Never in my life had I harbored the thought that such a small gadget would become my big-time love rival and hammer the last nail into the coffin of my relationship.
I fondly recall the days when the Ex was the proud owner of a small red battered Siemens phone that had obviously seen better days. Those were good days with good conversation over Saturday nights out and Sunday lunch. But when he started using rubber bands to keep its back and stomach together, I suggested he get a new one.
Little did I know that I was putting the first shovel into the relationship’s grave. He got a new shiny black Alcatel. It had a nice radio, didn't lose network and it gave him some kind of status. Two months later, he had spotted a new model and also purchased that one.
Soon he was walking with a swagger and no longer talked or listened much. Whenever I started a conversation he would put his pointer finger up and say “Sshhhh! let me finish listening to this.”
That phone quickly got a successor, then another and another other. The old models were buried in his boxers’ drawer.
The lid of the relationship’s coffin creaked open when the Nokia Lumia came on board. Nokia Lumia soon became Nokia Lumia with the Ex waxing lyrical over Nokia Lumia which was now clearly the new girlfriend that never left his side.
Nokia Lumia slept in the Ex’s bed, Nokia Lumia had new clothes (casing) every month, Nokia Lumia was wiped down every 10 or so minutes. I suspect Nokia Lumia was also coaxed to eat sometimes but she was on a diet.
The list of things Nokia Lumia could do- Youtube, podcasts, photos, recording, radio. To make matters worse, by this time, the internet was upon us. Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp, Instagram and whatever else the bad world wide web has to offer.
I was mired in serious competition.
Sadly, the phone had kicked our relationship six feet under.
Tuesday, 27 September 2016
Thursday, 22 September 2016
#roadcrossinggonebad
You know how when people feel important in their jobs…
As I returned to work after lunch, two traffic police officers walking in my direction suddenly decided it was time for them to cross the road in the middle of fast-moving traffic. This was right outside parliament, near the National Theatre.
I don’t know what gave them the confidence, probably the “don’t you know who I am??” syndrome that comes with the white uniform.
Anyway, the next thing was a loud screeching of tires and one of the officers dashing across the rest of the road like something was after him. The taxi came to a halt right next to his female colleague. Then the drama began. “Gwe! Ovuga otya? Olowooza lino kkubo lya muzeeyi wo!!?? Eh?”
She was wearing this mean macho face with her head tilted to one side and one arm akimbo, chest forward.
The driver looked like he wanted the earth to open its mouth and swallow him.
“Eno Kampala, si Kalangala!” Then she gave taxi a hot slap and executed an even hotter kick on the tires.
“Gweeeeee! Nja kusiba!!! she threatened before she moved out of the way and joined the “coward” on the other side.
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
#sheepandshepherd
After tossing and turning through a recurring dream of Cranes players unable to afford soda for their victory party, I woke up early and went to church for the morning service. The clergy were late but the pianist kept us entertained. The start was hurried and we eventually got to the sermon.
To be honest, I was sleepy and in my distraction, my eyes landed upon one of the priests sitting in the altar area, partly obscured from the congregation’s view. His sitting posture made me look closer and just to be sure, I even put my specs on.
The priest was on his phone, tapping away, with an amused expression on his face. I kept glancing in his direction and at one point, I saw him look up suddenly, like someone who has been caught red-handed. Then he went back to whatever it was- whatsapp probably.
So here we were, two distracted creatures in church- one the shepherd, the other the sheep.
To be honest, I was sleepy and in my distraction, my eyes landed upon one of the priests sitting in the altar area, partly obscured from the congregation’s view. His sitting posture made me look closer and just to be sure, I even put my specs on.
The priest was on his phone, tapping away, with an amused expression on his face. I kept glancing in his direction and at one point, I saw him look up suddenly, like someone who has been caught red-handed. Then he went back to whatever it was- whatsapp probably.
So here we were, two distracted creatures in church- one the shepherd, the other the sheep.
Friday, 2 September 2016
#TaxiDont's
 |
| too tall... |
DO NOT dose off and allow yourself to dribble.
DO NOT sleep so hard that your head lands on your co-passenger’s shoulder.
DO NOT sleep and talk. You could say some pretty embarrassing things.
DO NOT- actually, NEVER- eat the following foods in taxis. Overripe ffene, boiled eggs, bogoya or nsenene mixed with raw onions. Groundnuts and pineapples can pass. But…
DO NOT sing loudly when you have earphones on. DO NOT sing loudly when you have earphones on. DO not SING LOUDLY when you have earphones on!!
DO NOT have loud conversations on your phone, or get overly excited or agitated when talking to someone other passengers in the taxi can’t hear. FYI, overhead cellphone conversations are annoying. And DO NOT lie about your locations. Mbu “Ndi Masaka” when you are in Kasangati and the conductor is outside calling “Kampala! Kampala!”
DO NOT play your phone radio bila earphones. Its very irritating when your Super FM is competing with the taxi’s CBS FM which the driver has turned on so loud, he can’t hear when you shout “mu maaso awo!”
DO NOT take up half the seat. Learn how to sit with other people. These seats are for three people only. (ok, the conductors sometimes squeeze four on, and then stand over you and panic when they see a traffic policeman)
DO NOT try to strike up conversations with strangers. If you’re really itching to say something, let it be short small talk, and for God’s sake, let sense come outta ya mouth. Not everybody likes to share sensitive info about husbands who have abandoned the home. And how Besigye should abandon his “defiancy” campaign.
DO NOT fling open the window on a cold morning or chilly night. Or when I’m sitting next to you and and I have spent hours arranging my hair.
DO NOT (oh!oh!oh!) -if you are seated in the back seat- attempt to strike up and sustain a conversation with someone sitting at the front with the driver. Especially if you are going on a long journey.
DO NOT imagine you will enter the taxi with five kids and want to pay for only one seat. Uh-uh. I understand travel is costly, but ask me kindly and I will let one sit on my lap. Just DO NOT force them into that little space where four legs are supposed to sit.
DO NOT- when you sitting behind someone, and suddenly feel sleepy- use the headrest of the person in front of you. Be considerate. Lean back and use yours.
Please TRY NOT to step on other people’s feet or clean shoes as you struggle to go past them.
DO NOT keep mum when the driver is speeding and overtaking like a madman. Especially in a black spot. Some people attack the one brave passenger who has the “guts” to remind the driver that they still value their lives and do not want to become statistics- mbu “four people have been killed in a taxi accident.”
DO NOT open your mouth when you are drunk. This taxi is not a bar where all the waitresses have become your girlfriends.
DO NOT haggle with the conductor when you are already halfway the journey, or when you say “mu maaso awo!” Bargain before you get on so you don't waste other passengers' valuable time.
DO NOT gossip loudly about someone else because your “badness” will be on display, however smartly-dressed you are. TRY NOT burst into loud insane laughter. Other people do not see the fun like you.
And for heaven’s sake, DO NOT imagine you are the taxi driver and tell him how to drive and which shortcuts to take.
Tuesday, 30 August 2016
#pokomatherisktaker
Pokoma was a risk-taker. He loved to cross the road when an oncoming car was a few meters, a few seconds away from him. He said it gave him an adrenaline rush. He had caused several drivers to slam on their brakes, leaving them screeching in fury as he sprang out of the way, the car missing
him by a few inches. He would emerge on the other side, chuckling to himself, and mentally patting himself on the back. “Whew! that was a close shave! It’ll be even closer the next time!”
This risky game started when Pokoma was about nine and still in primary school. Together with his little brother and sister, they walked to school in the morning and back in the evening. To get there, they had to cross a busy road, a highway in fact. As the cars zoomed past in both directions, Pokoma and his siblings sometimes waited for 10 minutes when the cars were fewer, or when a kind driver stopped to let them pass. Sometimes they waited in the middle of the road.
When he got older, Pokoma found that he was able to run across a busy road even as the cars whizzed past. He weaved in and out of traffic like a snake. It soon graduated into that mad dash across the road. Then the highway. Pokoma would run across and land safely on the other side without a scratch.
We buried Pokoma yesterday. He did not look like the Pokoma we knew as we laid what remained of him in his grave.
He was just one mangled mess of skin, flesh and bones.
Friday, 26 August 2016
#faddiets
At the bank today, the teller served me as she sipped on a bottle filled with water so hot that it was disfigured (the bottle, not the water). Out of curiosity I asked why there were no tea-leaves. “Cutting fat”, she said very matter-of-factly. “Amazzi agokya gasala amasavu.”
There are so many fad diets today- juicing, fruitarianism, detoxing, non-salt diet, water-only diet, lemon water diet, no sugar diet, carbs, proteins, vitamins, morning banana. Ayi mama, won’t we just diet ourselves into oblivion?
Someone I know, carries a brightly-colored plastic bag filled with lunch-boxes of all sizes to work. Sometimes it is green tea, cucumber and beetroot slivers - to “moisturize the skin.”
Tomorrow. Hot lemon and ginger for “digestion and, y’know it increases blood circulation.”
On Wednesday. “I’m drinking apple juice to strengthen my muscles and improve my eyesight.”
She also has a food diary. I want to scream.
Last week I asked about her progress but I discovered that she doesn't know if she is just watching her weight, or wants to slim. And when she starts with the calories, I want to hide under the table.
I am so tempted to tell her that we all have a body-type- - - figure 8, figure 11, some of us are apples, bananas, water-melons others are inverted triangles. I want to let her know that this dieting can be expensive and requires more discipline than the US navy has.
Naye, her eyes nearly popped out of her sockets when by chance, I was at the Nakumatt Oasis on Saturday afternoon. She was at Javas wolfing down a sizeable piece of juicy fried chicken, and from the heap of bones on the side of her plate, there must have been plenty more. There was also a half-drunk bottle of fruity Fanta.
Thursday, 25 August 2016
#Koffi:thebriefestshowieverhad
PS: Read footnote first... bottom of page
The name is Koffi. Koffi Olomidde to be exact. My parents named me Antoine Christophe Agbepa Mumba at birth but I like to use Koffi Olomide. I am 60 now, and in all my life, I have never been so embarrassed and ill-treated as I was in Kenya a month ago.
Well, the long and short of this tale is that I fell from grace. There. It is has been hard to accept, but yes, I did. I fell so hard that I don’t know what hit me. One minute I was doing my thing in front of the paparazzi’s cameras, the next- I was standing in front of a judge in a dusty courtroom in a totally different country. All in the space of about 30 hours. The blurring has cleared from my mind now and I can tell my story.
My swift descent began in Kenya on 22nd July where I was booked to do a show for my Ekotike hit the next evening. By the way, the song is called Ekotite, not Ekotide or Ekotike, as I have heard some murderers say. The venue was Bomas of Kenya.
As usual, I flew business class. The waitresses swooned over me, asking if I was okay, if I needed a hot towel for my hands, if I would care for a cup of coffee, if they could push my seat back, if I needed a blanket and extra pillow. Hell! All I needed was good food, a strong drink and to perhaps pinch the bottom of the prettiest one.
My crew were holed up in Economy, most of them sleeping off the exhaustion from our show at home in DRC the night before.
We landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport at 12:10pm. I was looking sharp, having freshened up and changed into a tight black long-sleeved t-shirt and my signature pants. The kind of statement trousers with a low fly that hangs around my calves. I was excited. I wanted to see Nairobi - ville verte au soleil- the city in the sun.
Two strong drinks in the VIP lounge later, my manager Sofoki approached me to discuss our itinerary. I told him it could wait as I would first speak to the pack of paps whose cameras were already going into wild action even before I emerged from the lounge.
This was it. The high-life. The center of attraction. Me. The usual blah blah questions.
“Koffi, karibu Kenya. Are you excited to be here?”
“Koffi, what something special have you carried with you this time?”
“Koffi, anything different for … ”
Suddenly I distracted by some commotion behind me. Raised female voices. Yelling in a mix of Lingala and French. I swung my head around. There they were, my dancers. Shouting. Catfight? I did not hear the rest of the pesky paps’ questions. I needed to find out what the matter was. This undignified market-woman kinda yelling. As I approached, Cindy- my sweet favorite, dashed away, tears streaming down her face. “Quel est le chéri de la matière ??”
I didn’t wait for an answer and I did not ask any more questions. I had spotted the source of the disturbance. The stranger who did not belong in my group. A dark-skinned woman with a cheap fake weave. I lunged at her and she made as if to flee. I strode towards her and kicked. Hard. My foot connected with her side as she raised her hands to defend herself.
At least that’s what I remember. (I later heard that I had actually karate-kicked one of my dancers and the rest had scattered away in shock and fear).
Policemen standing nearby moved in to stop me, I shoved them off with my raging Spanish bull face and they kept their distance. Cindy was sniffing alone in a corner, her red handbag sitting on her red suitcase. I went up to her, my manager running behind me, pleading with me to return to the interview. I returned in the direction of the paps, flashing my best smile. “Okay, where were we?” but they were already packing up, some walking away.
But just then, Sofoki told me the limo taking us to the hotel was ready.
“Make sure the crew gets to town safe!” I barked at him as I entered the limo, Cindy following closely behind.
As promised by the events organizer, a country-mate, the limo was sleek, black, air-conditioned and drinks were on hand. I quietened the sniffy Cindy with a glass of orange juice. She told me there had been an altercation between her and another dancer and that was the reason for the commotion.
“Shhhh… baby… it will be alright.” I rubbed her back and pecked her on the forehead. “Wipe your face now and put on some make-up, you know the journalists and their cameras will be at the hotel. Okay?”
Then I got back to the free bar and whipped out my phone to take the selfies that I would post on my Facebook page.
Twenty minutes later we drove into the gates of the grandiose Villa Rosa Kempinski hotel. My crew were already there. A valet opened the limo door and I jumped out, a refreshed Cindy, looking sheepish by my side.
“You are welcome Mr Koffi!” The valet, beaming with a wide smile, could have tripped over himself as he took her hand.
Sofoki informed me that hotel was finalizing arrangements for my room. I was irritated. I needed to lie down and get this excess mix of drinks off my head. Didn’t they know I was coming? Koffi Olomide? Ekotite? Hello???!!
The hotel manager, a middle-aged man in a grey suit came running towards me, “Mr. Koffi, we have your booking ready, we will be leading you to room in a few minutes. Please sit down Sir.” He herded me to some plush, black leather seats. I sank in. They were comfortable. A waitress carrying a tray with glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and handed me one. I took a sip and handed it back.
“Take it to my girls over there,” I said, pointing to where my dancers were sitting in another side of the foyer.
I flipped open my phone.It was time to post those selfies with the drinks in the background. I had to make sure that people knew I was in town. I had several whatsapp messages. At the moment, Sofoki sat down next to me, on the edge of the seat. He looked worried.
“Eh, boss,” he whispered in French. “Things are not looking up.”
Now, what the hell? Was he talking about the weather forecast? Was it the special water I had ordered for my room that could not be found? Was the presidential suite taken?
“Speak up man!” I shouted and heads turned to look at us. “What is the problem?”
“Um… we are getting some very bad press. It is all over Facebook, Twitter, whatsapp…” His eyes were trained to a spot on the polished wooden floor.
I turned on my phone. Oh! Oh! Oh! S****! Blistering barnacles! The buzz about me on Facebook was crazy. Pictures of me, my leg in the air, lunging at my dancer. All sorts of crazy captions. “Koffi kicks girl”, “Koffi attacks dancer”, “ Monkey-eating soukous crooner sends woman flying with karate kick” and so on and so forth. Oh, so it was one of my crew that I had attacked? How could that be? I remember it was a pickpocket. At least that’s what my memory served me.
I needed to get out of that foyer very fast. Like yesterday. The comfort of the chairs and their smell of fake leather was suddenly making me sick. Very sick. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses.
“Go tell those dratted reception people that I need my room quick!” I shouted at Sofoki. He closed his I-pad and scurried off like a scared rat.
Up in my room, I flopped on the king-size bed. It must have been an 8x8 because it was so big. The room looked like a house of sorts.
I sat up, flipped off my shades and opened my phone. Yes. Sofoki was right when he said things were not good. We needed to do some spinning. Quick, clever spinning, otherwise I was cooked. I lay down on the bed. It felt lumpy. I leapt up and sat in the bedside chair. There was a free bar with cold drinks. They did not look very inviting. My head was racing. I called Sofoki on his phone. I told him to get the dancer Pamela and come up to my room.
About three minutes later, they knocked at my door. “Sofoki” I said breathlessly, “Here!” In hushed tones, we discussed what to do to quell the damage eating at my fast-rotting reputation.
“Pamela, in here!” She walked cautiously across the room. Did she think I was going to attack her again? “Pamela, you are a good girl, you are an expert dancer and very beautiful. You know that now, don’t you? Actually, now that we are here in Nairobi, I want you to be the queen dancer, the one who moves to the front when you are all dancing and then I will give you all the attention. Okay?”
She looked confused and didn’t say a word but nodded her head. A fast and very silly nod.
“Now Pamela, I want you to understand there is some news going around that I kicked you and people are not very happy. Sofoki here has told me that the news on social media is that people want to boycott the show. That is not good. You know it is not true, isn’t that so, baby? Now, we are going to record a video on my phone, explaining the real story. That I was trying to protect you from a pickpocket who wanted to steal your bag. You know that I love my dancers. Not so now, Pamela? Smile now. Hey baby! ”
Pamela touched up her face. Man, her face was getting patchy. , Then we recorded the video, me holding the phone as Sofoki watched. We did three takes. The second was perfect and it’s the one we posted, Pamela regurgitating what I had convinced her to say. I told the women in Kenya I loved them and I absolutely abhor any form of violence against the beautiful creatures of the opposite sex.
Then I shooed them from my room, ‘silence-moded’ my phone, and dozed off.
Sofoki woke me up two hours later. “Boss, you remember we have the Citizen TV interview?”
I got ready, drowned myself in a mean douse of BB Gout parfum and took the elevator to the bottom. This time we rode in a convoy of smaller cars. We arrived at the studio at about 8:35pm. The girls were looking good, no sign of stress on their heavily powdered faces. Their rouged lips stood out as they took selfie after selfie in the tight white shirts, and even tighter, ripped pale denim pants.
That Lilian Muli woman was not good to me, shooting question after question like I was already a convict. Did I beat my dancer? Did I hate women? With her hand on her chin, like she was Larry King, no smile on her face, even as I sat across from her. The interview was long, and, I felt, very one-sided. The interview started with a strong statement about Royal Media Services “strongly condemning violence of any nature.” Yeah right! Then she also used the word “allegedly” kicking. So why was she condemning violence? Oh, and that they believed every story has two sides and had made an editorial decision to host me and get my side of the story. D’accord!!
Now, come to think of it- her first question was “Why did you do what you did at the airport today?” I squirmed inside. It could not show. Damn! I even forgot what I had to say. I had to buy time. Deny.
“I didn’t beat my dancer. I didn't touch her.” Deny. I recounted the pick-pocket tale. I had only wanted to protect my dancers. Deny. My mantra.
They replayed the kicking clip repeatedly, accusing me of having anger issues, telling me about respecting human rights and refusing to listen to my pleas that I was only here for a show and could we move on. Damn this internet, raining on my parade as I prepared giving Kenyans a good time. Hey, I was not responsible for all the problems women are having. Heck, I was sorry!!! I did not have anger issues.
The girls were invited to the stage so “that they could see the chemistry between them and their boss.” I gave Pamela a peck and asked her to tell her story which I translated because there was no translator. The girls bust some moves to Ekoti
Anyway, this was to be my only performance in Kenya. I was arrested shortly after. Right outside the Royal Media Services offices that houses Citizen TV. Me, Kofi Olomidde, a whole lingala maestro.
“Switch off the engine!” they ordered. “Na hiyo video ali shoot akaweka kwa Facebook ni ya uongo. Kwa nini anadanganya danganya watu ati hakumupiga dame?” They were talking about me like I was not there.
Then they drove me, at breakneck speed to the Jomo Kenyatta Police station. My hackles rose. This didn't look good at all. Why the airport? After several minutes of hassling and hushed whispers, with policemen getting in and out of the office, some occasionally throwing us furtive glances, we were ordered to “make statement”.
That was one of the toughest nights in the life of this rhumba virtuoso, I will call myself that. I am so disgusted that I will not reveal how or where I slept, so you can go and speculate till kingdom comes. What I know, and what you know is that I spent the night in a not-so-clean, grubby police cell with a couple of other “prisoners”.
At about 11am, I was ordered out of the cell. At the front counter were three of my dancers. They looked beat, with tired smudges of lipstick on their faces. The powder had done a disappearing act.
“You will be returning to your country at the expense of the Kenyan government. We do not need women pounders here!”
We were herded out of the station, like a group of unruly donkeys. Straight into a Kenya Airways flight on the apron. “Where’s my passport?” I asked.
“Don’t even ask!”
I had no option but to go board the plane.
I really didn't feel like the invincible Koffi Olomide anymore.
**** The events narrated here are purely from my imagination, some names- like the manager's- are my own creation. ******
The name is Koffi. Koffi Olomidde to be exact. My parents named me Antoine Christophe Agbepa Mumba at birth but I like to use Koffi Olomide. I am 60 now, and in all my life, I have never been so embarrassed and ill-treated as I was in Kenya a month ago.
Well, the long and short of this tale is that I fell from grace. There. It is has been hard to accept, but yes, I did. I fell so hard that I don’t know what hit me. One minute I was doing my thing in front of the paparazzi’s cameras, the next- I was standing in front of a judge in a dusty courtroom in a totally different country. All in the space of about 30 hours. The blurring has cleared from my mind now and I can tell my story.
My swift descent began in Kenya on 22nd July where I was booked to do a show for my Ekotike hit the next evening. By the way, the song is called Ekotite, not Ekotide or Ekotike, as I have heard some murderers say. The venue was Bomas of Kenya.
As usual, I flew business class. The waitresses swooned over me, asking if I was okay, if I needed a hot towel for my hands, if I would care for a cup of coffee, if they could push my seat back, if I needed a blanket and extra pillow. Hell! All I needed was good food, a strong drink and to perhaps pinch the bottom of the prettiest one.
My crew were holed up in Economy, most of them sleeping off the exhaustion from our show at home in DRC the night before.
We landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport at 12:10pm. I was looking sharp, having freshened up and changed into a tight black long-sleeved t-shirt and my signature pants. The kind of statement trousers with a low fly that hangs around my calves. I was excited. I wanted to see Nairobi - ville verte au soleil- the city in the sun.
Two strong drinks in the VIP lounge later, my manager Sofoki approached me to discuss our itinerary. I told him it could wait as I would first speak to the pack of paps whose cameras were already going into wild action even before I emerged from the lounge.
This was it. The high-life. The center of attraction. Me. The usual blah blah questions.
“Koffi, karibu Kenya. Are you excited to be here?”
“Koffi, what something special have you carried with you this time?”
“Koffi, anything different for … ”
Suddenly I distracted by some commotion behind me. Raised female voices. Yelling in a mix of Lingala and French. I swung my head around. There they were, my dancers. Shouting. Catfight? I did not hear the rest of the pesky paps’ questions. I needed to find out what the matter was. This undignified market-woman kinda yelling. As I approached, Cindy- my sweet favorite, dashed away, tears streaming down her face. “Quel est le chéri de la matière ??”
I didn’t wait for an answer and I did not ask any more questions. I had spotted the source of the disturbance. The stranger who did not belong in my group. A dark-skinned woman with a cheap fake weave. I lunged at her and she made as if to flee. I strode towards her and kicked. Hard. My foot connected with her side as she raised her hands to defend herself.
At least that’s what I remember. (I later heard that I had actually karate-kicked one of my dancers and the rest had scattered away in shock and fear).
Policemen standing nearby moved in to stop me, I shoved them off with my raging Spanish bull face and they kept their distance. Cindy was sniffing alone in a corner, her red handbag sitting on her red suitcase. I went up to her, my manager running behind me, pleading with me to return to the interview. I returned in the direction of the paps, flashing my best smile. “Okay, where were we?” but they were already packing up, some walking away.
But just then, Sofoki told me the limo taking us to the hotel was ready.
“Make sure the crew gets to town safe!” I barked at him as I entered the limo, Cindy following closely behind.
As promised by the events organizer, a country-mate, the limo was sleek, black, air-conditioned and drinks were on hand. I quietened the sniffy Cindy with a glass of orange juice. She told me there had been an altercation between her and another dancer and that was the reason for the commotion.
“Shhhh… baby… it will be alright.” I rubbed her back and pecked her on the forehead. “Wipe your face now and put on some make-up, you know the journalists and their cameras will be at the hotel. Okay?”
Then I got back to the free bar and whipped out my phone to take the selfies that I would post on my Facebook page.
Twenty minutes later we drove into the gates of the grandiose Villa Rosa Kempinski hotel. My crew were already there. A valet opened the limo door and I jumped out, a refreshed Cindy, looking sheepish by my side.
“You are welcome Mr Koffi!” The valet, beaming with a wide smile, could have tripped over himself as he took her hand.
Sofoki informed me that hotel was finalizing arrangements for my room. I was irritated. I needed to lie down and get this excess mix of drinks off my head. Didn’t they know I was coming? Koffi Olomide? Ekotite? Hello???!!
The hotel manager, a middle-aged man in a grey suit came running towards me, “Mr. Koffi, we have your booking ready, we will be leading you to room in a few minutes. Please sit down Sir.” He herded me to some plush, black leather seats. I sank in. They were comfortable. A waitress carrying a tray with glasses of wine appeared from nowhere and handed me one. I took a sip and handed it back.
“Take it to my girls over there,” I said, pointing to where my dancers were sitting in another side of the foyer.
I flipped open my phone.It was time to post those selfies with the drinks in the background. I had to make sure that people knew I was in town. I had several whatsapp messages. At the moment, Sofoki sat down next to me, on the edge of the seat. He looked worried.
“Eh, boss,” he whispered in French. “Things are not looking up.”
Now, what the hell? Was he talking about the weather forecast? Was it the special water I had ordered for my room that could not be found? Was the presidential suite taken?
“Speak up man!” I shouted and heads turned to look at us. “What is the problem?”
“Um… we are getting some very bad press. It is all over Facebook, Twitter, whatsapp…” His eyes were trained to a spot on the polished wooden floor.
I turned on my phone. Oh! Oh! Oh! S****! Blistering barnacles! The buzz about me on Facebook was crazy. Pictures of me, my leg in the air, lunging at my dancer. All sorts of crazy captions. “Koffi kicks girl”, “Koffi attacks dancer”, “ Monkey-eating soukous crooner sends woman flying with karate kick” and so on and so forth. Oh, so it was one of my crew that I had attacked? How could that be? I remember it was a pickpocket. At least that’s what my memory served me.
I needed to get out of that foyer very fast. Like yesterday. The comfort of the chairs and their smell of fake leather was suddenly making me sick. Very sick. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses.
“Go tell those dratted reception people that I need my room quick!” I shouted at Sofoki. He closed his I-pad and scurried off like a scared rat.
Up in my room, I flopped on the king-size bed. It must have been an 8x8 because it was so big. The room looked like a house of sorts.
I sat up, flipped off my shades and opened my phone. Yes. Sofoki was right when he said things were not good. We needed to do some spinning. Quick, clever spinning, otherwise I was cooked. I lay down on the bed. It felt lumpy. I leapt up and sat in the bedside chair. There was a free bar with cold drinks. They did not look very inviting. My head was racing. I called Sofoki on his phone. I told him to get the dancer Pamela and come up to my room.
About three minutes later, they knocked at my door. “Sofoki” I said breathlessly, “Here!” In hushed tones, we discussed what to do to quell the damage eating at my fast-rotting reputation.
“Pamela, in here!” She walked cautiously across the room. Did she think I was going to attack her again? “Pamela, you are a good girl, you are an expert dancer and very beautiful. You know that now, don’t you? Actually, now that we are here in Nairobi, I want you to be the queen dancer, the one who moves to the front when you are all dancing and then I will give you all the attention. Okay?”
She looked confused and didn’t say a word but nodded her head. A fast and very silly nod.
“Now Pamela, I want you to understand there is some news going around that I kicked you and people are not very happy. Sofoki here has told me that the news on social media is that people want to boycott the show. That is not good. You know it is not true, isn’t that so, baby? Now, we are going to record a video on my phone, explaining the real story. That I was trying to protect you from a pickpocket who wanted to steal your bag. You know that I love my dancers. Not so now, Pamela? Smile now. Hey baby! ”
Pamela touched up her face. Man, her face was getting patchy. , Then we recorded the video, me holding the phone as Sofoki watched. We did three takes. The second was perfect and it’s the one we posted, Pamela regurgitating what I had convinced her to say. I told the women in Kenya I loved them and I absolutely abhor any form of violence against the beautiful creatures of the opposite sex.
Then I shooed them from my room, ‘silence-moded’ my phone, and dozed off.
Sofoki woke me up two hours later. “Boss, you remember we have the Citizen TV interview?”
I got ready, drowned myself in a mean douse of BB Gout parfum and took the elevator to the bottom. This time we rode in a convoy of smaller cars. We arrived at the studio at about 8:35pm. The girls were looking good, no sign of stress on their heavily powdered faces. Their rouged lips stood out as they took selfie after selfie in the tight white shirts, and even tighter, ripped pale denim pants.
That Lilian Muli woman was not good to me, shooting question after question like I was already a convict. Did I beat my dancer? Did I hate women? With her hand on her chin, like she was Larry King, no smile on her face, even as I sat across from her. The interview was long, and, I felt, very one-sided. The interview started with a strong statement about Royal Media Services “strongly condemning violence of any nature.” Yeah right! Then she also used the word “allegedly” kicking. So why was she condemning violence? Oh, and that they believed every story has two sides and had made an editorial decision to host me and get my side of the story. D’accord!!
Now, come to think of it- her first question was “Why did you do what you did at the airport today?” I squirmed inside. It could not show. Damn! I even forgot what I had to say. I had to buy time. Deny.
“I didn’t beat my dancer. I didn't touch her.” Deny. I recounted the pick-pocket tale. I had only wanted to protect my dancers. Deny. My mantra.
They replayed the kicking clip repeatedly, accusing me of having anger issues, telling me about respecting human rights and refusing to listen to my pleas that I was only here for a show and could we move on. Damn this internet, raining on my parade as I prepared giving Kenyans a good time. Hey, I was not responsible for all the problems women are having. Heck, I was sorry!!! I did not have anger issues.
The girls were invited to the stage so “that they could see the chemistry between them and their boss.” I gave Pamela a peck and asked her to tell her story which I translated because there was no translator. The girls bust some moves to Ekoti
Anyway, this was to be my only performance in Kenya. I was arrested shortly after. Right outside the Royal Media Services offices that houses Citizen TV. Me, Kofi Olomidde, a whole lingala maestro.
“Switch off the engine!” they ordered. “Na hiyo video ali shoot akaweka kwa Facebook ni ya uongo. Kwa nini anadanganya danganya watu ati hakumupiga dame?” They were talking about me like I was not there.
Then they drove me, at breakneck speed to the Jomo Kenyatta Police station. My hackles rose. This didn't look good at all. Why the airport? After several minutes of hassling and hushed whispers, with policemen getting in and out of the office, some occasionally throwing us furtive glances, we were ordered to “make statement”.
That was one of the toughest nights in the life of this rhumba virtuoso, I will call myself that. I am so disgusted that I will not reveal how or where I slept, so you can go and speculate till kingdom comes. What I know, and what you know is that I spent the night in a not-so-clean, grubby police cell with a couple of other “prisoners”.
At about 11am, I was ordered out of the cell. At the front counter were three of my dancers. They looked beat, with tired smudges of lipstick on their faces. The powder had done a disappearing act.
“You will be returning to your country at the expense of the Kenyan government. We do not need women pounders here!”
We were herded out of the station, like a group of unruly donkeys. Straight into a Kenya Airways flight on the apron. “Where’s my passport?” I asked.
“Don’t even ask!”
I had no option but to go board the plane.
I really didn't feel like the invincible Koffi Olomide anymore.
**** The events narrated here are purely from my imagination, some names- like the manager's- are my own creation. ******
Wednesday, 24 August 2016
#tohellwiththatdiet!!!...
Cold maize will make your stomach bloat, they say
Warm water will melt the fat away.
Do you really want to lose weight?
Then watch that stuff you put on your plate.
Today, “sugar and starch are bad for you”,
Tomorrow, “meat samosas and mandazis too”.
If you’re serious, then cut out bread, eggs and cake,
Because your stomach pudgy, they will make.
They warn that the calories in that slice of chocolate cake
Are as deadly as a flavored milkshake.
Instead, a glass of lemon water and honey,
Will not cost you too much money.
Also, kale and watermelon smoothies in the morning.
Will keep your stomach from groaning.
“And what about some coffee?” I ask.
“No.” They recommend a cup of green tea from the flask.
Yellow bananas, red berries, green peppers and orange oranges.
I am praying this diet will work because the changes
Are driving me crazy
My sight is becoming hazy.
Words like wellness, sijui, the mind, body and spirit,
At this rate, I doubt I can do it.
Weight-loss, low-fat, detox, healthy eating,
Forget chips and burgers at a Javas seating.
Metabolism, BMI, blood sugar, nutrition,
Will these really bring my slimming plans to fruition?
Juicing, slimming fibers, fat-burning, shredding,
No, this alien vocabulary I will not be needing.
To hell with the diet.
#manoutofvillagevillageoutofman
When you can take a man out of a village....but not the village out of a man.
A friend's cousin was visiting Kampala for the first time in his 23 years.
He had grown up in a rural sub-county somewhere and was village all through- from the hair, to the clothes, to the walk.
Of course everything was new to him here- he did not even know how to use a spoon to stir his tea. Anyway, after tea, she suggested he take a bath and rest because he was tired and dusty from the journey. She filled a basin, gave him a towel and showed him the bathroom.
The next they heard was an almighty scream. He dashed out of the bathroom like a madman, yelling at the top of his voice that there was someone who had come towards him, wanting to attack him.
When they investigated, they discovered it was the bathroom mirror that had caused him such anguish...
A friend's cousin was visiting Kampala for the first time in his 23 years.
He had grown up in a rural sub-county somewhere and was village all through- from the hair, to the clothes, to the walk.
Of course everything was new to him here- he did not even know how to use a spoon to stir his tea. Anyway, after tea, she suggested he take a bath and rest because he was tired and dusty from the journey. She filled a basin, gave him a towel and showed him the bathroom.
The next they heard was an almighty scream. He dashed out of the bathroom like a madman, yelling at the top of his voice that there was someone who had come towards him, wanting to attack him.
When they investigated, they discovered it was the bathroom mirror that had caused him such anguish...
Thursday, 18 August 2016
#thedayafter
10:30am. 12th July 2010.
Police chief Gen. Kale Kayihura barks at a policeman standing guard outside the door leading into the press room at the Media Center. “Wewe Afande, una akili kweli?! Your instructions are to check everybody, regardless of who they are. Even me? What if I am carrying a bomb?!!”
The hapless man hastily drops his salute as the police chief glares at him and strides into the room packed with journalists who will relay the latest on the security situation. This is a special press conference.
It is the day after that horrific incident. When bombs exploded in Kampala, killing 76 people who were enjoying a night out.
Uganda was in shock and rightly so. Everywhere, askaris, gatemen, bartenders, police officers, bus conductors, shop owners - even public toilet “operators”- were jolted into action. They had been sleeping on the job and the time had come for them to be seen to be working.
They dug into every bag, overturning its contents with no regard for delicate items.
They frisked and patted down every human being making an entry into any establishment.
They pinched women’s breasts to make sure they hadn’t padded their bras with cotton wool.
They asked all the unnecessary questions- “Eh, so you are going to see the boss? For what? Where are you coming from? Why is your ID about to expire?”
They searched the car boots, glove compartments, under the sun visor, everything under and over.
The toilet operators asked “Oyagala kipapula kya mmeka? Lwaki?
Woe betide you if were passing outside a police station and stopped to tie your shoelaces.
The taxi parks downtown were a nightmare, the bus parks were even worse. Nga they checked us! At the market, at the mall, at the taxi park. The time had come for them to feel important as they "secured" their country.
Fast forward to 2016. The askari greets me with smile. She is eating her lunch from a plastic lunch-box under the reception counter at the gate. She does not leave her chair. In between munches, she asks me where I’m going. I can see the counter book where other visitors have signed, and the Nice pen tied with a string to something under the counter so that it is not stolen. I tell her where I’m going and she waves in the direction of the office. Go to the First Floor. Then she flashes another smile and I’m off.
So, what has happened five years later? Have we forgotten the events of that day? Are we not aware that danger is lurking everywhere? Why do we only act when something terrible happens? Why don’t we give a damn about that black bag that has been lying under that chair for several days? Why the need to ensure that THAT pen at the reception should be protected from the hands of a stranger, but then its okay for me to walk into a building unchecked?
Police chief Gen. Kale Kayihura barks at a policeman standing guard outside the door leading into the press room at the Media Center. “Wewe Afande, una akili kweli?! Your instructions are to check everybody, regardless of who they are. Even me? What if I am carrying a bomb?!!”
The hapless man hastily drops his salute as the police chief glares at him and strides into the room packed with journalists who will relay the latest on the security situation. This is a special press conference.
It is the day after that horrific incident. When bombs exploded in Kampala, killing 76 people who were enjoying a night out.
Uganda was in shock and rightly so. Everywhere, askaris, gatemen, bartenders, police officers, bus conductors, shop owners - even public toilet “operators”- were jolted into action. They had been sleeping on the job and the time had come for them to be seen to be working.
They dug into every bag, overturning its contents with no regard for delicate items.
They frisked and patted down every human being making an entry into any establishment.
They pinched women’s breasts to make sure they hadn’t padded their bras with cotton wool.
They asked all the unnecessary questions- “Eh, so you are going to see the boss? For what? Where are you coming from? Why is your ID about to expire?”
They searched the car boots, glove compartments, under the sun visor, everything under and over.
The toilet operators asked “Oyagala kipapula kya mmeka? Lwaki?
Woe betide you if were passing outside a police station and stopped to tie your shoelaces.
The taxi parks downtown were a nightmare, the bus parks were even worse. Nga they checked us! At the market, at the mall, at the taxi park. The time had come for them to feel important as they "secured" their country.
Fast forward to 2016. The askari greets me with smile. She is eating her lunch from a plastic lunch-box under the reception counter at the gate. She does not leave her chair. In between munches, she asks me where I’m going. I can see the counter book where other visitors have signed, and the Nice pen tied with a string to something under the counter so that it is not stolen. I tell her where I’m going and she waves in the direction of the office. Go to the First Floor. Then she flashes another smile and I’m off.
So, what has happened five years later? Have we forgotten the events of that day? Are we not aware that danger is lurking everywhere? Why do we only act when something terrible happens? Why don’t we give a damn about that black bag that has been lying under that chair for several days? Why the need to ensure that THAT pen at the reception should be protected from the hands of a stranger, but then its okay for me to walk into a building unchecked?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)