@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.

two friends and a phone

A loud scream. Incoherent speech. Frenzied cries. Raised voices. In the dark. Two men, walk on, probably returning home after a hard day’s work, maybe they’ve even failed to raise the kaveera their wives are eagerly waiting for. They only glance briefly at the area from where the screams emanate. Faithful, fully paid-up members of the ‘For Me I Just Kept Quiet’ brigade.

I rush back when I heard the word “Hajji”. Is this a case of domestic violence happening before my very eyes and ears?

The young woman is hysterical. Her phone has been stolen.
“My phone, essimu yange, essimu, essimuuuuu!” she wails, throwing herself down heavily on the pavers in the good Doctor’s driveway.
Her hands go to her head. “Essimu yange. Emitwalo jange ataano!”
This is confusing. A phone, 500,000 shillings. Have they both been stolen?

She jumps up, “Siiko, Siiko munnange, mbulira essimu gyeli! Siiko wange, emaali yange eri ludda wa?”

In some situations, much as you want information, you also need to take a step back and first ascertain the situation so you don’t fall headlong into it.
For all you know, she could be talking to herself nga emizimu gya ba Jjaja are on her head. Because the Siiko who was being addressed is nowhere to be seen.

The jump becomes a jog. Round and round, in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail. In the dark, her silhouette looks like she is doing some kind of dance, a drill, some exercise.
Darting to and from the perimeter fence, racing across the good Doctor’s driveway and back again. Like that.
Then she disappears- falling onto the ground, where she writhes, rolls over and over, raising her hands, pounding the pavers, beating her thighs.
This is a woman in mourning.

We have now established that there was a demise of some sort. A phone. Worth 500,000 shillings. The young woman’s name is Bridget.
She is a student.
This is her second such possession in the space of five months.
That the earlier one had also been stolen somehow.
That she had scrimped and saved and saved and scrimped to be able to purchase this new gadget, not even five weeks old. But it is now gone. Disappeared. Poof. Kaput. Gone. With. The. Wind. Fabulous.

Then I also discover that apart from the key players - Bridget and the thief - there is the Siiko who is being implored to return the precious coveted item.
She is huddled in a corner, curled into one of the pillars of the perimeter fence of the good Doctor’s driveway, probably wanting to disappear into the baked bricks or become one of them.
The light from the headlamps of one of the bodabodas – they gather like moths to the light – show several strands of unruly hair that have escaped from a back puff. Her fat cheeks are wet.

“Tugende ondage essimu!” Bridget is spluttering, weak with pain.

The Real Siiko attempts to stand up, but sits down again quickly, returning to her foetus-like position. She feels safer like that.
The crowd is made up of mostly women.
One, in her nightie and black hair-net, is asking Siiko for exact details of the story.
Siiko is attempting to recount but dissolves into a helpless cry about how she is not being allowed to tell the story from where it started.

“You girl, how did you come to be in possession of the phone?” Madam Nightie with a Hairnet demands.
Siiko get up.
This time her legs do not buckle.
Her face is short, stuffed.
Like an old pussycat.

She starts explaining that a man had approached her. That he had told her her name, adding that he could tell that she had plenty of problems.
“Woiiii! God help me! I was conned, I was conned. I was cooooonnnnned! Abasajja banfeze! Heiiiiii!!” she bawls.
“You’re lying!” This from a Mama in a Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear. It comes down to near her ankles. She switches on her katorchi phone and shines it in Siiko’s face.

I want to hear Siiko’s story to the end.

“My name is not Siiko. I am called Scovia!”

“Alright Scovia, what exactly happened?”

Mama Tight Light-Pink Velvet Wear that went down to near her ankles is back. She has just consulted with Bridget who is howling, prostrate on the pavers.

“Siiko you are a thief!”

“Nooooooo” Siiko wails. “Hear me out. Why do you judge me when all of you have ever fallen prey to conmen? Hear me out!” she screams in frustration.

Her version of events is that the man had told her about her many problems and offered a solution. He asked if one of the things she desired was a phone? If so, which type.

‘Infinity Phone’, she had said.

‘Can I see a picture of it, so that when I am asking the gods, I will say that Siiko of Kitiiyo village desired this very make?’

And Siiko had said would show him the exact make she so desired.

And so she had sat on the man’s bodaboda motorcycle and ridden to Bridget’s house.
Bridget was sleeping. Siiko said she wanted to borrow the phone for a few minutes to make a quick call.
Bridget had not thought twice, after all, Siiko was her friend.
So Siiko had unplugged the charger and taken the phone. That was the last time Bridget would set eyes on her beloved gadget.

Just then, Bridget recoveres from her trance on the pavers.
The jog is back in full force.
Like a woman possessed, she runs up to Bridget.
I wait for the blow. A slap. Something like that. I stepped away. It does not come.
Bridget falls to her knees and gently, very gently, holds Siiko by the hips.
“Mukwano Siiko, ntwala essimu gyebagyibbidde!”
Then she leaps up and towers over Siiko.
She touches her friend’s wet cheeks and whimpers, “Kikwano! Abasajja baagenze wa?”
The whole scene is rather disturbing.

Trying to get an answer from Siiko is like getting blood from a stone.
She gapes like a fish out of water.
No words come out. Bridget prances away again in a hypnotic-like state.

A woman carrying a huge black rucksack appears from nowhere. “Bannyabo,” she says authoritatively, “Leave this Siiko alone. I think your attention should be focused on this other woman and her mental state. She is very distressed.”

And so the women turns to Bridget who was now trying to dislodge one of the good Doctor’s pavers from his well-preserved, freshly-laid driveway.

They surround her and lift her by the arms and legs as she tries to wriggle from their grasp, shouting, “Okusoma kwange kuwedde! Nfudde nze! Emitwalo gyange ataaano gigenze bwegityo!" 

Siiko stares as Bridget is carried through the gate. One of the women returns.

“Siiko, come here!” She grabs her hand and leads her down the driveway.

God knows how it ended.

when you are so done!

I’d had enough of this man breathing down my neck, making insinuating remarks about my inabilities, throwing around all sorts of sexual innuendos, overworking me.
And so on a bright Monday morning, a few minutes after I reported to work, I resigned my job.
Following the ‘shock’ announcement, I tossed the papers I had been holding onto the desk, in the process sending them flying across the floor, picked up my handbag and stalked off. I was tired of being made to feel worthless. I had had it. I was so fed up. So DONE.
That was 17 years ago.
The sun felt warm on my face. I was happy, out of prison. I sauntered into the restaurant downstairs and ordered a plate of chips and chaps and a Fanta soda. The owner was surprised to see me. I usually ate there on some evenings. Not at 9am.
‘I just quit’, I told her, feeling very victorious.
She gave me a quizzical look. “Quit what?”
“My job. Can I have another chap?”
“So what will you do now? You have kids. How will you look after them? You have no job.”
“Just put the chap on my plate.”
To be very honest, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had not even thought through my drastic decision. I had zero savings. I had no side hustle. I depended on my salary to pay for everything. And apart from my kids, I had other dependents. At that time, 220,000 shillings catered for school fees, house rent, clothes, football practice, extra homework, food and the etceras.
I called up my friend Mark at the office. “Come to Sarah’s please. We need to talk.”
He was there in a few minutes, eager to know what the din upstairs had been about. Everybody was curious. Some had heard the commotion and peeked slyly through the open door.
“You know what I have been through Mark, I cannot handle it any more. I am so done with that bearded beastly tub of a bugger! He made me leave the office late on Saturday, after loading me with a hamper of work. It was only the two of us there and he insisted on making advances, even when he knows I want nothing to do with him and have spurned him so many times! Eventually he allowed me to leave and said I would finish the work on Monday. It’s Monday morning now, and the minute he waddled in, he demanded to see the work. I said I was in the process of completing it and would hand it in by midday. He didn’t want to listen, just started going off on me. I cut him short, threw the papers onto his desk. ‘I am, done!’, I said. ‘I am so f******** done!’ The incredulous look on his podgy face spurred me on. I raised my voice. ‘I resign! Settle my accounts and leave me the hell in peace! I will let your bosses know exactly what you have subjected me to for two years!”

####################
And so I started out, with absolutely no idea about what the future held.
One thing I remember though, is that feeling of the sun on my face. It had been so long since I felt that way, the warmth, seeing the people on the street.
For the past two years, all that I'd been hearing were deadlines, targets, empty threats of ‘I can sack you right now!”. Bull!
The man had been on my case since I did the interview. One of the questions he had asked in the second interview - which he conducted himself - was, “Are you married?”
And when I said, “No”, it was followed by a quick, “Do you have a boyfriend then?”
Another ‘No”.
Little did I know that I had just become a target. His little punching bag.
One day, I was in the office early, after dropping the kids at school. As I organised the papers in the tray at the front desk, Mr. Boss strode in feeling all braggadocio-like.
“Morrrning Linda!” He made it sound like ‘Lenderr'.
I breathed a silent ‘Not now!” in my mind. “Morning.”
He came up to the desk. And like the sly fat fox that he was, attempted to plant a kiss on my lips. I did not pull back fast enough and his cologne- infused hairs poked my face. I shoved him off. He turned on his heel and marched his short stout frame into his box office.
How dare you! I wanted to shout. Instead, I ran to the toilet cubicle and cried for a few minutes. The brazenness of this man! When I came out, two other people had arrived. I strode up to his office and sat down. He looked at me, a smug look on his face.
“Don’t you ever do that again!”
“What can you do?” he sneered.
“I said, don’t you ever!” And then the tears came again.
“Look, if you want to leave, I can get you a job at WBS, its very easy. Just a few calls and you’re out. Simple. Now, get out of my office!”
And that was that. Dismissed.
One evening, I was assigned to night duty. The station from where we did our broadcast was located about three miles from the main road. High up on the hill. I arrived early with the evening driver who then left for other duties. The other person on duty Charles, was a quiet, elderly man who was good at minding his own business.
I had watched on many times as he suffered his fair share of rantings from the boss, peppered with accusations of incompetence and followed by threats of being fired.
I was working in the other room when I heard the desk phone ring. Charles picked it up. After a few minutes it ended with, “Yes, GM.”
“Linda, GM wants to see you.” My heart froze.
“Where? About what?”
“He said that you go to his house.” He lived in one of the buildings at the station.
My legs felt like lead.
“Come in.”
He led me to a table in the corner of the living room.
“I want you to make advertising tags on each of these articles.”
I was blank.
“Write something catchy for each of these arrticles. They are for the different shows ve are planning to advertise.”
I had not the slightest idea what he wanted but I set to work.
Less than 10 minutes later, he was back, hovering over me. By then I had realized to my horror, that there was no one else in the house. It was just him. Then I remembered him m mentioning a few days ago, that his wife and young kids would be going off to India.
He waddled off, back to the kitchen. I continued to work, tense.
“Lenderr!”
“Yes, GM.”
“Come herre. To the kitchen!”
I got up hesitantly. The thought of walking to the front door and leaving occurred, but I obeyed my master.
“Don’t call me GM, call me Patel.”
He was frying what looked like a kilogram of onions. On the counter next to the cooker stood some bottles of spices. And a bowl of diced carrots and potatoes.
He was going on about the merits of onions and describing how they should be fried but I was not listening. I just nodded my head, worrying about my exit in case he tried to pull anything funny. Which he was wont to do. I could not put it past him.
With the vegetables bubbling happily on low heat, he retreated to the confines of his room, but not before asking if I would like a drink as I finished my work.
I asked for a glass of orange juice. And just as I had imagined - he had cleverly added a bit of alcohol in it. My hackles rose. I needed to get out of this place, and fast.

######### I started writing really fast, scribbling onto the sheets of paper. I didn’t care if it made sense. I would just leave quietly and face the music tomorrow. Just as I was about to leave, he slithered back into the living room. Soft music wafted through the house from the bedroom's open door.
“Lenderr, have you finished the vorrk (work)?”
“I am about to,” I mumbled, anxious to leave.
“Ah, leave it, leave it. That vill be for tomorrow.” He was suddenly being so kind.
“Come, let’s have something to eat first.”
Shucks! This leech.
“I already ate, I’m okay.”
He tried to coax me, but I stood my ground. My sixth sense was hammering loudly. I was so on edge.
“Okay, then if you will not eat, finish yourr drink.” My glass was untouched.
“I do not drink alcohol GM.” My voice was firm.
He feigned ignorance. “No, that is orange juice, only orange juice. Look, I’ll show you the bottle.”
Bullshit! I was thinking.
With his options exhausted, his next move was more than daring.
“Okay, come and dance vith me.”
I could have screamed. Then I noticed that he had changed from his work clothes into white tunic and harem pajama-like pants.
“No, I will not do that!”
I ran out the front door and back to the broadcast room where I collapsed into a heap. This man was so vile, so uncouth, so dirty.
About an hour later, the night filming crew returned with the equipment. I called one of them aside, someone I trusted and poured out the whole story.
“Guma. Be strong. You are not the first one. He also did it to Esther. She suffered so much with him but she did not give in. You can handle it. That is how many men are. ”
I was angry. I expected him to throw his hands up in shock and go charging like a ram at the Indian’s door. And after we spoke, he shrugged his soldiers, said he was tired and asked if there was any food left.
One time he asked me if I was having an affair with his driver. Another time he wanted to buy me a dress for Valentine’s Day. The other staff were talking. Someone told me what people were saying. I was suffering inside, caught between a rock and a hard stone. This was my first formal job in Kampala, I had children to look after and bills to pay.
And what was worse, I did not know my way about, having lived in a different country for many years and then been deposited in a boarding school deep inside a far-off district.

############

The experiences at that workplace left me wounded. I think I suffered some form of PTSD. It didn’t matter that the sun was shining hot, I was always covered up. A sweater, a shawl, a jacket. I was not cold. I just felt the need to be covered. To ward off any unwanted suggestions my body offered. Or at least that was what I thought. That my body was attracting the wrong kind of attention. Other times it offered me comfort, a warm envelope, safety, protection. In the womb.

I heard that a few months after I left, more employees resigned. Soon, the boss was in the cross-hairs. He was eventually fired. He had been desperately searching for opportunities in Canada where he could emigrate with his family. Those opportunities were hard to come by.
One mid-morning as I went down the stairs at my new job, I spotted, through the spaces between them, a familiar figure a few flights lower. It was huffing and puffing its way up. My heart leapt with the familiar stirrings of fright.
I looked left and right but there was no door behind which I could hide. The only option was to run back up the stairs.
But just then, I told myself to be still, be strong and face the enemy- that was if he was even the one.
He was the one. In the flesh. Bearded, teletubby, gummy bear, with the same brown leather briefcase that made him look deceptively busy.
He must have been shocked to see me because he asked, “What you arre doing herre?”
“I work here.” Puffed-up me.
“Vherre?”
“Here.”

The last I heard was that the Kuber chewer had emigrated to some far off country.
Good riddance to very bad rubbish.

#kasadha'sspace

The only constant about the LC One Chairman’s office is the dust. It is everywhere- the walls are coated in a fine film, the floor is a dirty grey-brown, the green paint on the iron door carries its fair share of powder, and the three old broken suitcases that sit miserably in one corner (the manufacturer would have a fit if they saw the state of their products) - were once black.

Uganda’s former Presidents stare down. Obote once, and then twice. Muteesa. Amin. Lule. Binaisa.
In Museveni’s picture, in which he is much younger, the skin on his face is tighter, his mustache is black and, admittedly- he looks rather handsome!
 
I get confused counting the number of calendars competing for space on the walls of the tiny 10 by 10 space.
There’s one dating four years back, donated by a secondary school in Mutungo.
Most of them are from 2018, all shapes, sizes and colors. Come to think of it, there is none for 2019!
A framed picture of Chairman Kasadha in a navy blue suit and striped green and white tie adorns the space above his chair.
It hangs on a huge nail in the wall.
It must have been the one he used for the campaigns. Now he wears vitenge shirts and there are fine lines on his forehead.

He must be a football fanatic.
There’s a full color newspaper pull-out for the Premier League on which someone has scribbled in tiny letters.
A poster advertising the importance of immunization hides between one of safe motherhood and the dangers of cutting down trees.

The wooden desk, that has seen better days, has all manner of paper sitting in piles, and he occasionally dives into a folder to pick a form or a letter, then proceeds to open each of the three drawers on the left, before he starts rummaging around for a Biro or white-out liquid.
He holds the pen high and then brings it down, making it hover and dance a few centimeters above the paper before the elaborate writing exercise begins.

In addition to his dining chair, whose seat has come apart and been supplemented by a hard throw pillow, and the kalonda in Kasadha's office, there are two old sofa chairs for visitors.
One is so deep that if a human plops into it, they could actually disappear.
When there are no villagers seeking services, the chairs are occupied by hangers-on who have nowhere else to go.
And because Kasadha enjoys conversation, he welcomes them warmly.

And so it happened that I needed Kasadha's services.
A letter, introducing me to the bank for a new savings account.
It was a wild attempt since it was early morning and I was on my way to work.
Luckily, he was open.
The chair next to the door looked suspiciously inhabited by bedbugs.
I sat on the edge.

After the theatrics of letter-writing, Kasadha informed me that he was also issuing village IDs.
And when we got talking, I learnt that I could re-register for a national ID.
Kasadha scrabbled around the papers on his busy desk, emerging with a national ID application form which he proceeded to help me fill (Thank God, because I am a a paid-up member of the Global Formophobia Society, especially with the questions about the surname and given name and mother’s village and father’s parish!)

I fixed an appointment to meet the mobile ID agents.

///////////////

The office was rather busy when I arrived.
A father and his two-year-old girl who was getting irritated by the agent badgering her to stay still so that her photo could be taken.
After some time she shouted, “Daddy, for me I am tired!” but the agent would not let go.
The agent proceeded to lecture him, a man old enough to be her father, to quickly, and correctly fill out the form, make up his mind if his mother’s village is Kiteezi or Lusanja, and to make it his responsibility to check for the child’s NIN after three months.

The agent reminded me of a pussycat.
Plump, cat-shaped face with unruly permed hair.
When she bent forward to show him where to sign on the form, her short blouse shifted higher, exposing purple frilly knickers under her tight grey pants.

Then it was my turn.
“Nyabo, tuula ku ntebe.”

She had borrowed the chairman’s dining chair and I sat in the uncomfortable plastic one with a half-broken leg opposite her. She waved my form about, as she ordered the girl’s father and a layabout in the office to hold the lesu behind me when the time came to take my picture.

“Given name?”

“Sharon.”

“Surname?”

“Navuga”

“Maiden name?” Her eyes shifted to my already filled-out form. “Eh, nyabo, are these all your names?”

My head was reeling. I wanted to ask her if she had ever heard of Idi Amin Dada and all his titles.

“Level of education?”

“Degree.”

“Bachelors or Masters?”

I didn’t know whether she was beginning to sound like a robot or a nurse in a government hospital.

“Are you employed? Where?”

Now that was not on the form.

“NTV.”

The answer brought welcome winds of change. Her demeanor changed. Her features softened. Language of communication switched to English.
“Eh, you are the people who give us good programmes like Deception?”

Just then, a woman walked in carrying a tray bearing plates laden with food. The agent's attention shifted. “Let's do the photograph.”

One take was enough.

//////////////////

She turned to the young man waiting his turn. Nurse mode returned with a vengeance.

“Ate gwe ssebo?”

“I want nashnaayiddi.”

“National ID? Wajjuza foomu?”

He hadn’t filled out the form. Unlucky for him.

“Oli wa gwanga ki?”

“Mufumbira.”

“Weddira ki?”

He said he belonged to the Ngo clan.”

“Ngo?? The Bafumbira do not have Leopards!”

She reeled off some hard clan names. “Go and ask your father where you belong! Now, let me eat, for me I am hungry!”

And she reached for the plates.

#sevensofar

The first one.
It happened in a hospital.
When she was just 13.
Under the watchful eye
Of a doctor
Who said
That her body was too young.
To handle the rigours of childbirth.
He saved her from the man
Who had put her in family’s way.
Because he was married anyway.

The second time.
At 19.
Was her classmate at college.
He told a friend.
Who told another friend
Who knew a doctor friend.
Who put something inside her.
That cruelly ejected
The life growing inside of her.
The man, her classmate.
Called her spoiled goods
He couldn’t deal
And he left her.
For...
Another classmate.

Number three.
In a little backroom.
Of a dingy house
That called itself
A clinic.
In the front they
Did medical work.
But at the back
Was the devil’s workshop.
In a few hours.
She was freed.
Of that which
Had threatened to
Ruin her future.
He left her soon after.
Called her a whore.
Who couldn’t keep
Her legs shut.

Fourth time unlucky.
The condom broke.
After a party.
He was drunk
She had two glasses.
A one-night stand.
He had declared.
A crush on her.
Three months later.
He didn’t wanna know.
That must be one of
Your many men.
I cannot have babies.
I am young
Leave me alone.
This time she was stuck
Afraid that.
Her body could not
Take any more.
But when she walked.
Into that place
The one that was famous
For these kinds of things.
They welcomed her.
The fee was reasonable.
It would be clean
Free of pain
And so
Painlessly,
a life was cut short.
An innocent life.

But then one day.
She met a friend.
And they talked.
The friend said.
I cannot have bastards.
Because their fathers.
Just wanted.
Some fun with me.
Gave me money.
I got pregnant for them.
Then flushed their babies.
I’ve done seven so far.

The silence hangs heavy
The room is cold
Cold like her heart.

#officelomance

The conductor in the taxi to work was brash. “Fare to Kampala is 2,500 shillings, Kalerwe 2,000!”
Of course he was overcharging but he didn’t give a damn.
It was a take it or leave it affair.
I couldn’t afford to be late so I hopped on.

“2,500 to K’la, 2,000 Kalerwe!” he stated to everyone who moved towards the car, slamming the door in the face of anyone who dared to haggle.
At one point, a passenger who had not “properly” heard the fare attempted to argue.  
The way he put up his two fingers to show its 2k, or the door! 
You could think he was going to beat her. 

Fast forward to Mpererwe. 
Two young ladies got on. 
One took a seat at the back, the other next to him. 
After a few minutes the neighbor struck up a conversation. 
Her voice, and closeness, must have had an immediate effect- like a wonder-drug of sorts, because he dropped his slouch to adopt a straight back, his brow un-creased, and the line that was his mouth broke out into a smile as he cocked his head towards her, listening attentively.
He even forgot to call out to potential clients as the taxi, filled with empty seats, sped towards town. Ah! The power of a woman. It can soften even the toughest of edges (and egos). 

At Kalerwe, his interest got off and gave him two 1,000 shillings’ notes - for her and her girlfriend. He dropped his eyes. 
Like a shy schoolgirl.
I did not hear but I definitely saw him mouth the words- “Zino genda onywemu soda.” 
It was so soft. 
And he handed back her money. 
Stealthily. 

Then we sped off. 
It did not take him long to return to his former ways, threatening one passenger that if he didn’t “add 500 shillings he would find somewhere else to pass, but definitely not through the main door!!”

#milk'emdry

Nostalgia drove me back to the village church I last attended 13 years ago. The longing was borne from a sudden flash of memory- a Sunday morning and I am carrying my young son on my hip while the other toddled beside me, to church.

My grandfather donated the bricks for the building over 40 years ago, and it was a place that gave me some sense of peace and sanity from the troubles of life.

Sometimes I carried a small kiti moto because there were only three benches and a dusty papyrus mat, occupied by hyperactive children at the back.
I remembered how I woke up early to sweep the floor and stared out of the pane-less windows asking God to look down on me with favor.

Last Sunday, I made up my mind to relive the experience, only that this time there would be no baby on my hip and I would not be carrying a kiti moto.

Unfortunately, I reached nearly 15 minutes late, parking in the shade next to a Prado (13 years ago, cars outside this building were a myth!) opposite the entrance of the building.
I hoped I could slip in and find somewhere to sit at the back when the congregation finished the hymn.
The back bench was full but there was an empty seat somewhere in the middle.
The papyrus mat was still tucked in its corner, filled with little children who cared nothing about adult things.

“Nnyabo, jjangu o'tuule wano!” The Mubuulizi cut short her announcement for the first reading.
Eh, was she suggesting I sit at the front?

I cringed, because from memory, that front place was usually reserved for big big people and for me I was here for the experience.
It was for those people who only surfaced at Christmas and pulled out purple, red and orange-brownish notes.
“Vvaawo mwana gwe!” She shooed a teenage boy off the bench.  
Bannange, what was with this woman?
Her face transformed into a smile, “Tusanyuse okukulaba nnyabo!”
I mumbled a quick, “Kale nnyabo,” as I squeezed in, embarrassed by this uncalled-for importance I was being accorded.
“Abagenyi baffe abakulu tubaaniriza nnyo!” She was happy to see important guests.
This was turning out to be a really hard paper.

Two readings, a lengthy sermon and about 17 hymns later, the baskets came out.
Collection time.
The two-base-three- soprano choir led the song and money began to pour into the baskets.
When that ended, we sang another hymn.
Another basket came out. The Mubuulizi announced that it was collection for the choir. We moved forward again. Another hymn.

The vestry needed refurbishment and that required money.
Of the 700,000 shillings that is needed, only 30,000 had been collected.
Someone had pledged two bags of cement.
More cash and pledges please.
Another basket.
Hymn.

We would have to fund-raise for the Mothers Union as it was their day to celebrate.
The lady stood at the front, basket in hand, waiting, waiting.
Three women came forward, also dressed in the white busuuti and the blue sash.
They dropped something into her basket.
Hymn please.

The youth choir had qualified for the championships, which were three weeks away.
They needed 800,000 shillings for the two days they’d be there.
One person approached the basket.
The youths said they had some packets of fruit on sale outside.
Each pack was for 5,000 shillings.
Song.

The discussion on the church’s seed project was brief.
There must be money to be enable the planting of the forest to earn it some revenue.
Luckily the church has a huge chunk of land, still untouched by the land dealers.
Choir please?

The Mubuulizi took her seat and the Church Chair took over.
With the niceties aside, he jumped right in.

“Now, bassebo n’e bannyabo, our Mubuulizi you see here, has not been paid her salary for the last seven months. You all know how she lives- hand to mouth. We need to help her. That money is supposed to come from you. Shake out your pockets, reach deep into your bags for those notes and coins you had forgotten about. Let us all contribute kindly towards this cause. The church owes her 210,000 shillings. I will be passing a basket round."

The basket started on our line. I pulled out 5,000 shillings.
“Abalungi mu Yesu, muddize eri Mukama! Mukama mulungi!”
There was exactly 5,500 shillings in the basket when it returned to the chair.
Hymn number 26.

Someone had brought a tray of eggs to be auctioned.
“Abalungi, the church needs money, we need to make our contribution to the diocese. The auction for the tray of eggs starts at 50,000 shillings. 50,000 shillings! Anyone? Who is adding, who is adding?

He came towards us, handing the basket to my neighbor, the owner of the Prado.
It was my cue to leave.
Hopes of reliving any memories had been dashed.

#Finding.Myself.Again

“I’m lost”.

Disappeared in a maze of confusing complications
Many times I nearly succeeded in finding my way
And when the mouth of the cave that swallowed me
Came into view
The huge jaws opened again and gobbled me up
Took me past the throat
And into the belly of
Nothingness. Self-doubt. Unworthiness.

In the maze are signs that read
“At Six Years- sitting under Mummy’s sewing table
making doll’s clothes.”

Another says “12 Years- Gazing out of window
To stare at the people
on the other side of the fence.”

And this one stands out boldly,
“14 Years - When you found your voice
And crept out of your quiet reclusive shell.”

The next is rather fun.
“16 Years - When nothing could stop you.”

“20 Years - when you brought forth life
To become a mother, a nurturing spirit.”

But I’ll admit, though grudgingly,
That it was the first time I experienced
The loss of innocence
It could have been the youth in me
That quickly kicked away the doubt,
That tore at the bush of despondency,
The forest of fear.
The sticky web of indecision, utter bewilderment
A deep mess of ignorance about life
In a state where I believed what I believed
Stuck on the thin line between girl and woman.

For 18 years, I stumbled through the mesh
of growing up and responsibility
Juggling motherhood, work, daughterhood
Walking deeper into the wood.
“God help me,” I cried every night
Not believing that He would.

You see, it took me quite some time
To figure out that life is a process.
And certain things do not fall into place
Just at the snap of your fingers.
My mantra quickly became
“I do not know”, “I am tired”, “I’m so done”.

I know now,
That that was the climax of my hopelessness.
And that from that point on,
Things could only get better.
Slowly by slowly, I found the strength
to start the climb
out of the abyss of self-deprecation
The pit of hopelessness,
The black hole where I lost Me.

And then, in the quest for more meaning
I lost my grip,
slipped and slid several feet down
Landing smack into another cavity.
Here, things grabbed at me
Held me tight in their claws
And began to suffocate me
Long hours of slaving, lethargy of ideas
The life drained out again,
Creativity was stifled, beliefs crumbled,
Self-esteem fled, morale was crushed.
And once again, I returned to the empty shell
I had so tried to escape.

The metamorphosis was slow
But the results were glaring.
They saw it, I felt it
Too worn out to fight this time
I let myself go.
Maybe I would find peace as a nobody.

But in my dog-tired state, I heard a sound
Like a whisper at first.
I refused to lift my head but it persisted
Becoming louder and louder with time
Until it became a voice
In my head, a voice that said
“Get up! Lift yourself!”
And then the words of the US’s black President
He who married Michelle, came to me,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
And the chorus grew, and grew
Rising in volume each time it was repeated
And I leaned on my forearms, sat up.

Another voice murmured,
“You gotta get your groove back!”
And God, with his might,
gave me the push I needed
To get back on my feet.
And though I toddled a bit,
Floundered like a fish out of water,
I got stronger by the day.

And now, even if I can’t yet run,
I walk with my head up straight
The mist is clearing,
I just saw my goals wave at me
Life gave me a thumbs up
And I am ready
To. Find. Myself. 
Again.

#44days

The pain, oh the pain. What am I going to do? What will I do? God, how do I move on from here? How do I? How, O Lord? Help me, help me, help me!!

The cry of a man in anguish.
A man who has been betrayed.
A man who for eight years has loved a woman.
A man who has been through it with her.
A man who has heard countless times how the woman is not good for him.
But a man who has said that, in spite of it all, he will  love her.

But today, the truth has unfolded.
The truth that has caused him to be in this situation.
It is the truth no man wants to hear.
That the child the woman has been carrying and has delivered, the child that he was so happy to have, the child he went home to every night and woke up to every morning, is not his.


Eight years. Eight blasted years.
That was how long they had been together.
In those eight years, he had wooed her, she had accepted him, with a bit of reluctance at the time.
He was a young man, still in school, he had nothing much to offer except love.
And he was broke.
Campus life was not easy, he depended on the government allowance and the little he made off a side business, burning and selling movie CDs, while he juggled with attending lectures, doing tests and examinations.
He had left campus with a second-class upper degree in Social Studies. He would take what life threw at him.

What am I going to tell my family?
What will my mother say?
My people know this is my child.
I told them when she got pregnant.
I shared my journey with them.
They have supported me all through.
Yes, my brother had his doubts about this relationship four years ago, and he told me, but …. Oh, God, what am I going to do? What?

22nd January 2019.
Time: 2pm.
He sits in the doctor’s room across from the mother of his child.
The child is not sick.
She’s not sick.
He’s not sick.
The doctor is saying something but all he hears is, “excluded” over and over again.
“Too many unnecessary technical terms”, he thinks, “this guy needs to cut to the chase. I’ve got stuff to do.”
And midway through the doctor’s droning on and on, “Doctor, you’re using the word excluded over and over, and it’s making me rather uncomfortable. What do you want to tell us?”
“Well,” the doctor hesitates, and shifts in his chair, adjusting his glasses. “That…”
“That what?” His hands have started shaking uncontrollably. That word ‘that’ was heavy, laced with a lot of meaning.
“That you are not the father!”

Bam! Something hits him hard in the chest, like a battering ram, and he falls back.
His eyes are swimming.
His head is pounding.
Thunder in his ears.
Huge black birds coming at him, their sharp yellow beaks wanting to peck him.
His heart is threatening to burst out of his rib-cage.

Then he thinks, ‘I have to be a man!’

“What do you mean I am not the father?” He has regained his composure.
“Exactly that Mr. Buwembo. That you are not the father of this child. That he is not your son.”
And the pain makes a second landing.
This time he feels like something has been ripped from his body, a huge piece of flesh.
He stands up and pats his chest.
Then his head.
Then his legs.
And then he becomes aware that this is beginning to look, and feel extremely dramatic.

The mother of his child, Anna has bowed her head.
Oh, scratch that -- his former child!
She does not hear the baby gurgle as he calls for attention, wanting someone to play with.
Buwembo looks at her and hate fills his heart.
She starts weeping, and she reaches into her bag for a hanky.
"Take the baby."
He cannot.
He will not touch the child.

He does not know what to feel for this little innocent being.
A being for whom he had so much love.
The one who made him smile as he sat through the heavy traffic from work every evening.
The one whose eyes melted his heart.
The little thing who kept him awake for hours in the night, wanting to play, waving his limbs about, and causing him to feel sleepy during the day.

But just for 44 days.

It is indeed a rude realization, an impolite breakaway.
She is now crying uncontrollably.
Huge heaves, blowing loudly into her hanky.
The doctor is quiet.
It is an uncomfortable situation, but he has seen some.  
Actually, Buwembo is one of the calmer types.

Mothers have walked in here, saying all sorts of things, swearing in all sorts of languages about how children belong to the man and asking how he can subject her to such a test.
Many times, the children have turned out to be someone else’s and men have broken down and bawled like babies after the realization that the boys and girls they have loved and cared for, are not theirs.
Others have charged at the mother of the children, wanting to throttle or beat the hell out of her. 
Some have ranted.
Others have punched the air and celebrated the fact that they are washing their hands of the wretched woman and her equally wretched brats, happy to be able to start a new life without the burden of school fees and break money.

“Well,” he says as he regains his composure, and when it dawns on him that there will be no more theatrics.
“Yes, Mr. Buwembo. So you need to sign this form.”
“No Doctor. I will not sign anything. Let her sign. I’m out of here!”
She raises her head, looks at him with pleading eyes.
He is not moved, and averts his gaze.
God, he cannot stand her!
He needs to leave this space.
How can he be sharing the same oxygen with Jezebel?
Thank God she had left his place temporarily.
She must have known all along because she didn’t hesitate when he asked for the DNA test. 
Of course her lack of hesitation meant something was amiss.
God, how could he be so stupid!
Now he asks himself if anything about the baby resembled him.
There had to be something at least.
The nails?
The hair perhaps?
What about the feet?

The words of his friend, and brother echo in his head.
He hears them again, but even as they sound so far away, they are clear.
“You should have left that girl four years ago!” his brother had told him.
Upon the persistent urging of his friend when the child was born, Buwembo had decided to postpone the baptism ceremony and do a paternity test.
“Just check and see, something is not right.” His friend put it down to a sixth sense.
Men do not say much.
When they do, there is much meaning.
This time, he had listened.
And now the worst has come to pass, his fears have been confirmed.
The baby is not his.
Pain. Pain. Pain.

He has spent so much on the whole process.
From the time she told him the good news.
Hospital prenatal visits.
Cravings in the night.
Driving to her parents' house.
And it’s not even about the money, which hovers in the range of nearly four million shillings.
It is the feelings he has put into this relationship, the love he invested, the time, the care, the trust.

‘What will I do, oh Lord? What am I going to do? How will I go on from here? How will I tell my parents? How will they look at me? They will surely judge me! Oh God! I do not know what to do! Will I be able to work? What kind of man am I? Do I even have the capacity to love or be loved? Eight years I have given to this woman. Eight bloody years. I have cared for her with the little that I have. And when she got pregnant, I said I would look after her, to ensure that nothing happens to her and the baby. And this is what she does? Oh, okay.'

His mind is racing, but he cannot find the tears.
They. Just. Will. Not. Come.
He leans forward, head in his hands, feeling the headache coming on strong.
Suddenly he gets up from the chair and walks to the door.
He is a man and he has work to do.
But as he touches the door handle, a big tear slides unbidden, down his cheek, and he breaks down and sobs like a baby, collapsing in a heap, his body wracked with raw pain.

#pastsins

We had been talking for hours, catching up on old times. She had spent the last two years and seven months in Nairobi and Mombasa doing business. And though she didn’t say exactly what business she was doing, some of the advice that peppered our conversation raised my suspicion that she had been involved in something sinister.

‘God, am I judging her?’ I thought. After all, she was okay giving an account about the three abortions she had procured just so she could keep her relationship going.
“No way was I returning to Kampala with other men’s children!”

The first was a one-night stand. With a guy she met at the market where she’d gone to buy fabric from the heavily- bleached Congolese women who smuggled them into Kenya.
He was the one at the stall, the Madame was away for a few hours.
And when they got talking, both in broken Kiswahili, she fell for the few French words like ‘oui’ and ’s’il vous plaît’ that he mentioned unconsciously.

He followed her to her the rooms she shared with two other young women.
They ended up in bed.
A month later, she discovered, to her dismay, that she was with child.
She did not see or hear from him again.
Madame told her that he was her cousin.
He had flown to Belgium three weeks ago.

That marked the end of that baby.
In a back-end clinic where the fetus had been thrown into a red plastic bucket with two others.

The next two kiddos were with the same guy.
They had dated on and off for five months.
And she had flushed the babies.
No qualms.

Well, she was happy to be back. Life in Nairobi was hell. And all the while she missed her two boys. Surprisingly, their father, that fat, sloppy, good-for-nothing thing of a man was glad to see her.
Even though he’d never wanted to marry her or show any love, he cared for the kids and gave her money for food and school.
But that didn’t take away the fact that he was a slob.
He only came to her occasionally and when he was done, he slid off her and returned to his room. Yes, they slept in different rooms.

It had been like that for some time.
She had grown tired of the charade - her slipping back into their bedroom at 5am, just to give the boys the picture that things in the home were good.
Sneaking into each other's rooms was tiring.

And then she heard that Pato had been saying things to the girls that brought him food at the shop. Someone whispered that he had occasionally invited one to spend a few hours in the night when Nissy was away upcountry visiting her mother.
Then, the fact that she was the real definition of a housewife (only that she didn’t have the ring) was driving her up the wall.
That, and having to depend on a man for everything.
She had to do something for herself.
Leave the kids and go look for money, capital to invest.
Money that was hers.

But here she was.
Back.
Empty-handed.
With no idea where to even start.

****************
Lunch was delicious. A special meal for old friends. Matooke, rice, liver, doodo. The conversation flowed freely.
“Girl, something’s been bugging me for a long time. Years, actually.”
This chic had a lot going on.
“A huge, huge secret. Man, if only you knew! God! This is so hard!”
My quizzed look egged her on. Of course I wanted to know!
She looked at the floor.
“Ah, its okay. I’ll deal with it. I will. I came back determined to finish it, once and for all.”
“What is it Nissy?
She shook her head.
“No, lemme deal with it. Oh, God, why?”
“C’mon, let it out. It’s okay. Let it out. Hey.”

When she was 20, she had started an affair with a married man at work.
Being the naive intern then, she’d allowed Martin to take her out on dates, had giggled when he complemented her, and eventually ended up spending the night with him while on an upcountry trip. This was in spite of the fact that she was living with her boyfriend, Pato.
Before he fell off the wagon, to become the eccentric pig that he was now.

And when her son came, she was ecstatic.
However, when he was about three months old, she began to notice things about him that looked so much like Martin.
The shape of his head.
The extra little finger on his left hand.
Pato was glad to have a son. “My heir!” he boasted to friends and family.

And little Jonny grew more and more handsome every day.
Eyes like his father’s, the eyes that had bedazzled her.
The athletic build.
The broad forehead.
She had no idea if Pato noticed anything, but if he did, he was very diplomatic about it, and said nothing.
And then she had had another son and Pato doted on him as well. And all was good for some time until Pato had started to become more and more distant.

Martin called off the relationship when he realized she was pregnant.
And when her internship period ended, she had left and not seen or heard from him again. But one day, she and seven-year-old Jonny had stopped by a restaurant in town for a bite, and lo and behold, there was Martin, finishing up a late lunch.
They had talked for a few minutes and he took a special interest in Johnny.
“Maybe he saw the resemblance, the little finger, hmmm …”
But she had said nothing.
It was only after Martin left, that she confirmed.
There was no mistaking.
Johnny was Martin’s son.

******************
Now here she was, in the storm of a dilemma.
It hung heavy on her shoulders.
Jonny was 17, going on 18 next month.
Pato was always complaining about him, saying he was becoming a problem - that he didn’t clean his room, his grades were bad, he was moving with the wrong company.

What had happened in the time she had been away?
Yes, Johnny had grown.
He was now a young man, soon to be an adult.
It was obvious he felt his Dad’s disfavor and was glad to see his mother back.
He doted on her like he was six again.
But her heart was heavy.
And it had been like that for a long time.
Should she tell him the truth?
Was it a secret she should take to her grave?
She was torn.
"What do I do?"
I did not know what to say.

**************

She had recently discovered that Martin had been bedridden for four months.
She got up and went into her room and returned with an old picture.
He was tall and lean.
“That was when we had just started going out. This guy looked so good, oh! But, I recently met this chic who worked in his office and she told me he had been in hospital for a month, and that when he was discharged, he was still so sick to return to work.”

She feared that the worst could happen.
That he could die. She wondered where she could find him.
She wondered if he’d want to know that truth.
Even though he had never asked. 
She figured that she could let Jonny know that Martin was his father, but Pato was his Dad.
Dad.
The one who had raised him, and bathed him and loved him.
Like his one son.
Dad.
Nissy reasoned that not fathering a child didn’t mean you could not love him.
Anyone can be a father, but being a Dad was special.
Pato was special to Jonny. 

But again, she worried what Jonny would think about her.
That she was wild?
That she was a cheat?
Wouldn’t that lower his estimation of her?

Worry was tearing her heart apart.
Her thoughts tortured her.
She had become an insomniac, tossing and turning and turning and tossing every night.
She panicked at the mere memory.
And when she looked at Johnny, tears pricked her eyes.

Personally, I felt that she should hold her peace.
Why disrupt her son’s life at this stage?
It could leave him empty, devastated, disturbed.
Why open a can of worms, Pandora’s box, why not let sleeping dogs lie?
All the cliches and idioms sprang to mind.

But I knew deep down that the final solution was hers.

//////////
Nissy called me at 6am.
Pato had known all along, and he had told her so last night.
That he had done a DNA test while she was in Nairobi, and confirmed his suspicions but waited for the right time to tell her.
And now he wanted her to tell Jonny. 

#mansbestfriend

The fight was for his dog.
Maybe he loved it more than he loved himself.
Anti they say, that a dog is man’s best friend. And so when the stone hit the dog and it yelped loudly, it’s owner rushed out to see what the matter was.

The dog-hitter had assumed this was a stray. Far from it.
It happened to have an owner who, on seeing a young man walking off, assumed (correctly) that he was the one who had caused the dog to cry out in pain.

The dog owner charged for the dog-hitter. Pow! On the back. How dare you attack my dog?

The dog-hitter was stunned. Had the dog suddenly transformed into a human being? Because, in his world, every dog that ran around in the street was a stray. Period. If someone had so much love for an animal, it would have been behind a fence, a gate, in a kennel, clean fur, flea-less, drinking milk and crunching bones. Not a mangy like this…. this… this …

Why are you hitting me?

How dare you beat my dog? Pow! Pow! Pow!

Dog hitter sprang into action and hit back. Boof! Slap!

For several minutes, they grappled with each other in the dark, swung punches, exchanged blows, wrestled, grabbed at, and tore shirts. In the dust.
Man's best friend joined in the melee, barking hysterically, snapping and snarling at dog-hitter for attacking his boss.

Then they took a commercial break. Dog’s best friend shouted, I will show you today, that you don’t go around attacking animals for nothing.

He reached for the ground then flung the stone with all his might. It connected with dog-hitter’s skull.
Dog hitter saw red. Blood.
Dog hitter was groaning.

His pals who had ran away in fear, given the ferocity with which he was being attacked, suddenly woke from their stupor and returned to the ring to rescue their own who had gone in for Round Two.

A bodaboda rider passing by stopped and jumped off his bike (these ones are famous for smelling trouble from miles away). With his huge hands, he effortlessly picked dog owner off dog hitter who he was pummeling in the dust. Tossed him away like a bad potato.
What is the matter? What is making you fight like this?

Dog owner repeated his accusation.

The boda rider jeered and told him to stop being stupid because in this part of the world, you can’t beat up another man for a dog. A mere dog. Embwa. Who did that? Go away naawe!

Dog hitter was bleeding profusely from the opening on his head. He leaned on the wall, wailing loudly. Then just like that, he collected himself and walked to where his shocked friends stood.
Dog owner had vanished when he heard mention of police being called to the scene.

Just then man’s best friend ran by. Again.
In anger, dog hitter picked up a stone and hurled it at man’s best friend.

Some people never learn.