adrenaline rush. He had caused several drivers to slam on their brakes, leaving them screeching in fury as he sprang out of the way, the car missing
him by a few inches. He would emerge on the other side, chuckling to himself, and mentally patting himself on the back. “Whew! that was a close shave! It’ll be even closer the next time!”

This risky game started when Pokoma was about nine and still in primary school. Together with his little brother and sister, they walked to school in the morning and back in the evening. To get there, they had to cross a busy road, a highway in fact. As the cars zoomed past in both directions, Pokoma and his siblings sometimes waited for 10 minutes when the cars were fewer, or when a kind driver stopped to let them pass. Sometimes they waited in the middle of the road.

When he got older, Pokoma found that he was able to run across a busy road even as the cars whizzed past. He weaved in and out of traffic like a snake. It soon graduated into that mad dash across the road. Then the highway. Pokoma would run across and land safely on the other side without a scratch.

We buried Pokoma yesterday. He did not look like the Pokoma we knew as we laid what remained of him in his grave.
He was just one mangled mess of skin, flesh and bones.

#faddiets

At the bank today, the teller served me as she sipped on a bottle filled with water so hot that it was disfigured (the bottle, not the water). Out of curiosity I asked why there were no tea-leaves. “Cutting fat”, she said very matter-of-factly. “Amazzi agokya gasala amasavu.”
There are so many fad diets today- juicing, fruitarianism, detoxing, non-salt diet, water-only diet, lemon water diet, no sugar diet, carbs, proteins, vitamins, morning banana. Ayi mama, won’t we just diet ourselves into oblivion?
Someone I know, carries a brightly-colored plastic bag filled with lunch-boxes of all sizes to work. Sometimes it is green tea, cucumber and beetroot slivers - to “moisturize the skin.”
Tomorrow. Hot lemon and ginger for “digestion and, y’know it increases blood circulation.”
On Wednesday. “I’m drinking apple juice to strengthen my muscles and improve my eyesight.”
She also has a food diary. I want to scream.
Last week I asked about her progress but I discovered that she doesn't know if she is just watching her weight, or wants to slim. And when she starts with the calories, I want to hide under the table.
I am so tempted to tell her that we all have a body-type- - - figure 8, figure 11, some of us are apples, bananas, water-melons others are inverted triangles. I want to let her know that this dieting can be expensive and requires more discipline than the US navy has.
Naye, her eyes nearly popped out of her sockets when by chance, I was at the Nakumatt Oasis on Saturday afternoon. She was at Javas wolfing down a sizeable piece of juicy fried chicken, and from the heap of bones on the side of her plate, there must have been plenty more. There was also a half-drunk bottle of fruity Fanta.