#peoplewatching

People-watching.

One of the things I do. A lot. Traffic offers a good choice.

Today, I decided on 10 cars that were stuck and we had been freed to go. For some reason, the traffic policemen at Wandegeya decided they would do a better job than the traffic lights.

Car Number One: A black Range Rover. Female driver was applying war-paint as she looked into a small mirror held in her left hand. As we passed, she was on lip-stage, slowly, sensually, admiringly.

Car Number Two: Male driver. Flipping through the Bukedde newspaper.

Car Three: Ipsum. Male driver. Looks like a father. Because there was a little uniformed girl dozing in the passenger seat. She hadn’t tied her seat belt.

Car Four: Asian man with one hand on the steering wheel. His car was a little out of line and he was trying to peer past the cars in front of him.

Car Five: Another nose buried deep in a newspaper. Monitor.

Car Six: The elderly female looked tired and harassed. Bad morning? Late for work?

Car Seven: Spacio new model. Couldn’t see the drivers as the blackened windows were drawn up.

Car Eight: Taxi. Empty save for three people. A driver whose eyes are fixed on the road, his face glum. The conductor in that space near the door. And a laughing traffic Nyange. Had he asked for a lift? Then why was he laughing and the others not joining in?

Car Nine: A sleek silver Mercedes Benz. I’m not a car person so I have no idea which model. The female driver and her passenger are having an animated conversation. The passenger has a phone in her lap. They’re both in sleeveless dresses. Corporate office ladies?

Car Ten: A weather-beaten (what my sister calls) contraption of a car. UAK- something. Yes, it looks rather unsafe, the paint on its once-white body is chipped in many places, tires are worn and the female driver in an afro is speaking on a smartphone.

#internationalconferences

Last weekend, one of the members of a big, big family was traveling to Accra. For… you guessed right… an international conference (I would call it regional, really).

The send-off luncheon for this member of a big big family who was traveling to attend the international conference was being held at the house of his sister, my neighbor.

A Super Custom vehicle bearing (in the range of) 25 adult heads arrived at the gate at exactly a quarter to 8am, and hooted loudly.

The sister of the member of the family going to outside countries for an international conference, clanged open the gate, and the Super Custom loaded with (in the range of) 25 adult heads, some sitting on laps and pelvises drove in. 

The excited (in the range of) 25 adult heads trooped out noisily. Two huge saucepans, three bunches of matooke, two live roosters, and a “leg” of cow were pulled from under the chairs of the Super Custom.

More commotion as the food was carried into the house. And then the big big family caught sight of the member who was soon to catch the aeroplane to Accra for the international conference. “Uluullluuuu! Ulluuulluuuu!”

The beehive of activity in the house was evident from the noise that emerged as a front door that is kept locked at all times was flung open, with children running in and out, to and from the shop.
“Gwe omwana, genda ku duuka oleete yo bu sacheti bwa Simba Mbili!” I need curry powder, hurry up!!
“Timose! Yongera yo enyaanya!” Someone frying the chicken needed more tomatoes.
“Owaye! Emicungwa omukazi gyakuwadde nga mikadde!” The grocer had sold the child oranges that were too old.

Amid the din and the smoke from a wood fire in the backyard, the chickens were slaughtered,  e, the “leg” of cow was boiled, the matooke was steamed, and finally, after several hours, the food was inhaled.

With the hefty lunch quickly tucked away, the prayers began. To bless this blessed member of the big big family to have a safe trip and a two-day stay in that faraway country whose capital is Ghana. And for God to grant him many many more trips of this nature so that he can see the world. Also, for the Almighty to grant other members of this big big family the same blessings as their relative.

Then it was time for the trip to Entebbe airport. The members of the big big family trooped out of the house all dressed and made up. The international conference delegate in a one-size-too-big suit took the window seat at the front, a briefcase on his lap. Two other people- a child and adult - squeezed in between the delegate and the driver.

And when they were all stuffed in, and the door had been slammed shut, and the driver started the ignition, then the car started to move, they broke into loud song.

All the way to the airport to wave bye-bye to their relative who would be attending a two-day international conference.  

#emperorsnewclothes

 ***By Hans Christian Andersen***
Many, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money in order to obtain them. His only ambition was to be always well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers, and going to the theatre did not interest him. The only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to go out and show himself off with new clothes as often as possible. He had a coat for every hour of the day. As often as you would say of a normal king,' “He is busy ruling the kingdom,” you could say of him, “The emperor is in his dressing-room trying on new gear.”
The great city where he lived was a very busy place, every day many strangers from all parts of the globe arrived. One day, two swindlers came to this city and pretended to everyone that they were weavers. They said that they could make the finest cloth anyone could imagine. Their colours and patterns, they said, were not only very beautiful, but were made of a special material invisible to any person who was stupid.
'That must be wonderful cloth,' thought the emperor. 'If I were to be dressed in a suit made of this cloth I would be able to find out which people in my kingdom are stupid and therefore should not be in their jobs. I must have this cloth made for me without delay.'
And he gave a large sum of money to those rascals, in advance, so that they should get to work immediately. They set up two looms and pretended to be very hard at work. They asked for the finest silk and the most precious gold-cloth. All the expensive material they got they hid away for themselves and worked at the empty looms till late at night.
'I’d love to know how they are getting on with the cloth,' thought the emperor. But he felt worried when he remembered that anyone who couldn’t see it was stupid. He thought that of course he would be able to see it, but decided to send someone else first to check it out, just in case. Everybody in the town knew how remarkable the clothes were and were dying to see how bad or stupid their neighbours were.
'I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers, thought the emperor. He can see how it looks, for he is very clever.
The good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the empty looms. 'Goodness gracious!' he thought and opened his eyes wide, I cannot see anything at all, but he did not say so. Both swindlers told him to come near and asked him if he did not admire the lovely pattern and the beautiful colours, pointing to the empty looms. The poor old minister tried his very best, but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. 'Oh dear,' he thought, 'Can I be so stupid? I would never have thought so, and nobody must find out! Is it possible that I am too stupid to do my job? No, I cannot admit that I wasn’t able to see the cloth.'
“Have you got nothing to say?” said one of the swindlers, while he pretended to be busy weaving.
“Oh, it is very pretty, really beautiful,” replied the old minister looking through his glasses. “What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I will tell the emperor that I like the cloth very much.”
“We are pleased to hear that,” said the two weavers and described to him the colours and explained the curious pattern. The old minister listened carefully, so he would be able to tell the emperor what they said and so he did.
Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold-cloth, which they said they required for weaving. They kept everything for themselves and not a thread came near the loom, but they continued, as before, to pretend to work at the empty looms.
Soon afterwards the emperor sent another good man to the weavers to see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly finished. Like the old minister, he looked and looked but could see nothing, as there was nothing to be seen.
“Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?” asked the two rascals, showing and explaining the fantastic pattern, which, however, did not exist.
'I think I am not stupid,' thought the man. 'Maybe I am not clever enough for my job. I must not let any one know that and he praised the cloth, which he did not see and praised the beautiful colours and the fine pattern.'
“It is very excellent,” he said to the emperor.
Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At last the emperor wished to see it himself, while it was still on the loom. With a number of assistants, including the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever swindlers, who now worked as hard as they could, but without using any thread.
“Is it not magnificent?” said the two old men who had been there before. “Your Majesty must admire the colours and the pattern.” And then they pointed to the empty looms, for they expected that the others could see the cloth.
'What is this? thought the emperor, I do not see anything at all. That is terrible! Am I stupid? Too stupid to be an emperor? That would indeed be the most terrible thing that could happen to me.'
“Really,” he said, turning to the weavers, “your cloth is wonderful, really wonderful.” He nodded contentedly as he looked at the empty loom, because he didn’t want to say that he couldn’t see anything. All his attendants, who were with him, looked and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they said, like the emperor, “It is very beautiful.” And all advised him to wear the new magnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take place. “It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent,” they said. Everybody seemed to be delighted, and the emperor appointed the two swindlers “Imperial Court weavers.”
The whole night before the day on which the procession was to take place, these two rascals pretended to work, and burned more than sixteen candles. They wanted people to see that they were busy finishing the emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom, and worked about in the air with big scissors, and sewed with needles without thread. At last they said: “The emperor’s new clothes are ready now.”
The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall. The swindlers held their arms up as if they held something in their hands and said: “These are the trousers!” “This is the coat!” and “Here is the cloak!” and so on. “They are all as light as a cobweb, so light in fact, that it feels as if you have nothing on at all, but that is just the beauty of the clothes.”
“Indeed!” said all the assistants, but they could not see anything, for there was nothing to be seen.
“Does it please your Majesty now to undress,” said the swindlers, “that we may help your Majesty in putting on the new suit in front of the mirror?”
The emperor undressed and the swindlers pretended to put the new suit on him, one piece after another. The emperor looked at himself in the glass from all sides.
“How well they look! How well they fit!” said all. “What a beautiful pattern! What fine colours! That is a magnificent suit of clothes!”
It was announced that it was time to start the procession.
“I am ready,” said the emperor. “Does not my suit fit me wonderfully?” Then he turned once more to the looking-glass, so that people would think he was admiring his clothes again.
Two boys were there to walk behind the emperor, to hold up the train of the emperor’s clothes, that is the material from his clothes that would otherwise trail behind on the ground. They stretched their hands to the ground as if they lifted up the train and pretended to hold something in their hands. They did not like people to know that they could not see or feel anything.
The emperor marched in the procession under a beautiful canopy and all who saw him in the street and out of the windows exclaimed: “Indeed, the emperor’s new suit is amazing! What a long train he has! How well it fits him!” Nobody wanted to admit they saw nothing, for then it would mean they were too stupid. Never were the emperor’s clothes more admired.
At last a little boy piped up. “But he has nothing on at all! He’s completely nude!”
“Good heavens! I’m sorry about that,” said the embarrassed father. “He’s just a simple boy who doesn’t know any better.” But soon, the whole crowd was whispering what the child had said.
“He does have nothing on at all!” cried all the people, realising the truth. The emperor suddenly realised they were right, but he thought to himself, Now I must keep pretending until the end or I’ll look even more stupid.
So the emperor tried to walk with even greater dignity, while the crowd laughed and teased him all the way to the end. Afterwards he sent his soldiers to arrest the two swindlers, but they had fled the city with all the money and precious material.

#damnedlists

This foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines.
The one which bears a title “Wedding”, “Mabugo”, “Baby Shower” contribution, or whatever else money is being collected for.
It can arrive anytime. Sometimes it comes when you least expect it. Other times you do.
One example of when you least expect the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, is when a colleague loses a loved one. Not on appointment of course.
In the other case - i.e. when you expect the appearance of the foolscap sheet of paper, is when a colleague tells you that another colleague is getting married, or kwanjulaing. So, it will definitely be at your desk in the next few days.
Anyway, there are times when that foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines does not make an appearance. Rare.
Sometimes you have money to give.
Sometimes you do not want to give.
Sometimes you want to give but you do not have the money to give. Reasons: Bad time of the month. Budget things. Debt at the corner kiosk.
And this can happen to anybody.
Usually, the Bringer brings the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines to your work desk.
Name.
Amount.
Signature.
It could be at a time when your head could is buried deep in paper, when you need to beat a deadline, or when your eyes are glued to the computer. They place the paper in the free space near the computer mouse.
You (looking up at them): Hi. Yes?
Bringer: Yes. Hi.
You (giving Bringer a quizzical look): Yes?
Bringer (wondering why you don’t want to look at the foolscap paper sheet with three columns): Embaga.
You: Oh! Whose? (You read the name at the top of the sheet)
Bringer: Mangaman is getting married.
You: Kozzi, when is it, this wedding? (Your head is doing quick calculations- tomatoes, bread, Visiting Day, weekly homework package, school trip.)
Bringer: 26th July. (They’re now handing you the pen, because they need to move on to the next person before she stands up to leave.)
You (doing a quick scan at the contributors’ list): Kozzi what date is it today? (You are now really trying to buy time and so you grab at your desk calendar and pretend to be looking at dates, quickly thumbing through pages).
Bringer (volunteering): The wedding is next Friday.
You (terrified of looking bad): Oh ok. Kozzi where is it?
(You try a weak joke) How come I haven’t got my card? (a weak laugh quickly follows)
Bringer (irritation needle rising fast): Mangaman pinned the card on the noticeboard. We’re all invited!
You (finally dawning on you that you cannot, will not be able to wriggle yourself out of this one): I don’t have any money on me right now. I need to first go to the bank. (But you know your account is dry)
Bringer: It’s okay. I can collect it later, just write the date on which you’ll have money ready. (Pen is thrust at you)
You: (Feeling utterly and properly trapped.) Ooookaaayyy. Hmmm…. (You write number 25. Then you make a show of pressing the ka slow dot after your number 25. You start writing your name but your eye is doing a swift inspection of the list. Contributor Number One has pledged 500K. Number 3 is giving 350K. Gosh, these are regular people you work with!)
Bringer: No, you should write Number 27. See, this is number 26 (they show you the person before you. 200k.)
You: (realizing that you’ve written your name all crooked) Okay, let me see, let me see, let me see um… Today’s the 16th. Ok. Ha, kale check on me on 20th.
Bringer: But 20th is Sunday. (sighing) Anyway, write down your contribution and then I’ll pick the money on Tuesday. I’ll just indicate on the list that your payment is pending.
You: (Imagining that ‘ugly “Pending” word while the others have appended “Paid” flowery signatures!) Look, just come back on Tuesday. (You do not want to face Bringer of the foolscap paper sheet with three columns separated by two carelessly drawn lines, and with Mangaman's name scribbled at the top).
Bringer (resignedly): Okay.
They take their sheet and you thankfully breathe a sigh of temporary relief.
The contribution list.
Is real.

#finderskeeperslosersweepers

That nursery rhyme we sang when we were in baby class went something like:

“ I wrote a letter to my friend, and on the way I lost it. Somebody must have picked it up and put it in his pocket.”
And then you’d try to guess who the picker could be.

Only that today, it was nothing to do with a nursery rhyme but a crisp, folded 50,000 shillings’ note on the sidewalk at Constitution Square.
I was doing my morning walk to work lost in deep thought when I saw a young man crossing the road at high speed, kind of doing a sprint.
He’s stopped and bent down to pick something a few meters ahead of me. My eyes followed him. Who randomly picks a flyer on a walkway at 7:30am?

Then I saw that it was not a flyer. It was money. New money.
Our eyes met briefly as he rose and started walking briskly towards me. Kind of saying, “Sorry, I got to it first”, or, “Finders, keepers. Losers weepers! It’s mine now.”
And then I thought to myself, “If I’d gotten to that note first, would I have picked it up?"
"Would I have then gone looking for the owner?"
"Would I walk on by and pretend that I didn’t care?"
Or "Would I have done a double take and quickly drawn up a mental list of the groceries 50k could buy?"

Then my mind wandered again and sent me back to a time when I lived in the village, when a cousin came to visit with a friend. He had a plan to develop his land and they were to stay a few days.
Two days later the friend, a small wiry young man, came home in indescribable pain. His finger was swollen, that condition they call “entunuka” (My best friend Google tells me it’s called Paronychia- a bacterial or fungal infection, a nail disease).
Kati, he couldn’t eat or sleep from the throbbing pain.
He asked if he could lower his finger into the hole in our pit latrine because someone had advised it would offer instant relief and was the best treatment.
And that when he looked around, ours was the cleanest, the one where he could kneel for an hour.
Of course Mum dismissed the whole idea as ridiculous and advised him to go to a clinic and get an antibiotic.
“But this is not an infection!” he argued.
“Then what is it? Look, that pus needs to be removed, it needs to dry, because that is what is causing you untold pain!” Mum shot back.
The boy was being very difficult, holding his sick hand between his knees, his face the definition of misery.
“But nyabo. This is dogo, witchcraft! Help me!”
Now she wanted to laugh but she kept a straight face.
Then he came clean. “Okay, let me admit. I picked up some money that had been thrown in the masang’azira, the cross-roads. We had nothing to eat and the counts were a godsend. But someone told me that such money has bad luck attached to it, and now my finger is going! Just allow me to use your toilet.”
Oba byagweera wa?
But I know that he left the village that evening never to be seen again.

I’m sure that the next time he saw a coin lying on the ground, he either turned and went back, or kept his distance and crossed the road.

#beyondthenumbers

You’re in the news room and reports filter in that there’s been an accident. A bad accident. When did it happen? Where, give me a location?
And then the million dollar question - How many dead?
The bigger the number, the higher up it goes on your docket.

One person. Hmmm….

Bodaboda rider…. Hmmm... Was probably some careless unlicensed chap.

Taxi speeding along Iganga-Tirinyi highway and several injured … another long hmmmmmm……
Masaka road, hmm…. . They always happen. 

Member of Parliament escapes narrowly but car is written off - Okay, place somewhere in the first segment. 

President’s convoy- let's be careful with the details. 

Four teenagers perish on happy ride to school. Okay, let’s get on to that. Hurry!!

And then one day it involves a bus, a tractor, a cargo truck loaded with beer.
Did you say three vehicles? Eyewitnesses take videos and share them on WhatsApp groups. Glass and blood are everywhere. The numbers are conflicting but speculation is that they’re in the range of 35. School children involved.

Now these are numberrrrrrs! Story number one.

Police posts a statement confirming the incident and giving assurance of round the clock investigations.

In the taxi everyone is talking about the accident.

Bad roads are blamed. At some point it is the Police.

Others complain about unqualified, tired, overworked drivers.

But somewhere, someone is receiving a phone call. It is 10:52pm. The number belongs to a relative. A close relative. But when she answers, the voice is foreign. The information they receive is numbing. Because the voice is saying this phone belongs to their relative. That there’s been an accident. A bad bad accident. That they have called the last number this person called. The receiver wonders why the caller is telling her this? They are now speaking in a hurry. Then she hears the dreaded word. Dead. Afudde. And she wonders, “Who? Ani afudde?”.
The caller says he is somewhere on the Gulu highway. Then the line goes dead.
And the newsroom gets back to the grind. Story number one. Because these, THESE ARE numbers.

Rest in peace David.

#thedissinggame

I was the silent witness to a scenario between a buyer and seller in the washrooms at work.

Potential buyer tried on three pairs of trousers while the seller waited by the sinks.

After fitting into a pair, the buyer would come out of the toilet stall, dress hitched around the waist, asking the seller if she looked good in the pants. And the seller nodded her head all the time (don’t they?).

The buyer then settled on one pair, red.

Seller looked disappointed as she had hoped she could sell at least two pairs. 

Buyer: Kozzi you said how much?
Seller: 25k.
Buyer: Each pair?? Nga last time you sold to me at 20k! Actually, I’m going to give you 15k.
Seller: That was then. I got these at a more expensive price.
Buyer: I have 15k today.
Seller: No, that is too low. Kale, give me 20k at least.
Buyer: No, that's what I have. (Then, handing back the garment) The pants did not even look good on me. The waist is too tight, and the material is rather worn.
Seller: (Looking really downcast as she folds the clothes to put back in her rucksack. Then pleading...) Just give me 20k. You see, I have even put in my transport.
Buyer: (now changing like the weather) Your clothes are not good. Take them away.
Seller: (resignedly) Kale, you give me the 15k.
Buyer: ('pretends' to hesitate) Good. Pack them in a kaveera for me.

And then she happily (and victoriously) handed over the 15k.


For pants. That she had been dissing. Not so long ago.

#budgetday

Who remembers a time when we looked forward to the budget reading; a time when the story of what would be taxed - beer, cigarettes, kerosene - made front page news on the day, and people would go, “Ah!” and “Oh my God!”?

At the important event, the Finance Minister's brown leather briefcase —— containing sheaves of foolscap paper filled with all sorts of figures, and big words like expenditure, absorption, disbursements, households, framework, and peppered with black and white graphs—— would be held up for all to see. 

Photo journalists jostled for the best angles, cameras click-click-clicked away, the Minister flashed a wide smile and hold the pose for a few minutes just to be sure they had enough choice to pick from.
Then s/he would ascend the steps to the room where the long-awaited speech would be delivered.

And then the next day, it was a sure deal that all newspapers would paste the photograph of a beaming Minister of Finance and the notable briefcase to share space with the lead story and the headline.

And people crowded round the news vendors’ stands to read for themselves, and to ponder what the next year really held for them.

Today, we are privy to the proposals in Parliament, proposals served with threats of levies on this and that, because we are gossips, we are tax dodgers, we need to contribute to the construction of the roads we use!

The minister’s budget speech is public property even before he starts presenting it.

We know that the VIPs will stride into the Conference Center feeling very important, the army of TV journalists will interview them, they will sit in an air-conditioned room, pull out bottles of mineral water and PK chewing gum to keep them awake, and then sit and clap and nod their heads through hour-long speeches.

MPs will shift uncomfortably in their chairs wishing themselves in any other place.

For some, their eyelids will struggle against gravity, being weighed down with sleep.

Others will have planned beforehand to sit near their friends to make the session more bearable with conversation.

And even before the event is over, the newspaper editors will have already copied and pasted the speech and allocated it pages and pages to the next day’s edition.
Because you see, tomorrow nothing will be so new owing to this digital era where the televisions and radios will have shredded every detail, economic experts on talk-shows will have explained and expounded on the gains and losses, and woe betide any TV station that doesn’t have the Budget reading as top story.

And then there's the biggest competitor of them all, the new kid on the block --- social media!
Who looks forward to the budget reading?

#overdebar

As the guys watch France torture Argentina, I'm watching them (the guys) too.

The France supporters:
They sit easy, concentrate, occasionally chat and throw jibes at each other with one eye on the screen. This is the normal state of affairs for most of the game.
When the goals begin to happen, they stand up, their eyes open wide, and when the ball shakes the back of the net, they yell and punch the air. Then they settle back and discuss that goal. When Argentina's tatooed Di Maria strikes the back of the net, they are still easy.
Half time happens, no sweat. C'mon there's still a second half. "Ole! Ole! Le Bleus all the way!"
Second half and Argentine Mercado leads the way. Hmmm...
Then things take a sudden twist - three swift goals from Pavard and Mbappe. Mbappe shoots another. This is promising, very promising, and France supporters go into a frenzy jumping up and hugging each other. And when they sit down again, they let their arms carelessly swing over the chair arm-rest as they analyse this sweetness.
One supporter has ascended into speaking in tongues but it sounds like, "Katonda wa'wa?! Yala yala!" Another person suggests a headline for tomorrow- "Messi Messed", and they all laugh.
Camaraderie all around.
Aguerro scores in the 90th minute but there's no cause for abnormal heartbeats.

The Argentina supporters:
At the beginning of the match, they are talking animatedly, having friendly arguments, patting each other on the back, and reeling off the names of the players like multiplication tables. As the minutes tick by and France takes the penalty, they lean forward and grip the edges of the chair. When the first goal happens, they do not join in the celebration. Instead their hands go up to their heads in evident worry. Anxiety. Then the second goal of the match - Di-Mario's - happens and their faces light up. Hope still holds...
With Mercado things are looking up and they are thinking, "Wow! We're sure as hell taking this!"
Then--- in an instant, the sky begins to darken. France must have put something into their half-time drinks! Parvard, Mbappe. Then this boy Mbappe again! Some Argentina supporters cannot take this and abandon their seats to the back of the room.
Things are looking really ugly. The ones who stay are smiling but not really smiling. How can it be 4-2? This is PRESSURE!
Aguerro shows up in the dying minutes, in attempt to restore hope. Now all they're looking for is an equaliser.

The Sports Betters:
These, by far, are the most interesting to observe. At the looks on their faces and their body language.
Of course they have placed money on Argentina, whether they support the Albicelestes or not. They betted on Messi saving their day. They could have staked their rent money for all we know.
When the first France goal happens, a light sweat greases their brow. But they still hang on. All is not lost.
They keep checking their phones, switching on and off. And when Di Maria strikes the perfect goal, still they do not shout, but the uncomfortable shifting in their seats cannot be missed.
When the break happens a few minutes later, they do not hang around the other supporters. Instead, they find something else to do - like going to the toilet. Because it is better than listening to people bleating sh** about 20 people chasing a ball round and round a green field.
Even when the second half starts, they are nowhere to be seen.
About ten minutes later, they slink back in and settle down quietly. Mbappe does a first, and then a second strike. One says in a quiet frustrated voice to an Argentine player, "You kick properly! Ah!"
It's easy to see the betters' breathing has gone ragged, their faces strained, as they occasionally whisper to each other.
Suddenly there's a crazy final attempt from Aguerro. Someone leaps from his chair, knocking it over in his stress.

Ohshshshsh!!!! The ball goes "ova de bar"!
It's money down the drain!

#pilingonthepounds

My sister was kind: You’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.

My boss was blunt: You’ve really put on weight, ah!

The driver could not hide his shock: Eh! Ogezze!

A long-lost friend seemed happy: Oh, finally you really have put on some weight.

And the bodaboda man, he was B-R-U-T-A-L: Nga ogezze nnyo naawe! Mbadde sikutegedde! Too fat, he nearly didn’t recognize me. 

And I smiled in the dark because I returned to the time when I was so sick and so thin for years, and when I finally recovered from my illness, my waist was thinner than a slay queen’s.

Of course, a thick girth is quite uncomfortable, and costly to the pocket because you have to purchase new outfits, and then you have to go to the gym, and start a special diet of weeds, leaves, and fruit beaten into a nourishing detoxifying juice - which means you have to get a juicing machine.
Other people say my size is “okay” and I should “stay as you are”.

And I thought curvy was in. By the way, aren't there plus-size models laughing all the way to the bank?

There are many reasons the weight piles on as you grow older. My health freak little sister assured me, and I believe her, that eating habits are far from it. Sedentary lifestyles, increase in stress, less sleep, change in hormones- are to blame and believe you me, the fourth floor’s store is fully stocked.
And then there’s the universal law of gravitation, Newton’s law- when everything begins to go South and you don’t feel young and spritely anymore. And your knees creak when you bend them.

Something I’m reading now says, “Our natural muscle mass naturally begins to decline around age 30, and that process, called sarcopenia, accelerates around age 40. Metabolism slows down and the lost muscle is replaced by fat.

My emotionally abusive ex, even in those days when the slay queens had nothing on me, called me “fat”, and it was evident that he relished the way the word rolled out of his mouth. By the way, he couldn’t tie his shoelaces.

When I first went to the US, I saw ten-year olds lugging around excessive folds and rolls on their bodies and looking like 15-year olds.

I’m not there yet. I could be soon. But I will not allow myself to get there, and I will not allow myself any light-headedness over people’s opinions.

Get that sports footwear out Sister, crunch that tummy, stretch those legs, tighten those abs. Stay fit.

PS: I'm not really much of a photo person.