@thanksforthesupport!

 

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Standing behind this woman in the supermarket got me thinking if it really is appropriate to bear your underwear like this. Pink and black bra, her dress falling over her shoulders, and she not giving a hoot. And the straps were dirty too. She was hot and sweaty and breathing uncomfortably and had stretch marks all over her upper arms.
But it also got me thinking about something else. Bras. A quick survey I did with 10 women showed surprising results- that most of us have no inkling of why we use the support system except that it holds up our assets and keeps them from flopping here and there and everywhere.
Also, that many of us do not know what size we are- the reason  a shop attendant will shove a Size 38 DD in your face, when you are in fact, a petite 32A. That is why we wear bras that shove the boobs right under your chin, that ride uncomfortably up your back, that press into your back, the straps too loose, or the cups too wrinkly. How about the ugly side boob, the bra that gives you too much uplift, or the bra one that cuts into the breast making it look like you have four or more of them. And then the strapless that just goes on a sit down strike!
I recently found out that I have been quietly suffering as a 36C when in fact I am an impressive 34D-er.
I decided on a fact-finding mission armed with four questions I imagined were simple enough.
At one of the shops- I won't say where- the manager was courteous enough to show me their "bras' expert". The young lady was polite and I put to her my three questions- what is a good bra, how can I tell if my bra does not fit, and if wearing the wrong fit has any effects on my health. Hmm... this chic is either a cousin of the boss or a PYT he had a crush on. She could not provide me an articulate answer. I thought I was being pushy, so I tried to ease things a little by throwing in a "little" of what I had (I had a lot of info actually- from Mum and from the Internet. I actually was the bra expert!!!!!!!!)
It went kinda like this:
Me:What would you say is a good bra?
"Expert": A good bra is one that fits you (duh!!!).
And I wanted to hear more but wapi???
Anyway, the conversation got a bit stilted- with me doing all the talking, asking the questions and answering them, and I gave up.
I boldly asked her to measure me, because, as I told her, I was in a 34DD and yet I felt rather uncomfortable and anyway, I am not sure what size I now am because my body is expanding at rate XTRA.
She first pointed my eyes to a graph or table (I am going to download it from the internet), which I will admit, I did not understand- it had 97s and 95s and 32s and 34s.
Then she told me she would measure my "under-bust". It was 34" (yaaaaaayyyy!! so I have been getting it right all along). Now for the cup size. She said "not too tight, not too loose". I wanted to know at what point the measuring tape is able to "detect" what cup size I wear. Vague.
But she also volunteered that the sizes for different countries vary and her advice (the only helpful tip of the day) is to fit the bra before shoving it into a shopping bag.
At this point, the "interview" had gotten too tough (I am a tough questioner, I sometimes come off as a know-it-all). She then suggested looking for something for me to fit (I wasn't gonna buy ma'am, I hope I made that very clear from the start!).
Up and down, here and there, move this, pick that, drop that. Through the "Everydays" and the "Distractions".
Finally, she selected two hot pink and black lace Distraction numbers in 34DD and 34D, another dull pink 34C, and a beige strapless 34C (which refused to give me its support).
Off to the changing room I went. Off with my blouse and bra. On with the 34DD- wrinkly; 34C- tight on the left; ugly pink- my mind refused to register any results (but I imagine that that is what really fits). Like I said the strapless was a disaster, making my boobs even flatter than a chapati, and more disfigured than a mandazi.

I won't lie, I was kinda disappointed and I wanted to know if there are people who DO NOT have a bra size. And she said "yes". I felt that I fitted in that category.
And so I left the store, none the wiser than I had come in. Even more clueless. What is a good bra? What is a bad bra?
But courtesy of Daily Mail (www.dailymail.co.uk) my mission to find the correct answers may just be half-accomplished.

How to get the right fit:
1. The strap around your body should be firm but comfortable. When you stand side-on at a mirror, the strap that runs around your body should be horizontal and should not ride up the back at all.

2. The wires at the front should lie flat against your rib cage and should not dig in, rub or poke out at the front. 

3. Your breasts should be enclosed in the cups and you should have a smooth line where the fabric at the top of the cup ends and meets your bust.

4. You should not have any ridge or bulging over the top or sides of the cups, even if you are wearing a "balconette" style or lower cut shape.


And a little bit of history of this famous undergarment from Wikipedia:

"The history of brassieres is inextricably intertwined with the social history of the status of women, including the evolution of fashion and changing views of the body.
Women have used a variety of garments and devices to cover, restrain, or modify the appearance of breasts."

@ofliesandtalent

I'm talking kids today.
There is this TV show that showcases (I hate the word but...) children's talents. I happily informed my sisters to make sure to tune in and ensure that my nieces and nephews would be watching. But I do not know if they were as disappointed as I was. For wriggling of waists, shaking of bum feathers and prancing around the stage like frightened horses was all they could show.
Dancing, dancing and more dancing!
This is what parents, teachers and the children they teach call talent today.
Disappointing.
I looked at those poor kids dressed in their skimpy skirts, shorts and kundi shows and pitied them. These are children who are exposed to television and video games in their free time. They know nothing about playing kwepena, duulu, marbles, kicking football, Ludo, Monopoly, Chanisi (aka Playing Cards). All they see is twerking, winding and gyrating, modelling, strutting... that is what they call Talent.

I was so looking forward to seeing a child designing a dress, playing the flute, ballet dancing, acting, singing (and not a Chris Brown song please), making jewelery, reciting a poem, painting, drawing, playing the piano, acrobatics, juggling, stand up comedy. Anything but RihannaKaty PerrieNicki Minaj-aping.
What happened to recognizing and training the abilities in our children? What happened to good old having time for children? What happened to those special classes for our children?
I cannot tell if it is problem with our curriculum, if it is our way of thinking- the "okusoma" syndrome- that children go to school just so that they can pass exams and get good government jobs; or is it that parents do not have time for their kids anymore, that every household must have a television set (the richer ones have DSTV) and that when the children are "feeling bored", then all they need to do is to flick the switch and be entertained; do the teachers even know what talents are?
There is also this syndrome of having nursery school kids stay at school the whole day--- doing what?? And this comes with an extra fee, by the way.
What about the issue of coaching for a Primary One child? That is really the icing on the cake! I say, a six year old still has six more years of primary school education, another six of seconday school education and another three, or four perhaps of university. So--- explain to me why you are overloading this child with boring data and information that he cannot even take in, making him carry a bag-load of books and damaging his poor back????? Mbu the child needs extra coaching???
And pray, tell me, where then does this child get the time to cool off. By the way, people ignore this, but it is an important aspect in a child's development. Cooling off time. Kick some ball, do some kwepena.
I was shocked when my sister told me that her daughter- 3 years old and in baby class- had HOMEWORK!!! Homework!!!!!!!!!! H-O-M-E-W-O-R-K!!!!!!
This is what makes children hate school. Its all about work, work and more work. What happened to fun? Fun-you have to pay for it. Swimming, trips... you have to fork money. Like the other day my niece's school was taking the kids to Freedom City Play Park. To swing and slide and swim. Mbu 30,000 shillings!!! Plus bring a packed lunch.

More ranting-- this time about April Fools Day.
Who the hell said this is about lying, telling lies, call it whatever you want.
I was reading the Toto children's mag in the New Vision and this reporter had gone around asking kids what they have done on April Fool's Day. And all ALL the answers were about lies, telling lies.  "I lied to my parents that I was sick; I lied to my friend that I had kept her books; I lied to my brother that I would give him a sweet".
So, who will tell these kids that the day is about hoaxes, jokes and pranks and that you need good ideas and creativity and enough time to pull it off. Not have the talent of being a good liar. I'm sure the reporter was the one who created the lying concept. Shallow mind.

April Fool's Day- a day when people play practical jokes. It is about light-heartedness. The pranking period expires at 12pm on 1st April.

Nobody ever said it was about telling lies, lying etc!!!

#retrospect

I have been thinking in retrospect over the past few days, recalling the memories of when I was little, my mother's perfume, my dad's warm nuzzling when he found came back from work and we were already in bed.

I have been listening to the old tunes- Boney M- playing Brown Girl in the Ring- the day we walked to the concert and Mum came looking for us, frantic with worry; Abba's Happy New Year, when we went to the movies with our new-born sister and she cried all through. Now Demis Roussos is hauntingly wailing in my ear, strumming his guitar, his background vocalists doing such a good job.

Remembering the Pussycat and Big G chewing gum, the Fanta ad in child voices, the Goody Goody toffee strips, the toffee in multi-coloured wrappers. The 10 cents ice sold by one of our classmate's houseboy by the gate.

God, those days were so good!!

@everythinsgoinsouth

Her sacking letter came today. A few minutes after she settled into her chair and put her bag down. Somebody was sent to call her to the Boss' office. The look on her face when she returned was thunder. The dismissal was to take immediate effect.
Just a few months ago she told me that her sister had asked her to move out since she was now married and did not want, in her own words, "hangers-on".
To make matters worse, her relationship was stuck. Her boyfriend was always out of town, he never texted or called back and kept lying to her. She had planned on moving in with him but now doubted if he even loved her.

In 2013, my six-year relationship ended abruptly. So unceremoniously. There was no reason given, no bye, nothing. Just like that he broke it off. Without a word.
Then someone at work went around spreading rumors about me, saying that I was stealing money from the company.
A few weeks later, my father fell sick and was in hospital for a month.
Then my boss blasted me in her office, calling me incompetent and threatening how she I would soon be out of a job.
At that point I felt I was drowning. I thought I was about to run mad because everything was happening so fast. My blood pressure rose and I was in and out of hospital every week. I could not focus. My home life suffered. I was always tired and irritable and controlling. Relaxing was out of the question. One day I could not even go to work because I did not feel like it. My world had crashed down!

In all this, I remember one prayer that became like a mantra of sorts "God help me. Give me the strength to go through this."

In all this, as I tried to find my bearings, I remembered that I had been through things in my life that made me wonder how I would make it through the day. But the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months and the months into years, and the problem had simply melted into nothingness and I had not even noticed.
I began to realise the true power of God. That He is working all the time, whether we are happy or sad. He cares, He listens, He does not let us suffer beyond what we can carry. 

A friend of mine recently lost her baby. She miscarried at six months. She told me she cannot sleep and has problems concentrating. As a result her marriage is suffering, her children cannot seem to get her attention. And because she has been away from work for some time, the company took the decision to relieve her of her duties.
I did not want to preach to her. I reminded her of God's goodness and that there is a reason that this is all happening. Her short answers told me she did not really believe what I was saying.
I have been praying for her and I believe she will be better.

In all, my greatest belief is in God. That He has a bigger plan for us.

@someplease

 She sat on a piece of grubby cloth on the sidewalk, her legs out straight in front of her. A little scruffy child played by her side.
When I got to her I asked her if she was sick.
Yes, I am very sick. I have malaria. In a broken accent and a half smile, her eyes averted to the ground, almost like she was flirting with the dirty pavement.
Oh, you have malaria. You do NOT look like you have malaria.
I have.
Oh, ok. Now, get up and go and look for something to do so that you get the money to treat your illness. And get that child off the street as well. Let me see your arms, and your legs. Look at you, are you lame? Get your lazy self to do something worthwhile, and stop inconveniencing the child, and everybody passing by you, making eyes at them, whining and looking pitiful. Get up you!!!

That is how fed up I am with non-genuine beggars. Or should I call them fake beggars? If you were old, or crippled then maybe, just maybe.
But you find an able-bodied young person, lounging on the street and telling you or motioning to you with their hands, that they have not eaten, and need something to eat.
There's an old guy who I pass everyday. Slumped over, he cannot keep his back straight, but spends hours being drenched in rain, or baking in the sun- whatever the weather. Now, that is someone who needs help. I gave him a hearty lunch one day, and he really enjoyed it.
I have seen a number of Karimojong women and children in Owino market, sifting grain. They are employed to pick the dirties out of groundnuts, beans, maize grains etc.
But then there are those who camp on the street, with a pair of twins, bony little things, laid out on a dirty cloth by their side...

#thedaythelordhathmade

 Life is full of situations. Ups and downs, some like to call it. Sometimes its high up in the skies, sometimes its low there, in the gutter.
2015. Situations happen. I had been going through a lot lately. A midlife crisis. Unresolved issues caused me anger, I was unhappy at work- the people, the working times, worrying about my family, money issues. Life looked really grey.

Then my father fell ill. Very ill. We took him to hospital and ended up staying for a month. On that first night, we arrived at the hospital at about midnight. He could hardly stand up straight, let alone walk. They did test after test then took him into a little cubicle and laid him on a narrow, hard couch. I was alone with him in that teeny-weeny space. He was in absolute pain. The doctors said they were working on a room for him. We were in that space for close to 5 hours.
In that moment, my life flashed before my eyes. Now, here was a situation to worry about! Surprisingly, (I pray a lot) I asked God, in that moment, to make my Dad well again, and to take away his pain.
The days that followed were hell. For him. For us, who love him so much. In those days that I sat at his bedside and watched him waste away, not eating, needles in his hand, a catheter that gave him hell, I remembered the unresolved issues that I had with him. The anger that I had been storing for two years. And it did not matter anymore. It did not. All I wanted was for my Dad to be well. I did not care about the bills and where I was going to get the money. I did not, for one minute even think about work, or if I risked losing my job because I was away. All I wanted was for my Dad to be well. To eat again, to walk again, to smile again and show me his dimples, one of which I inherited.

After so much treatment, trying times- even getting  a sip of water down his throat - sleepless nights, we took Daddy home. Today, he sits up, walks around, eats a lot, and even drives! And I am thankful to God for that. 

That stay in hospital taught me so many things. One, that there are things in life that matter. Like my Dad. And others that do not- pettiness, worry, hate, anger. It also taught me to trust in God in whatever situation, that he is always looking out for us. Another lesson it left me with is that situations, and especially the tough, nail-biting ones, is that they make you stronger. And lastly, rejoice, because THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE!

#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.

#grumblegrumble

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.