#prayerwarrior

This my neighbor in the homebound taxi is notorious for … chanting.
As in chanting religious verses. Yes.
And he doesn’t see the awkward glances from passengers who've had a hard day with bosses breathing down their neck, or whose sales have refused to come through, and all they want to do is doze off as they hope and also pray for a better tomorrow.
Naye me I know this man. I know him well, and as he enters, I am praying, “God please deliver him to the back of the taxi, please.” 
The other day he chanted for six out of the eight miles home, successfully out-competing the radio. But there he is now, plopping himself heavily into the seat, in his bulky agbada and lugging two bags laden with God-knows-what. 
First, a freshly boiled cob comes out of the smaller bag and he proceeds to chomp it down army-worm style down—- in the five minutes we're waiting at the Wandegeya lights! 
I know the drill. The other day it was a mix of ground nuts and hard corn... and then the chanting began. Another time it was these milky biscuit sticks... and then reciting verses went into full gear. 
I try my best not to look at him but from the corner of my eye I can see him unzipping the bigger rucksack. 
Just then, someone calls and he answers the phone. “Wait, I'm traveling! Nja ku koonako!". 
But a quick glance reveals the string of 99 prayer beads being tugged out of the side pocket. I hold my breath. 
Then before I know it... ... the chanting is in full session. 
Bead by bead. And we're still five miles away. 
Anyway, I console myself that kasita he is not like the ones who preach for four minutes and then in the fifth minute they are urging all those who “feel how their preaching has touched them", to pray a conversion prayer.

#anewperspective

We’re cooped up in the 14-seater taxi on Kampala Road. The traffic is massive, bumper to bumper. It’s not quite 6pm, and everyone- on foot, on a bike, in a car, boda-boda- seems to be determinedly heading in one direction- home.

Suddenly, there’s commotion, people are running. Racing in the direction opposite those heading to the Old Taxi Park. The runners are carrying stuff on their heads, on their shoulders, in their hands. Vendors. Musisi’s KCCA enforcement officers are on the prowl, and the cry has rang out that they have been sighted in the vicinity. Mean faces, yellow shirts. It’s a cat and mouse game. The vendors run round the corner with their merchandise and the yellow shirts give chase. The vendors hide their merchandise behind shop doors, and pretend to be standing on the street and the chase stops there. It's a daily occurrence.

But today, for me, is a different day. It’s like a rebirth. For days I have felt like I was in the birth canal, being subjected to the rigors of labor. And now, I have been reborn.

For two reasons. One, a few hours ago, I received the very sad news that my cousin Norah had passed on in hospital. She had a stubborn brain tumor. She was a young mother of two girls, a woman whom life had dealt her its fair share of blows. Two, this is the first time in three years, that I have been out of the office this early. To be with family as we grieved.

I’d totally forgotten the hustle and bustle of the rush hour because I always leave work after 9pm. So here I was, looking at the world with new eyes, not through specs.

Soon, the traffic clears. There’s no policeman in sight, but the drivers are acting pretty disciplined. The guy next to me must have had a pretty long day because he is already deep in slumber, leaning his head on the seat in front of him. A boda boda carrying a young lady with a pizza in a box whizzes by, and soon we’re on Buganda Road, just about to join Bombo Road.

The traffic jam at Wandegeya traffic lights is heavy, walk to home is happening, some are jogging, university students with heavy back packs full of books are strolling along with tired faces. Most of the food vendors in Wandegeya market’s parking lot have set up shop, their jikos are lit, TV chicken on the spit, smoke from the grilled sausage, loud music from the Coca Cola activation truck which has hordes of people standing around it, waiting to win prizes and drink free soda.

Just as the lights turn green, a preacher with a very hoarse voice strides towards the taxi, shouting a verse from a Luganda Bible. The driver in the taxi has tuned the radio to a station where the presenter is loudly talking about several people killed at a concert by “Eliana Glandi” in Manchester.

We drive past the motor garages where mechanics are hard at work, past the carpenters sanding coffee tables and putting gloss on a set of chairs, the betting shops outside which a number of youths are lounging, making the last bet of the day and wondering if they will be make it big.

The driver has switched the channel as he roars up Mulago hill. Rema is belting out something to do with “Jusi wa mango”. The traffic cops at the junction at ku ky’Erisa, Erisa’s road, are looking bored, and the female officer is enjoying something on her phone, probably a video on whatsapp or Facebook.

We encounter a herdsman leading a herd of cows along the road. One of the animals suddenly dashes into the road, and the driver brakes sharply and curses the man. How does he graze cows in the city, does he expect them to feed on plastic bags, buveera?

I allow myself to doze off and only wake up at the stage before mine. In the field, a few meters after I disembark, there’s a football match going on, men are busy chasing after and kicking a ball. The spectators are everywhere. I hear someone say it is a match between the bodaboda riders of this stage and the local boys. There’s a lot of dust in the air. The grass on the pitch disappeared a long time ago.

The woman roasting maize has her three children playing around her. When I turn to the little shop to buy sweets for my kids, the shop-woman wonders why I am back so early. So they also notice these things!

The children at home are so glad to see me and they whoop and jump into the air as they grab my bag knowing it contains some goodies. A cup of tea later, and I am watching the 7pm news before I drive over to my late cousin’s house to condole with family.

This is a whole new perspective.

#sleepyhead

 

This sleep is for World Cup, as the Ugandan saying goes!

I am imagining her in her bedroom. I mean, if she can zone out like this in a public service vehicle aka commuter taxi, then surely, thieves can steal her out of her house!

Her hair is in curls, her lips red matte. She looks like she’s just been to the salon for some primping.

She plonks herself in the seat next to me. We’re on the third row behind the driver. She immediately rests her arms on the seat rest in front of her like she’s unwell. After a few minutes she starts shaking her head, like she’s trying to erase a bad memory. The taxi is stationary, filling up slowly and so I know that its not the motion rocking her head.

10 minutes later, we start our journey. Our small-bodied taxi driver is munching on a huge mango in a polythene bag.

I have taken the attention off my neighbor as I fiddle with the radio on my phone. When I finally look over at her, her arms are folded over her tummy. Her head is bobbing up and down. Back to front, front to back, back to front. It pulls her torso along. And when she leans too far forward, she makes braking movements. In Luganda we call it “Okutema ebisiki” - chopping wood. She begins falling all over the place. East, North, West, South.

When she returns to the East, which is where I am, I kind of give her a little shove. She does not open her eyes but returns to the leaning-on-the-seat-in-front-of-her position. One hand pokes into the young man in that seat, and he keeps stealing backward glances, but doesn't say anything. Suffering in silence. A fully paid-up member of the For-Me-I-Just-Kept-Quiet Brigade. Jesus!

But this is just the beginning because just then, her body falls on to her huge beige handbag sitting on her knees. Then it slips off and comes towards me again. Then it misses the handbag and slumps on to her knees. These are the kind of people I never want to sit next to. Sleep has really taken her captive, kidnapped, abducted her.

I wonder what her story is. Could she be high on something perhaps? But there’s no whiff of alcohol on her. Did she spend three nights awake?

Her neck is at a dangerous angle now, like she’s searching for something on the floor of the vehicle. The man sitting West of her is casting her daggers. He is giving her that look that speaks volumes.

She must be married. Her engagement and wedding rings are wedged tight on her wedding finger. They are shining in the light from the dull yellow bulb in the taxi.

Her acrylic nails look like talons, painted a shade of blue, like turquoise. She has really let herself go. I am expecting to see a stream of saliva dribble from her mouth which is half open now. Won’t she susu on herself? Hai, this is so bad!!

She has not come up for air even once! Luckily the driver has a heavy right foot, and weaves in and out of the traffic like he’s doing the safari rally.

The conductor starts demanding “Mumpe ssente zzamwe! (Please pay me!)."
We hand in our notes.

We are now eight miles out of town, ku munaana, that’s what we call our stops.

Suddenly her head pops up. She adjusts her bra straps as she peers out. It is really dark outside. Seems there's an electricity outage.

It is obvious she has no idea where we are. Her neighbors, including me, give her muted glances.

“Conductor, turi wa? Nvaamu ku mukaaga!” (I am getting off at stage six!) she states loudly in a heavy accent.