@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.