Ugandans who are great admirers of Bukedde TV’s Agataliiko Nfuufu receive a daily treat at 10pm, of comedy, with scenes of women pulling out each other’s hair, boda-boda riders beating up a “thief”, or the mysterious death of a rich businessman caused by an evil spirit.
Granted, some of their videos are hilarious and provide the much needed de-stresser, necessary after serious day of ranting from your boss, but I often wonder what the cameraperson and reporter are doing, egging on this sort of misbehavior. Take the case of a little boy whose fingers were subjected to a merciless, cruel, brutal squeezing, in a pair of pliers.
Some may argue that this shows us the depravity, disorganization, derangement and dysfunctions of the society in which we live, but what were the pressmen doing to save the little child whose fingers he will never be able to use again, or the ‘thief’ who is crying for his life as blows are rained on his back, as the brick that will eventually kill him is menacingly swung above his head?
In April of 2011, the BBC was accused of being a “cheerleader for assisted suicide” after filming a man killing himself in a controversial Terry Pratchett documentary. This was at the notorious Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, and the man was in the late stages of motor neurone disease. Obviously, the move by the terrestrial television was condemned by campaigners, politicians, medical professionals and religious leaders.
But what do these groups of people with considerable clout and power do about the pictures shown on Agataliiko Nfuufu? Nothing. The politicians continue to steal and misuse government funds, the church continues to engage in the no-go arena of politics, the medical professionals continue to take bribes, campaigners make noise about unimportant issues, we continue to whip out our latest model bible phones, while that sad group of society continues to suffer in silence.
The Weekly Observer in March 2011 published an article by Moses Talemwa and Juliana Nantale, which said “ Agataliiko Nfuufu… warrants day-long anticipation mostly because of its unending tit-bits of scandal, albeit short on basic journalism principles. Some people still can't believe it is on TV. The Vision Group management picked on longstanding Bukedde newspaper writers Semei Wessaali and Hadijja Nabukenya to head the search for an appropriate package. In turn, the two picked on a successful model started by Citizen TV in Kenya; making local programming acceptable to an audience used to foreign productions. Wessaali and Nabukenya decided that this was a bulletin which would involve the local people more than the conventional journalists; so, they gave their contact phone number to several local people in markets, trading centres and far-off villages, so they could send the news in. Wessaali helped form a 50-man team of freelance stringers or reporters with cameras that send their pictures to the station for the news. These stringers hunt for any whiff of newsworthy scandal for a fee of between Shs 15,000 and Shs 20,000 per story. Two weeks after the bulletin came on air, Wessaali got better response than he had been hoping for. Reviews and surveys put the station in a driving position because of the bulletin. "The idea came out of demand from viewers who wanted news prepared in much the same way as Bukedde newspaper; so, we responded", he says. The bulletin has reached incredible levels of acceptance, to the extent that total strangers turn up daily with news stories complete with video, which explains how the bulletin has news from remote areas, usually captured in the nick of time. While the critics are upset with many in the journalism schools lambasting it for being unprofessional, Wessaali is persuaded that it works. Right down to its unconventional upright pyramid concept of running light stories first, showing faces of rape victims and dead bodies, insisting that it is by design rather than plain incompetence."
I applaud Bukedde TV for always having a camera on hand and for having a strong nose to sniff out these “funny” incidents that have “no dust”, but really--- what has our government done? Granted, there have been positive responses- the little boy was offered treatment (where is he now, by the way?) and the police arrested (and I am ‘conc’ sure, released) the men who subjected him to that agony. Then, the police arrested the beater of a policeman (this incident happened outside Namboole Stadium at the time when there was a match between Kenya and Uganda) who also stole the officer’s phone and left his face muddied and the policeman dizzy from shock. But I can bet that the culprits were set free. Maybe that very day itself.
You see, the pattern is so “this eat that”, “how do I benefit?” that is sickening. Agataliiko Nfuufu may be doing a wonderful job, but on the other hand, if their reporters “revel” in seeing people in pain, how then can I not accuse them of being apathetic? Here is someone writhing in pain, screaming their lungs out begging for mercy and here is the happy snappy cameraman earning his day’s bread. It’s so sad.
I think that journalists have a duty to society- to report what is going on, to expose the dirt and the rot--- and the good as well, but on the other hand, would it hurt to help? Would it be so hard to say to the mob crew to have some heart and not judge a man who knows he will be dead in the next few seconds?
But, like the BBC incident that I mentioned in the paragraph above, I saw another picture in the Daily Mail (dailymail.co.uk) of a depraved man, high on bath salts, chewing off the face of another homeless man who had been enjoying his sleep on the street minutes before the horrific incident. Someone took those pictures. But were they also dialing the police as they snapped away.
Society tends to love watching others suffer, I think. We love posting gory pictures on our facebook pages, just for the fun of it. Why can’t we just say--- “no” to this depravity? Why do we just look on and not fight back? Maybe it’s a deeply rooted thing of human nature- something like “today’s his day, tomorrow may be mine, let him stew in it!”.
BBC was accused of being unethical and disregarding the sanctity of life. Maybe things are changing for the worse- or for the better. Whereas a few years ago, disregarding media ethics was frowned upon, today the climate kind of applauds the lengths the media will reach to catch viewer attention.
So instead of our policemen sitting idly by and guffawing at the antics by the actors in Agataliiko Nfuufu, they should get off their bony backsides and do their job. The media guys should be mindful, and know when to jump in to put a stop to the situation (the image of the little boy having his fingers “wrenched”, wrenched (pun unintended) at my heart strings) and not let the situation go out of hand. I mean, they could explain to us that they had to intervene and stop taking pictures and we would understand and let them off the hook.
And I also think this promotes violence among the little ones. I sometimes hear kids giving graphic details about the ka-story of the old woman who was beaten by villagers on suspicion of being a witch, or the bad mother who caned her daughter senseless, or the village thug who burnt his family as they slept in their hut because they had accused him of stealing a mobile phone. And they laugh away innocently.
Tuesday, 25 July 2017
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
#blanketsandbulls
The bodaboda had hardly come to a halt when the yelling began.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”
Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.
Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”
The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”
The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.
“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!” What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.
The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.
Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.
The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.
The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.
Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.
In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.
I turned up the volume of Botched on E.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”
Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.
Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”
The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”
The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.
“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!” What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.
The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.
Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.
The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.
The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.
Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.
In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.
I turned up the volume of Botched on E.
Friday, 30 June 2017
#drat!!
In your never-ending dream there’s a toilet. Somehow, you're seeing it in the distance, but cant' get to it. Suddenly, you jerk awake and run to the bathroom. You don't want to open your eyes, or switch on the lights because you know your way as you've lived in this house for seven years. Also, you can’t afford a disaster because there is no way you will take your mattress out in this rainy weather. And, remember, the neighbors at the back will see the mattress drying on the wall where you put it… then they will start wondering who the bed-wetter is, because there are no kids in your house. When you're done with the bathroom business, you dive back into bed, wanting to recapture that ka-warmth and catch up with the another dream. You snuggle in, find the hollow on the pillow which is still warm from where you head has been, pull the covers up to your head. and wait for the dream to set in...
… then your wake-up alarm rings!!!
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
#whowillmyMPbe?
The first time I really heard Apollo Kantinti speak was when he was
recovering from the shock of being kicked out of Parliament. In the one year
that he enjoyed the perks and benefits that come from being an Honorable,
before the rug was rudely pulled from under his feet, he did not say a
single word in the House. At least I did not get to hear one. Not as the shadow minister for information and communication,
or on the committee of physical infrastructure on which he was a member.
Actually when Bukedde newspaper did a post-mortem on the first year of the 10th Parliament, the article (17th May 2017) entitled ‘ … Baabano ababaka abavumbedde’, Kantinti’s name appeared 7th on the list of those who have let moss grow in their mouths. They said they had combed through the Hansard for records on what contribution the legislators had made.
And when I googled the name Apollo Kantinti, the first two pages of results showed something about losing the election, being kicked out of Parliament and so many other words to mean the same thing.
But no, Apollo is not challenged by the English language, I actually think he is a good orator.
Since the rude awakening, he has found his voice and can be heard fighting for his departed power on TVs and radios, arguing about this and about that.
Kantinti opened his campaign at the Wampeewo Football Grounds brandishing a key. FDC had decided to abandon poor Muwada Nkunyingi and go with him. I tell you, Kantinti pulled in all the bigwigs. His wife, Kizza Besigye, Nandala Mafabi. Even Wasswa Birigwa came along and pulled some extraordinary dancing strokes, twisting his thickening waist this-a-way and that-a-way, doing a rendition of the running man from the ‘70s, a cocktail of the rumba, chacha and foxtrot, and shaking his shoulders like a go-go dancer. But he didn't attempt the paka chini which could have been a big disaster. Imagine if he had sunk right there on the wooden stage and never gotten up.
Kantinti managed to hook a ‘big fish’ in the name of Buchaman, Bobi Wine’s former ally. It could be a revenge game however. I mean, Buchaman once complained that in their ghetto days, Bobi Wine would feast on huge platters of chicken and chips and leave the crew to binge on air-pies.
So on the day of unveiling, Buchaman was up on stage, waving his crutch in the air, carrying a bulky waist bag. He was saying words like “Chali”, “Araali”, "Mwana”.
I can identify the house in the background. Big, grandiose and abandoned, the only light comes from the switch for the bell outside the gate.
Kantinti says the Electoral Commission cost him this election. Hearing Kantinti bash Sitenda Sebalu about not doing anything during the five years he was in parliament. REALLY??!!
Kantinti has a campaign song, a female singer. “Amazima y’ono, bannange, y’ono Kantinti!”
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In May, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine, made the earth-shattering decision to shed his thick, shaggy, untidy locks. Parliamentary ambitions. God must have been smiling down on him because in last August, he had enrolled for a law degree at a local university.
A picture on the Internet shows him in Bad Boy pose, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other carrying a holdall, his white shirt is untucked, the top button open, black skinny tie in place. The rebellious look is completed by dark glasses concealing his eyes.
That bad boy image has since been replaced by well-fitting suits and jackets, a clean-shaven face, and polished shoes. The transformation is a result of the overwhelming desire to sit in that prestigious house and make laws for this country.
He is the Mubanda w’a Kabaka, the Ghetto President on the inside, and an altar convert on the outside.
He has also remembered that his name is Robert Sentamu Kyagulanyi, just in case the voter looks for ‘Bobi Wine’ on the ballot sheet.
And even when the FDC party, whose former President Kizza Besigye with whom he condoled and played the guitar for when he was put under house arrest after the Presidential election in Feb 2016, said it would not ‘put its behind’ on him, Bobi was not fazed. He just held his head high and did his thing.
This Bobi Boy has done things- from dancing on top a moving car (traffic police did ‘not' see this), downing mugoyo on a plastic plate with his son Kampala, swallowing steaming katogo ka mukene n’a matooke, to bounding out of the gate of his palatial mansion to go and greet the voters in Magere where he stays. He has talked himself hoarse, allowed his lips to become dry, smiled widely for people he cannot see, done free concerts with the aid of fellow musicians, and endured the hangers-on who flock his house night and day, and turn his compound into a grazing green of sorts.
Councillor Eddobozi ly'eKyebando in his red-tie has joined the campaign, David Lutalo has crooned along, Hilderman has growled, Gashumba has lectured. Even the up and coming artistes- the likes of the Parrots and Baby Snakes - have been allowed to show off their talent to the mesmerized crowd.
Barbie, Bobi’s significant other has made it a point to dress up as a prospective Member of Parliament’s wife. One time it is the traditional busuuti, other times its a shift dress that perfectly shows off her trim figure.
She does a small Queen Elizabeth-like wave (careful not to twist the wrist) to the potential votes. Other times she sends flying kisses to the eager faces looking up at them, placing hand patriotically over her chest in a kind of “Oh wowwww!” appreciation.
The scores of hoods keep watch over her and the Ghetto President as they run along the car. The huge truck that accompanies the candidate on the hunt is filled with all sorts of human beings, some bare, hairy-chested, perched precariously in that place where trailer drivers pack matooke and sacks of maanda.
Bobi says he is representing the downtrodden. The bodaboda rider, the ‘kanaabe' car-washer, the chali in the ghetto with whom they shared good times as they downed glass after glass of the bitter, the market mama, the taxi tout who spends his days opening and closing doors for people.
Bobi and Barbie Doll have endured grown men with Dikuula-like bottoms who twerk and grind at the camera. Even the cutex man with his plastic tray has joined the fray, instead of painting designs on women’s toenails. The groundnut hawker takes takes advantage of the traffic caused by Omubanda’s convoy and makes a killing.
Most of the time, Bobi strides along, a swagger in his step, saying nothing, his mouth set in a lock. His security men are decked in green aprons with ‘Security Team Bobi Wine’, shoving and pushing people out of his way.
His most faithful flunky is Tony, the Kasangati town council mayor, whose shirts are always open to show some chest. God, has he sunk this low? The Mayor makes sure he has a strategic place on Bobi’s stage, sometimes smiling on and looking a bit silly.
If Bobi had hangers-on in the ghettos of Kamwokya, the ones in Kyadondo East cannot be matched.
For these 25 or so days, they have had something positive to wake up to, to ride on the trailer and swing their legs.
Bobi has done a good job with his posters and flyers compared to the other candidates. I mean, Sowedi Kayongo had a lonely poster all through his interview.
If the Ghetto President has always ignored advice from all the older people who implored him to give up on sada, this vote hunt has surely humbled him. He has sat down on the ground and listened to wise words from an old woman. Another man in Magere warned him about people who promise him votes “verbly”. Yes, verbly.
The search has taken him to Kyadondo East’s families-that-matter, and to the mosque where he has done wuzu from a Butto jerrican. Wash behind the ears, the hair, the feet, the hands.
In Kiteezi, a man, a fattido wearing a faded Museveni t-shirt, a bottle of Beckham gin in his hand, danced something like reggae in between cars, his big stomach jigging like jelly. A woman was screaming “Kyagulanyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Bodas hooted crazily dragging branches along (whatever happened to preservation of green?), doing impossible feats in the dust, and forgetting that they make up most of the cases that are admitted to Mulago hospital’s casualty ward. A weather-beaten Peugeot 404 with PALA PALA painted on its body was weaving across the field, raising huge clouds of dust, and some dare-devil hanging on for dear life.
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Enter Omwana w’Omulaalo.
William Sitenda Sebalu’s claim to fame is based on the fact that he took Kantinti to the courts, which then dismissed his election after it found that the Electoral Commission did not comply with electoral laws. Lots of playing around with the word ‘elect’... eh?
He came second in the 2016 election but being the ‘bad’ loser that he is, he immediately ran to the courts.
By the way, where is his wife? There was that story in the Kampala Sun that insinuated something about his wives being sisters. It is not my place to do lugambo now, but…, like pastors, this is the chance to show off that one who stole your heart, that one who cooks you breakfast katogo, the one who irons for you, the one who 'presses' your campaign wounds away at the end of the day, and listens to you bubbling your shit about “Abalonzi bano!”.
NRM started this campaign with a war cry, saying that the race for this seat would be a battle between President Museveni and Dr. Besigye, whose home is in Kyadondo East, and promising to whop FDC’s bottom till it was raw with red. Oh, the damage it would inflict! That remains to be seen.
That event was marked at a popular club in Kasangati with a row of dancers in the trademark yellow t-shirts shaking to traditional drums and kicking up a lot of dust. The crowd consisted mainly of middle-aged women wearing t-shirts over their other t-shirts and busuutis, sitting on a row of plastic chairs and sipping on mineral water, looking coy, and unconvinced that they were following the right candidate.
One man admitted that he had not voted for Sitenda in the last election, but promised that he would vote this time because Sitenda had once shipped in bunches of matooke and sold it to them at 2,000 shillings!
Omwana w'Omulaalo took to the front in an oversized coat. He sang praises about the chairman of the Paaate NRM, and the close relationship they had. He made promises about the tarmacking the Kira to Matugga road; about using the constituency fund to finance upcoming artistes, and that “Bobi Wine would head that committee”! I hope good Bobi did not hear that.
He made it clear that “Kizza Besigye was not popular in this area’. He showed off the banene banene like Minister Rose Seninde and “omukyala ono ava mu Siteeti Awusi”, before he was made to kneel down and was prayed for and lectured like a little boy.
The Paaate’s SG Lumumba reiterated the damage they would inflict on FDC, and that if things went out of hand, they would “take the law in our hands”. She spoke as Sitenda stood close by, laboring under the party flag on a wooden staff.
Then the dance opened and the coyness flew out the window. Legs and waists became liquid as the muziki took hold.
And just the other day, according to New Vision, NRM stalwart Gertrude Njuba threw a small spanner in the works, declaring that she would never support Sitenda because she has doubts about how he won the primaries, and how her late husband went to his grave with Sitenda never paying the money he owed him.
If he thought that FDC was the threat, he better think again.
This young lawyer Nkunyingi Muwada has really outdone himself this time round.
He didn't let the fact that FDC opted for Kantinti over him dampen his spirit.
His campaign has been peppered with all sorts of drama-filled episodes from carrying a 20-liter jerrycan filled with water on his head, throwing dice on a Ludo board with scores of ‘supporters, sitting in the dust as he literally 'wails' about the deplorable state of the roads in this constituency, and making promise after promise about how these will be things of the past when he is in Parliament.
The man has cleaned roadside drains, traversed the kilns to converse with brick-layers, bought bananas from village duukas, hawked cheap socks and hankies on a panty-peg hung from his neck, and eaten katogo k’a muwogo in tonninyira—— all in his dark-colored velvet coats which he sometimes wraps around his lean waist.
Muwada must have a lot of balls (pun intended) because he has one on every occasion- as he jigs away on top of his Noah, sorts green grams on a kadeeya, or sweeps a dusty school yard with the students. The man has even promised to eat a rat!
And his small army of faithful bakuyeges kneel as he kneels, they clap along as makes his pleas, and carry his posters on his door-to-door campaigns.
He sometimes forgets himself and gives the camera a sly side eye. A real drama king this one.
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Then there is Sowedi Kayongo Male, the doctor from Wattuba parish. He describes himself as a health worker. I thought people loved to throw that “Doctor” title around. Hmmm… I may be wrong. I did not witness his nomination, but the picture in the New Vision newspapers shows him decked out in a pristine white tuxedo.
The media has largely ignored him, preferring to take their television cameras and tape recorders to those they brand the 'front-runners'- the Bobis, Sitendas, Kantintis and Muwadas of this world.
In his only interview so far, he told the TV reporter that coverage in the media was hard.
The under-dog, the little-known candidate admits a funding problem, but is quick to add that though he may not be as popular as those front-runners, he will surely give them a run for their money.
He is also tired of sitting in the passenger seat, and wants to be the driver.
By the way, he is not moved by large gatherings. And he says that he’s not fazed by the other contestants because, “Everybody had their cards on Hillary Clinton. And see what happened!”
The Hajji also hates the commercialization of politics.
In this TV interview, it is very obvious that he got out the best suit after the tuxedo, gathered his small crowd of campaign agents- I can identify one as the sumbusa seller’s son (who now wears trousers)- and they walk around the village as they greet and shake people’s hands and tell them to vote Kayongo.
His campaign agent acknowledges that they may not be in the media but they are on the ground. That “we have the mathematics well-calculated and well- motivated and other contestants have misread the barometer.” Good PCM student this one.
Sowedi then proceeds to announce that he is giving out free treatment at his Iqra medical center in Wattuba.
The camera pans across an empty room where the bakuyege are gathered at his feet as he sits on the only chair present.
(Kayongo was my son’s doctor 20 years ago, treating him for all sorts of ailments and allowing to give his poor grandmother treatment on banja.)
But—— he knows he is sweeping the vote by 80%.
The only woman in the race was a non-starter and I wonder why she even declared her interest in the first place. Ms. Babirye Kamoome of the Democratic Party, that party that couldn't even field its own candidate in the presidential election, and went with Amama Mbabazi who collected a paltry 130,000 votes countrywide, decided that it would be better for Kamoome to opt out and let them put their ‘behinds' (as they are wont to do) behind a stronger candidate to defeat Na Ra Ma, the Paaate.
So, what sort of representative am I looking for?
What sort of MP do I want?
What do I want from my MP?
One who makes empty promises of paying my children’s school fees once he is in the august House; one who will go to Parliament and only warm the seat; one who loves to entertain; one who only thinks about his stomach; one who knows that the road to my home has pot-holes as deep as a pit-latrine; one who only comes to me when he wants my vote; one who has connections with high people but who I cannot guarantee will connect me to them, or that one who will tear open a rat and munch on its entrails?
This kneeling, pleading, bending over backwards- is it because they are SOOOO dying to serve me, or is it about the air-conditioned guzzlers and fully-funded perdiemed trips abroad.
A wide choice for the 68,000 voters of Kasangati, Wattuba, Gayaza, Kiteezi, Nangabo, Katadde, Wampewo, Bulamu, Masooli and Kabubbu to choose from the chest-thumpers, the power-hungry, the braggarts and the commoners.
So, my candidate of choice is ………
(Oh, I forgot that I am one of those disenfranchised (Oh, how I love saying that word!) Ugandans. And something else that I know from the two long nights I spent at the Gombolola headquarters in Nangabo in May, is that many Kyadondo Eastians are not registered for the national ID.)
Actually when Bukedde newspaper did a post-mortem on the first year of the 10th Parliament, the article (17th May 2017) entitled ‘ … Baabano ababaka abavumbedde’, Kantinti’s name appeared 7th on the list of those who have let moss grow in their mouths. They said they had combed through the Hansard for records on what contribution the legislators had made.
And when I googled the name Apollo Kantinti, the first two pages of results showed something about losing the election, being kicked out of Parliament and so many other words to mean the same thing.
But no, Apollo is not challenged by the English language, I actually think he is a good orator.
Since the rude awakening, he has found his voice and can be heard fighting for his departed power on TVs and radios, arguing about this and about that.
Kantinti opened his campaign at the Wampeewo Football Grounds brandishing a key. FDC had decided to abandon poor Muwada Nkunyingi and go with him. I tell you, Kantinti pulled in all the bigwigs. His wife, Kizza Besigye, Nandala Mafabi. Even Wasswa Birigwa came along and pulled some extraordinary dancing strokes, twisting his thickening waist this-a-way and that-a-way, doing a rendition of the running man from the ‘70s, a cocktail of the rumba, chacha and foxtrot, and shaking his shoulders like a go-go dancer. But he didn't attempt the paka chini which could have been a big disaster. Imagine if he had sunk right there on the wooden stage and never gotten up.
Kantinti managed to hook a ‘big fish’ in the name of Buchaman, Bobi Wine’s former ally. It could be a revenge game however. I mean, Buchaman once complained that in their ghetto days, Bobi Wine would feast on huge platters of chicken and chips and leave the crew to binge on air-pies.
So on the day of unveiling, Buchaman was up on stage, waving his crutch in the air, carrying a bulky waist bag. He was saying words like “Chali”, “Araali”, "Mwana”.
I can identify the house in the background. Big, grandiose and abandoned, the only light comes from the switch for the bell outside the gate.
Kantinti says the Electoral Commission cost him this election. Hearing Kantinti bash Sitenda Sebalu about not doing anything during the five years he was in parliament. REALLY??!!
Kantinti has a campaign song, a female singer. “Amazima y’ono, bannange, y’ono Kantinti!”
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In May, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine, made the earth-shattering decision to shed his thick, shaggy, untidy locks. Parliamentary ambitions. God must have been smiling down on him because in last August, he had enrolled for a law degree at a local university.
A picture on the Internet shows him in Bad Boy pose, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other carrying a holdall, his white shirt is untucked, the top button open, black skinny tie in place. The rebellious look is completed by dark glasses concealing his eyes.
That bad boy image has since been replaced by well-fitting suits and jackets, a clean-shaven face, and polished shoes. The transformation is a result of the overwhelming desire to sit in that prestigious house and make laws for this country.
He is the Mubanda w’a Kabaka, the Ghetto President on the inside, and an altar convert on the outside.
He has also remembered that his name is Robert Sentamu Kyagulanyi, just in case the voter looks for ‘Bobi Wine’ on the ballot sheet.
And even when the FDC party, whose former President Kizza Besigye with whom he condoled and played the guitar for when he was put under house arrest after the Presidential election in Feb 2016, said it would not ‘put its behind’ on him, Bobi was not fazed. He just held his head high and did his thing.
This Bobi Boy has done things- from dancing on top a moving car (traffic police did ‘not' see this), downing mugoyo on a plastic plate with his son Kampala, swallowing steaming katogo ka mukene n’a matooke, to bounding out of the gate of his palatial mansion to go and greet the voters in Magere where he stays. He has talked himself hoarse, allowed his lips to become dry, smiled widely for people he cannot see, done free concerts with the aid of fellow musicians, and endured the hangers-on who flock his house night and day, and turn his compound into a grazing green of sorts.
Councillor Eddobozi ly'eKyebando in his red-tie has joined the campaign, David Lutalo has crooned along, Hilderman has growled, Gashumba has lectured. Even the up and coming artistes- the likes of the Parrots and Baby Snakes - have been allowed to show off their talent to the mesmerized crowd.
Barbie, Bobi’s significant other has made it a point to dress up as a prospective Member of Parliament’s wife. One time it is the traditional busuuti, other times its a shift dress that perfectly shows off her trim figure.
She does a small Queen Elizabeth-like wave (careful not to twist the wrist) to the potential votes. Other times she sends flying kisses to the eager faces looking up at them, placing hand patriotically over her chest in a kind of “Oh wowwww!” appreciation.
The scores of hoods keep watch over her and the Ghetto President as they run along the car. The huge truck that accompanies the candidate on the hunt is filled with all sorts of human beings, some bare, hairy-chested, perched precariously in that place where trailer drivers pack matooke and sacks of maanda.
Bobi says he is representing the downtrodden. The bodaboda rider, the ‘kanaabe' car-washer, the chali in the ghetto with whom they shared good times as they downed glass after glass of the bitter, the market mama, the taxi tout who spends his days opening and closing doors for people.
Bobi and Barbie Doll have endured grown men with Dikuula-like bottoms who twerk and grind at the camera. Even the cutex man with his plastic tray has joined the fray, instead of painting designs on women’s toenails. The groundnut hawker takes takes advantage of the traffic caused by Omubanda’s convoy and makes a killing.
Most of the time, Bobi strides along, a swagger in his step, saying nothing, his mouth set in a lock. His security men are decked in green aprons with ‘Security Team Bobi Wine’, shoving and pushing people out of his way.
His most faithful flunky is Tony, the Kasangati town council mayor, whose shirts are always open to show some chest. God, has he sunk this low? The Mayor makes sure he has a strategic place on Bobi’s stage, sometimes smiling on and looking a bit silly.
If Bobi had hangers-on in the ghettos of Kamwokya, the ones in Kyadondo East cannot be matched.
For these 25 or so days, they have had something positive to wake up to, to ride on the trailer and swing their legs.
Bobi has done a good job with his posters and flyers compared to the other candidates. I mean, Sowedi Kayongo had a lonely poster all through his interview.
If the Ghetto President has always ignored advice from all the older people who implored him to give up on sada, this vote hunt has surely humbled him. He has sat down on the ground and listened to wise words from an old woman. Another man in Magere warned him about people who promise him votes “verbly”. Yes, verbly.
The search has taken him to Kyadondo East’s families-that-matter, and to the mosque where he has done wuzu from a Butto jerrican. Wash behind the ears, the hair, the feet, the hands.
In Kiteezi, a man, a fattido wearing a faded Museveni t-shirt, a bottle of Beckham gin in his hand, danced something like reggae in between cars, his big stomach jigging like jelly. A woman was screaming “Kyagulanyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Bodas hooted crazily dragging branches along (whatever happened to preservation of green?), doing impossible feats in the dust, and forgetting that they make up most of the cases that are admitted to Mulago hospital’s casualty ward. A weather-beaten Peugeot 404 with PALA PALA painted on its body was weaving across the field, raising huge clouds of dust, and some dare-devil hanging on for dear life.
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Enter Omwana w’Omulaalo.
William Sitenda Sebalu’s claim to fame is based on the fact that he took Kantinti to the courts, which then dismissed his election after it found that the Electoral Commission did not comply with electoral laws. Lots of playing around with the word ‘elect’... eh?
He came second in the 2016 election but being the ‘bad’ loser that he is, he immediately ran to the courts.
By the way, where is his wife? There was that story in the Kampala Sun that insinuated something about his wives being sisters. It is not my place to do lugambo now, but…, like pastors, this is the chance to show off that one who stole your heart, that one who cooks you breakfast katogo, the one who irons for you, the one who 'presses' your campaign wounds away at the end of the day, and listens to you bubbling your shit about “Abalonzi bano!”.
NRM started this campaign with a war cry, saying that the race for this seat would be a battle between President Museveni and Dr. Besigye, whose home is in Kyadondo East, and promising to whop FDC’s bottom till it was raw with red. Oh, the damage it would inflict! That remains to be seen.
That event was marked at a popular club in Kasangati with a row of dancers in the trademark yellow t-shirts shaking to traditional drums and kicking up a lot of dust. The crowd consisted mainly of middle-aged women wearing t-shirts over their other t-shirts and busuutis, sitting on a row of plastic chairs and sipping on mineral water, looking coy, and unconvinced that they were following the right candidate.
One man admitted that he had not voted for Sitenda in the last election, but promised that he would vote this time because Sitenda had once shipped in bunches of matooke and sold it to them at 2,000 shillings!
Omwana w'Omulaalo took to the front in an oversized coat. He sang praises about the chairman of the Paaate NRM, and the close relationship they had. He made promises about the tarmacking the Kira to Matugga road; about using the constituency fund to finance upcoming artistes, and that “Bobi Wine would head that committee”! I hope good Bobi did not hear that.
He made it clear that “Kizza Besigye was not popular in this area’. He showed off the banene banene like Minister Rose Seninde and “omukyala ono ava mu Siteeti Awusi”, before he was made to kneel down and was prayed for and lectured like a little boy.
The Paaate’s SG Lumumba reiterated the damage they would inflict on FDC, and that if things went out of hand, they would “take the law in our hands”. She spoke as Sitenda stood close by, laboring under the party flag on a wooden staff.
Then the dance opened and the coyness flew out the window. Legs and waists became liquid as the muziki took hold.
And just the other day, according to New Vision, NRM stalwart Gertrude Njuba threw a small spanner in the works, declaring that she would never support Sitenda because she has doubts about how he won the primaries, and how her late husband went to his grave with Sitenda never paying the money he owed him.
If he thought that FDC was the threat, he better think again.
This young lawyer Nkunyingi Muwada has really outdone himself this time round.
He didn't let the fact that FDC opted for Kantinti over him dampen his spirit.
His campaign has been peppered with all sorts of drama-filled episodes from carrying a 20-liter jerrycan filled with water on his head, throwing dice on a Ludo board with scores of ‘supporters, sitting in the dust as he literally 'wails' about the deplorable state of the roads in this constituency, and making promise after promise about how these will be things of the past when he is in Parliament.
The man has cleaned roadside drains, traversed the kilns to converse with brick-layers, bought bananas from village duukas, hawked cheap socks and hankies on a panty-peg hung from his neck, and eaten katogo k’a muwogo in tonninyira—— all in his dark-colored velvet coats which he sometimes wraps around his lean waist.
Muwada must have a lot of balls (pun intended) because he has one on every occasion- as he jigs away on top of his Noah, sorts green grams on a kadeeya, or sweeps a dusty school yard with the students. The man has even promised to eat a rat!
And his small army of faithful bakuyeges kneel as he kneels, they clap along as makes his pleas, and carry his posters on his door-to-door campaigns.
He sometimes forgets himself and gives the camera a sly side eye. A real drama king this one.
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Then there is Sowedi Kayongo Male, the doctor from Wattuba parish. He describes himself as a health worker. I thought people loved to throw that “Doctor” title around. Hmmm… I may be wrong. I did not witness his nomination, but the picture in the New Vision newspapers shows him decked out in a pristine white tuxedo.
The media has largely ignored him, preferring to take their television cameras and tape recorders to those they brand the 'front-runners'- the Bobis, Sitendas, Kantintis and Muwadas of this world.
In his only interview so far, he told the TV reporter that coverage in the media was hard.
The under-dog, the little-known candidate admits a funding problem, but is quick to add that though he may not be as popular as those front-runners, he will surely give them a run for their money.
He is also tired of sitting in the passenger seat, and wants to be the driver.
By the way, he is not moved by large gatherings. And he says that he’s not fazed by the other contestants because, “Everybody had their cards on Hillary Clinton. And see what happened!”
The Hajji also hates the commercialization of politics.
In this TV interview, it is very obvious that he got out the best suit after the tuxedo, gathered his small crowd of campaign agents- I can identify one as the sumbusa seller’s son (who now wears trousers)- and they walk around the village as they greet and shake people’s hands and tell them to vote Kayongo.
His campaign agent acknowledges that they may not be in the media but they are on the ground. That “we have the mathematics well-calculated and well- motivated and other contestants have misread the barometer.” Good PCM student this one.
Sowedi then proceeds to announce that he is giving out free treatment at his Iqra medical center in Wattuba.
The camera pans across an empty room where the bakuyege are gathered at his feet as he sits on the only chair present.
(Kayongo was my son’s doctor 20 years ago, treating him for all sorts of ailments and allowing to give his poor grandmother treatment on banja.)
But—— he knows he is sweeping the vote by 80%.
The only woman in the race was a non-starter and I wonder why she even declared her interest in the first place. Ms. Babirye Kamoome of the Democratic Party, that party that couldn't even field its own candidate in the presidential election, and went with Amama Mbabazi who collected a paltry 130,000 votes countrywide, decided that it would be better for Kamoome to opt out and let them put their ‘behinds' (as they are wont to do) behind a stronger candidate to defeat Na Ra Ma, the Paaate.
So, what sort of representative am I looking for?
What sort of MP do I want?
What do I want from my MP?
One who makes empty promises of paying my children’s school fees once he is in the august House; one who will go to Parliament and only warm the seat; one who loves to entertain; one who only thinks about his stomach; one who knows that the road to my home has pot-holes as deep as a pit-latrine; one who only comes to me when he wants my vote; one who has connections with high people but who I cannot guarantee will connect me to them, or that one who will tear open a rat and munch on its entrails?
This kneeling, pleading, bending over backwards- is it because they are SOOOO dying to serve me, or is it about the air-conditioned guzzlers and fully-funded perdiemed trips abroad.
A wide choice for the 68,000 voters of Kasangati, Wattuba, Gayaza, Kiteezi, Nangabo, Katadde, Wampewo, Bulamu, Masooli and Kabubbu to choose from the chest-thumpers, the power-hungry, the braggarts and the commoners.
So, my candidate of choice is ………
(Oh, I forgot that I am one of those disenfranchised (Oh, how I love saying that word!) Ugandans. And something else that I know from the two long nights I spent at the Gombolola headquarters in Nangabo in May, is that many Kyadondo Eastians are not registered for the national ID.)
Thursday, 8 June 2017
#disguisedunemployment
As I went through the security check (they even checked my short
natural hair!!) at the gate, a group of about 10 people carrying an
already set up tent approached.
Of course four would have sufficed, one for each pole, but the others came along anyway, with just their fingers holding on to the flaps.
Away from the 10, was an eleventh person, in a suit, issuing directives on how to carry the tent, how to walk with the tent, and finally, when they put the tent down --- how to put the tent down.
It reminded me of these people who stand around a ‘dignitary’ when s/he is planting a tree.
There is someone to hold the hoe.
Someone is armed with the watering can.
Someone else hovers near the empty jerrican.
Two people to pour the water into the jerrican.
Another pair of eyes to ensure that the water goes INTO the jerrican.
A different individual to hand over the hoe to the 'dignitary'.
Yet another overseeing the whole exercise.
And others standing by wearing set smiles, just waiting to clap as the hoe digs into the soil, to clap again as the plant is carried to the soil, and to applaud when the plant is firmly in the ground.
And someone else who takes the hoe when the planting is done, and hands it over to another person to take away.
And then they stretch their legs at the end of the day, and tell their spouses … “Today I did my share in building the nation…”
Of course four would have sufficed, one for each pole, but the others came along anyway, with just their fingers holding on to the flaps.
Away from the 10, was an eleventh person, in a suit, issuing directives on how to carry the tent, how to walk with the tent, and finally, when they put the tent down --- how to put the tent down.
It reminded me of these people who stand around a ‘dignitary’ when s/he is planting a tree.
There is someone to hold the hoe.
Someone is armed with the watering can.
Someone else hovers near the empty jerrican.
Two people to pour the water into the jerrican.
Another pair of eyes to ensure that the water goes INTO the jerrican.
A different individual to hand over the hoe to the 'dignitary'.
Yet another overseeing the whole exercise.
And others standing by wearing set smiles, just waiting to clap as the hoe digs into the soil, to clap again as the plant is carried to the soil, and to applaud when the plant is firmly in the ground.
And someone else who takes the hoe when the planting is done, and hands it over to another person to take away.
And then they stretch their legs at the end of the day, and tell their spouses … “Today I did my share in building the nation…”
Tuesday, 6 June 2017
#thenewhire
Ma Lihanna’s new maid starts all her sentences with “You”. “You gendi betthe" (You go and bathe), “You stop shoutingi”, “You oni the TV” (You switch on the TV), and things like that. And she has done another murder on Lihanna’s name because it is now a mix between Riona, Leona, and Fiona.
She must have been around for a couple of weeks now. Ma Lihanna mentioned to me three weeks ago that she was bringing a new girl after a temporary lull. (There was an unfortunate incident, a VERY unfortunate incident, involving the last maid, hence my short-term silence on the goings-on in this residence).
The new maid has a baby voice. I hope I can do the audio just so you know how she sounds. To be honest, whenever I tried out that voice last evening, I doubled up, because mine came out sounding so funny. She’s a nice sort, it seems and even when the kids really s-t-r-e-t-c-h her patience, she shouts only a little bit. Last Monday, she was playing a Catholic service on her phone radio in their backyard, and praying along to the Mirembe Marias.
But she couldn't pray along last evening, because her wards- Lihanna and her younger sister- were in rowdy mode. Full of beans, jumping beans. I think they had beans for lunch at school, but really bad beans, because they were so unruly. I could them yelling from the high command center that is my bedroom.
Someone had thrown her schoolbag by the door and was shouting “No! No!” to all requests to pick it up. In between there were some howls- it must have been Lihanna because the voice sounded bigger. Then when it was time to “Gendi betthe” (Go and bathe), someone started protesting that she wanted to use the shower and the maid was saying, “No, you use the bensin!” and then more yowling.
Of course the mother in me leaped to my feet, I was about to walk round to their house and tell them to “do as you are told and go to bed!” but I held back and let Maid take charge. After all, she's being paid.
Suppertime. “You harryap and finish yuwa food!” (Hurry up and finish your food!) That elicited a choir of cries.
I think they must have gone to bed at about 10pm or thereabouts because their shouts were still audible when Agataliiko Nfuufu started. Then I zoned out to watch the funny stories, with the head of the Abasamize falling headlong into an open grave when shots rang out as they fought over one of their dead members.
#nocturnalshifters
So, after a nice long day of farming, you return home, past 7pm, with the boot full of food, knowing that you are ‘safe’ for the whole of the next week.
As you drive past the gate, your neighbor, the one whose child always comes by your place to play with your nieces and nephews during the holidays, waves you a “hello”.
You haul the stuff out of the car and lay it out in the backyard, apportioning what you will give to the neighbors. Sweet potatoes for these ones, sugarcane for the house with so many grandchildren, beans for that house, arrowroots for the old lady - she loves them so much.
And because you are exhausted, you decide that you will take them over the next morning, Sunday.
So the next morning, Sunday, you start taking the food over.
Madam Arrow-roots says she will put them on the ntamu for lunch, the sweet-potato batch receive theirs with much appreciation, and the so-many grand kids immediately pounce on the sugarcane and start chewing loudly even before you leave their house.
Then you walk over to the gate of the neighbor who had waved you “hello”.
There are no curtains in the windows. The house is empty.
Why do people like moving at night?
Saturday, 3 June 2017
#themoneyandtheman
Just as the first fat drops of rain start falling, you dash over to her house. She lets you in. The first thing you notice is her very short black floral print dress which shows her thighs to the fullest. She’s wearing layers of brown powder, her eyebrows have been pencilled over, and her lips are dripping with a red substance.
Ma Lihanna says her father lives in Kigali and has suddenly taken ill, so she has to take him some money. You feel bad for him, and for her, and you ask what exactly the matter is. She doesn't really know. All the while, your eyes are fixed on the drawings on her face, and she titters and averts her gaze.
She says she needs 300,000 shillings. Y’know she has just paid school fees, house rent and bought supplies for the home and has practically no money left. And she has to travel to Mbarara as well. Her brown traveling bag sitting in the sofa, packed and ready for the trip.
You start to buy time, telling her about the shitty weather because you need time to process her tall request. And how you will omba for your money back because she quarrels about everything from the neighbor’s kids playing near her house, the estate manager knocking on her door when she’s still sleeping at 10am, to bodaboda men who bring her back in the wee hours but are not patient enough to wait until the maid has opened the front door. So… what will happen when you want your money back? That titter again.
In that flicker of a second, it hits you that she might be lying to you. Just. Maybe.
Anyway, truth is, you don't have that much money lying around. You say you can try to raise 100,000 shillings. She eagerly replies that it’s okay. Anything will do.
But the reality in your bag shows that you have only 40,000 shilling to spare. You knock on her door. She has changed into a red number, longer this time, and a shiny sweater. You convey the message. An unhappy look sweeps over her face, but only for a moment. She grabs at the money. It will do, she says desperately, leaving you wondering about how fast she has downgraded her needs. Less than quarter of the loaf she asked for, is better than no bread?
As you make to leave, you hear the unmistakable sound of a man’s laugh. It comes from the regions of the bedrooms.
You don't even feel the rain soak you as you walk back to your house deep in thought.
Friday, 2 June 2017
#anewperspective
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.
#offilipinonames
But not so Paloma, Angel and Sula’s granny. Bannange! She is very experienced with the cane. Like she went to school for special lessons. So much that the kids are terrified when she asks a question about why this wasn't done, and why that was not washed. The caning can happen at any time of the day- morning, noon, evening, night.
The kids are the permanent fixtures in their gran’s house. There are others who come over for a weekend or during the school holiday, but these ones are always there. They go to one of the local schools on the kaalo. The others are treated like little kings and queens. The only ones you hear being constantly threatened are the three musketeers- Paloma, Angel and Sula.
One time they were sleeping when she arrived after a long day. The power was off so the poor things had retired for the night. She knocked about 30 times, going from the back door to the front, to the windows, to the walls.
“Sula!! Sula!! Naye this child. Oba he’s not there! Paloma! Angel! I swear abaana bano can sleep!”
She marched back to the front and pounded on their bedroom window. Then she noticed a light. “Ho! These kids left the candle burning!! She mumbled some swear words and charged for the door with a stone. “Bam! Bam!! Hammer! Hammer!!”
The morgue suddenly came alive. “Wanji Jjaja!” someone replied.
“Jjangu ogulewo olugyi! Kalabe! Mwebaka ki bwemutyo? Nakonkonye dda nga temuwulira! N’genda kuba sabula kale!”
Grandmother was livid. She delivered on her promise with much gusto and the yelps and cries carried far into the night.
Another time Paloma got the thrashing of her life when she made the daring "mistake" when she for a few minutes, she abandoned the sigiri she had been instructed to light, to go and laugh with the neighbor’s kids. “Palooomaaaaa!”
You could think the woman was having a heart attack.
“Come here, you miserable child, I am going to beat you so hard today!”
And for sure, Paloma received about 10 of the best. It sounded like a really hard rubber slipper amid the screams of "I won't do it again!"
As for Sula, I think he can write a fat book on the canes he has received in this his short life.
I think their mothers watched a lot of bi-Filipinos. Not with those names.
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