#knowsomeonewhoknowssomeone

At the turn of the century, I finished school and hit the streets of Kampala in search of a job. My hunt led me to the Bank of Uganda office of my Uncle, my mother’s brother- her "nfirabulago".
Of course I had not informed him of my visit (the mobile phone was not that accessible to some of us) and the uniformed receptionists at the front desk gave me a bloody time.
Anyway, my simple request to him was that I needed a job. I didn’t tell him directly that I needed him to press some buttons, turn on some switches and smoothen the ride to my first paycheck. I assumed he automatically understood what I meant. That he could effortlessly dial the numbers on his desk phone, “talk” to some of his friends, and voila! I’d be swinging in the chair behind my own desk the next day.
He’s a deep thinker that one, and he took his time before he replied.
“Have you looked anywhere yet?”
“Um, I have applied to Dembe FM and Radio One. But I also want to do public relations.” (He was in public relations)
“What job are you looking for?”
“I want to be on air, or I want to be a public relations person.”
He took his time before he asked, “What do public relations people do?”
I reeled off what the lecturer had taught us, something to do with maintaining a favorable public image by a company. I knew he was bought.
Silence.
Then, “Oh, ok.”
Then more silence.
After what seemed like eternity with me sitting there looking cluelessly at his face, he picked up the phone and asked the Secretary to come in (They still had those things of shorthand).
He handed her some files and asked her to have them delivered to some Director’s office. So had he just heard what I was asking him to do for me??
Then he turned to me and said, “Kale, I have listened to what you’ve said. Now, you go and continue looking, and then you come back next week and give me a report on the progress.”
Let me tell you right now — I never did go back. I felt he had done me a disservice, that he was not on my side, and that a trip back to his office was useless.
You see, my Uncle is incorruptible. He was the old model of worker. The one who believes you have to work hard for something and be able to enjoy it. The “nothing is gonna be handed you on a silver spoon” sort. The kind who didn’t believe in the lies we had been taught to believe. The lies of “I know someone who knows someone” and therefore everything comes easy.


I remember one night when land thugs attacked my parents in their house. There had been many threats and on this particular occasion, they had first prowled outside the house the night before and come back to attack the next night.
In desperation, I called the then Police spokesperson Judith, and explained my predicament. She was my “friend”. After all I had known her when she still used to wear plainclothes in that little office in Kibuli.
But now she was someone, she had influence, she had clout, she could pull a few strings and rein in the goons.
Probably not wanting to get her fingers burnt, she informed me that there was "little she could do, and that I should contact the nearest area police station” (who had even once arrested my Dad when he went to report a case!!).
And so we decided to take the fight into our own hands. If it meant spending the night outside we would. If it meant waiting for them to come and kill us, then so be it. After all, no-one is immortal.

About a year ago when I was on the verge of pulling my hair out over the expense of cancer drugs which were 'unavailable' at the institute's pharmacy, I narrated my experience to friend.
She said not to worry and gave me a phone number of some Big Suit in Mulago hospital.
"Call that and explain. You will have the drugs in a minute. And in bulk as well!"
Did I call the number?

Fast forward to a good old government worker who is engaged in a dispute over an acre of land on the outskirts of the city, property he says he has owned for the last 23 years. The man with whom he is fighting for ownership had decided that enough was enough and he would take back what belonged to Caesar. Jim arrived to find court bailiffs in the midst of an eviction (his), trees were being chopped, houses had been brought down, plants had been pulled to the ground. He whipped out his phone and dialed the number of the Inspector General of Police. No answer. Another DPC said an order was out for repossession and there was little he could do. I think Jim was used to the good old days- when, away from wielding some power, it was a matter of knowing a particular somebody and the wheels would roll soundlessly. Knowing someone was clearly not working for him and he eventually ended up in court.

In many instances we have witnessed people stopped by traffic police for having worn out tyres, whipping out their phone to call a munene in some office to intervene.

Do you need a new express passport? Don’t fret, I know someone who can get it for you by the close of business today.

You want a place in a “good” school? Oh, the headmistress is the wife of my brother’s friend.

What about coverage of that PR story? Don’t you worry about it, just call the Sales Manager, you’ll get all the media and more.

Ati shortage of sugar? Easy peasy, the uncle of the manager of the sugar factory owes me a favor.

Your niece needs an internship, don’t worry, I am the executive director of the business (it doesn’t matter that she is not interested).

Is it a fake land title you need? Eh, that one is easy. My sister- in- law is the typist.

Kakati, omuntu wa wansi, the one who doesn’t have a voice, the one who doesn’t know someone who knows someone, akikola atya?
How do we survive?  
Ani gw'omanyi gwe?