#kifeesicrew

My version of the ominous anonymous "letters"

They are finally here! The bibaluwa aka kiro kitwala omunaku have arrived in our sleepy village of Wampeewo on Gayaza Road in Wakiso district. My mind-my-business neighbor called me last evening while I was at work to announce the numbing news.
“Waabiwulidde?” Had I heard the latest? “Mmmmhmmmm.”
“Ate ki?” Of course I hadn't heard.
“Munnange, ebibaluwa baabisanze ku kisaawe!” The anonymous flyers had been strewn about the Wampeewo village playing field.
My heart went cold. I work late.
“Era munnange, weggalire mangu!” How was that going to happen? I was still in town! But wait, was that a trace of relish in her voice?
I started contemplating telling my boss that I had to leave immediately. I had an imaginary headache. And here I was, having abandoned UAH for some weeks now. It was approaching 9pm.

My evening was about to be full of drama. First, as I stretched my legs to climb into the taxi, I heard a loud rip. My nice, tight, new, opal blue skirt. From the zip to the slit. My immediate worry now became how I would slither from my seat when I said, “Mu maaso awo!” to the conductor when we got to my stage.

Two women, one with her hair half done sat in front of me, in that seat right behind the driver. One was complaining about how “this time the crocheted braids have really hurt my scalp!”. The other was laughing like an excited, overactive primary schoolgirl. She was telling someone on her phone with a shattered screen, "Are you sshhuuuuwwaaa?!"

As I worried about the Kifeesi crew that had set foot on the village, the taxi suddenly reared forward at the junction on Erisa road. “Bammmm!!!” The vehicle had crashed head-on into a bodaboda motorcycle coming from the opposite side. The motorbike keeled over, pouring the rider and his passenger onto the tarmac. I started clapping- don't ask me why. I mean, I wasn't overjoyed about the accident, because people could be gravely injured. I guess it was the mix of emotions, the fear, the knots in my stomach.

The idle bodaboda riders parked at the nearby stage came running, some zooming around the taxi like angry wasps. This was like a bad dream. Someone shouted, “Mubookye!” Burn them. Burn us, you mean. At the front, the bodaboda man had recovered from the shock and though dazed, he jumped up and hit the taxi’s windscreen with his hand. “Oyagala kunzita gwe!” he screamed. What about his poor passenger whose skirt had ridden up to her waist when she fell off? The driver pleaded that he didn't want to kill them, but they were in his way and…

He didn't have time to finish his sentence because just then, one of the unruly bodamen had reached inside the open window and grabbed his arm. “Come out! Come out and explain! Come you fool!”
Eh, this was serious. We were alarmed. The shouts of “Mubookye!” had risen in volume and were now a ragged chant. “Vaamu obitebye!” The driver refused to turn off the ignition, his hand clutched the steering wheel tightly. One of the passengers shouted, “Gwe driver vvuga emmotoka tuve wano! Abasajja bagya kututta! Tobeera ffala!”

The driver reversed swiftly to get out of the way of the bike that still lay across his path. Then he put pedal to metal and sped off. The boda men yelled insults, some gave a weak chase, but we got away. Then the advice started, the arguments about who was to blame blah blah! I wanted to get out of the taxi, and I shouted at him to stop. He was having none of it. Stop for what? I’ll deliver you safely, that was just a small mishap. But anyway, he kept turning his head and checking in his side mirror to see if the chase was still on. It wasn’t.

The talk soon turned to hookers. Hookers on that street near Serena Hotel. Hookers on the other street which houses the Democratic Party Offices. William Street. How lethal those 'malayas’ were. How daring. Their 'mikunamyo'. Their 'bu patti, kundi shows'. How many of them are 'Banyalwanda' who will take even 5,000 shillings the minute they get off the bus. And that even in "'Kalamoja' gyebali!' Then one man, oba he wanted to show us how well-traveled he was, announced, 'N’e Alua bajjude! Ho!"

The way these men talked was like they had something against women. Like they had been hurt, and dragged through the mud, and cheated on, and been bashed, and scratched, and that they couldn't trust the fairer sex any more. It made me worry for the women they called their 'wives', and for their poor little daughters.

I was soon to announce "mu maaso awo!" With all that had happened, I even forgot to slither out of the taxi. I only remembered when I felt the cold on the back of my legs. “Oh shit!” Anyway, I didn't care if anyone had seen, I didn't even know any of them. Let the men with a problem against women talk. Kasta I couldn't hear.

I had expected to find a village under siege. Quiet, dark, eerie, with people peeping out of the chinks in their curtains at any sound. It was not to be.
The place was alive with young men lounging at the chapati stalls, staring hungrily at the piles of oily fried dough- some yellow with curry powder, smelly mpuuta, and greasy rice sumbusas. Several others were whiling the time away at the village’s only pool table lit by a dim bulb. People were strolling along the dusty main road like it was midday. I even two noticed two women walking all by themselves.  Loud music blared from the two bufundas, with barmaids shouting like they didn't have a care in the world. Hearty laughter, some colorful language, a drunk staggering out to pee. No sign of the Kifeesi crew in the vicinity.

I really have to rekindle my relationship with UAH.

#oppositepoles

Here I am feeling terribly unfit (read fat), and there is my long-time friend Sarah, (not real name) afraid, because she is rapidly losing weight.

A few years ago, three to be exact, I wore spaghetti tops, shorts and polo-necked shirts with ease. I didn't know it then, but I felt fit as a fiddle, not even daunted by the pain in my right knee that came after I suffered a fall ((in the middle of town!). I could bend and touch my toes, squats were a walk in the park, and I had no need for stomach crunches.

I’d had a fat boyfriend who snored like a freight train, even when he dozed off during the day. His efforts at exercise were half-hearted, and he loved sitting in the sofa munching his way through greasy takeaway (chips and sausages), Rolex (the stand was right outside his gate), cereal with lots of milk, and draining bottles of Coca-Cola and cans of Bell beer. The will to exercise was overthrown by an even greedier will to watch movies and play video games and use the car (it got so bad that he would call a special driver) to go everywhere, even to the village shop. He usually huffed and puffed and his hands were sweaty. I loved him anyway, I didn't see that.

The job I do limits my exercise. I also found that moving to something new made me comfort eat all the time. With time, I realized that I was, as the saying goes, ‘piling on the pounds’. My once flat tummy developed a pouch, my waist became many more inches thicker, my bust grew bigger, and I felt terribly unfit and heavy. My morning walk to work was, and still is, my exercise for the day. But when I told the doctor that, he said it wasn't enough, and that I was overweight. At 59 kilograms. 9 stones. 132 pounds heavy.

To be honest, exercise is not that easy. In my head, I want to join a gym. I do work out in the evening at about 10pm, but I’m so tired by that time, that I’ll admit, its a lukewarm attempt. I feel terribly unfit, and slower. Someone told me its an age thing. Yeah, right!

Now, back to my dear friend. She sent me a text on Tuesday, asking me to “get her drugs that can make her fat again because she is losing weight rapidly.’ This is the thing. She’s on ARVs right now, but not prescribed by a doctor. Somebody is smuggling the drugs out of the hospital for her. Which means that she is swallowing a cocktail she knows nothing about. She has no idea if it is helping her body fight the disease, if it is building her immunity, if it is affecting her liver, or whatever else. But she wants another drug to help her put the weight back on. Which could be potentially dangerous, in the short, or long run.

Well, we talked on the phone and I dispensed some advice. I really think she should see a doctor, and I think she should eat healthy, and it is not about the weight, but about keeping healthy.

Two opposite poles- one looking to shed, another looking to add.

#babyinherwomb

This was the second time she was coming to see me. She told the receptionist at the front desk that she needed some money. The first time I saw her, she was crying. She held her baby in a bulky, faded white shawl. Even as we spoke, she looked lost. There was so much pain in her eyes as she told me that her son, the one she had bundled into the shawl, was two and a half years old. He was so shriveled, kind of like a four-month old!

He had suffered a bout of malaria when he was just three months. He recovered after three days. But he started crying continuously, even when he had been fed and cleaned. He did not sit at four months, which meant he could not crawl or walk. The nurses at the immunization center said his growth was regressing, and he soon became underweight. She desperately sought medication as his limbs wasted away. The illness meant that she had to abandon her job as a security guard. It also took a huge toll on her salary, which all went into buying medicine for her child, who was not getting any better.

She had met the father of her child at work. He was also a security guard. She worked during the day, he did the night shift. One night, three months ago, the shop he was guarding was broken into, and the thieves made off with money and valuables. The owner of the shop, an Indian, demanded for justice. Her “husband” was arrested and thrown behind bars. He has not been to court, but is being held in prison. She visits him every Monday, and has to take him some money for cigarettes and something to eat.

When she came to the office the first time, about three weeks ago, she wanted money to either buy a special chair for her son, or to travel home to the village. The chair cost 350,000 shillings. The administrators of the Katalemwa Cheshire Home for Rehabilitation Services in Mpererwe, which says it “brings smiles to the faces of children with disabilities’, said her bill had become astronomical and she had to pay them some money otherwise…. (She claimed that some parents leave their children under the care of the nurses who are impatient and beat them regularly.)

She didn't have any money, but opted to go to her mother in Gulu district where she said, she would get some help, and love. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she thanked me profusely.

She returned to Kampala on Wednesday, with 300,000 shillings in her bag. That bag was stolen in the taxi that she took to Luzira. Someone picked the bag from the kameeme (that hot engine behind the driver's seat).  Her ID, phone and the precious money were all taken. She said a kind pastor allowed her to spend the night in a church in Luzira.

As she narrated her ordeal, her son was testy and cried a lot. She shoved a bottle of passion fruit juice into his little mouth. His teeth have all been ground down by disease. He writhed and wailed loudly, obviously uncomfortable, as his mother bound the kikoyi which she wrapped around his little body tighter.

She wanted money for: one, to be able to take him to the hospital the next day, and two, to feed him because he was hungry, the reason he was crying so much.

She refused to look me in the eyes and sat with her body turned away from me the whole time. I explained that instead of asking around for money, it would be better if she got something to do that would continuously bring in some cash, even if it wasn’t much. She said she wanted to do a charcoal business, and some vegetables like tomatoes and onions on the side. My advice was that whatever happened, she should save some of that income, however small it was. I told her I knew what poverty smelt like, when you have a child that you must feed and do not even know where the next meal will come from. But you must pick yourself up, and carry your tusks as well.

She said some neighbors in the village had gossiped about her child, saying he had been attacked by evil spirits. Some told her mother that they should abandon the child in a bush and concentrate on other things. But she is determined to keep him, however much it takes.

As she prepared herself to leave, she unwrapped the kikoyi. The child was wet with urine. He cannot control his bladder. And she cannot afford diapers or nappies. Maybe she does not have any old cloths with which to pad him. There was a strong smell of urine around her. But she stands up, a worried smile on her face, her look flitting between scared and confident.

The baby in her womb is growing bigger. 

#foratree

A month ago, a young man in Nakaseke district, Nabbikka village lost his life.

For 12,500 shillings. Fred Kibombo, not a relative of mine, was 22 years old. He was killed when he climbed up a tree he had been contracted to fell. The contractor wanted the tree uprooted and was to pay him and a colleague 25,000 shillings, which they would share equally.

They first hacked at the roots, expecting the tree to come down by the time they were done. But it remained firm in its place. They pushed and threw themselves at it but the tree wouldn't budge. They decided it would be best to cut off some branches and maybe, just maybe, it would fall.

So they got a ladder and climbed up the tree.

His colleague says he felt very uneasy when he felt the tree move and suggested that they descend. He said he heard Kibombo say, “Ehhhh!”

Next thing he knew, the tree was coming down fast. The wind was strong. He held on tight, clutching at the bark. For dear life. He screamed. Then he landed with a heavy thud. On top of the trunk. He looked over for his friend.

“Kibombo! Kibombo!”

No answer.

He got up and checked. There was Kibombo, lying under the trunk, near the branches. Out cold. Dead actually.

He started shouting, “Munyambe! Munyambe! Wuuuuu! Wuuu! Abange munyambe!!!"
 
Holding his rubber Niiginas in his right hand, tears streaming down his face, he narrated the story to the villagers who had come running. They sympathized with him.

Then they carried away Kibombo’s mangled. body. Back to his father’s house.

I wonder if the friend got the 25,000 shillings, or if he took only his half.

#books&covers

Today I had an encounter with a tall handsome man, whose good lucks were, unfortunately, ruined by his rudeness. A bank teller. He has a degree in surliness. Oh!

(I hate the formalities of filling out forms, and not knowing how to, and then looking for someone to help me, and the person shows you unwillingness from the time you open your mouth; this unwilling look of, “at your age, and you don’t know, really??”.
Truth be told, whenever I have to go to the bank, or to the passport office, or the hospital, or wherever it is that requires formalities like those, that thought of filling out forms nauseates me. But I summon the courage... and go…)

I approached the bank counter with a cheery “Hello!”.
He didn't answer.
“I’d like to withdraw some money please.”
Mr. Handsome didn't even look at me. Just reached for a form behind him and handed it to me, then returned to his work, head leaning on left hand.
Hmmmm… this was going to be a hard paper. I scribbled my details, trying my best not to make a mistake so that I didn't have to ask him for another form. Then I scrawled my signature and handed the paper back.

Mr. High and Mighty then spoke. “Is this your signature?”
I looked at him. Baffled. What the **** did he think?
“I asked if this is your signature?” Was that a question or a statement?
“What’s wrong with it?” I retorted.
“It doesn't look like the original.”
I sighed. God! I have been a customer of Crane Bank since 2002! And they NEVER EVER complained or made a fuss. Now this dfcu madness… creating a mountain out of nothing. Oh, Sudhir, where are you when I need you?

He swung around in his seat, plucked another form off the pile behind him, and handed it to me. Kind of slammed it on to the counter.
Eye roll. Me.
“And make sure you sign correctly!”
I didn't say a thing.
“Put your correct signature!”
I scribbled harder. “Yes Sir!” I hoped the sarcasm wasn't lost on Mr. High and Mighty Handsome.
He checked again, went into his computer, printed stuff and handed me my money.

My parents taught me to say “please”, “thank you” and “sorry”.
I disobeyed them this time round.

#whack!whack!!

The punishments we got in school bannange. There was this teacher—— I don't know where she learnt that pinching the inner thigh caused so much pain. She inflicted this punishment even for the simplest of “crimes”. A wrong spelling, over-asking to go to the toilet, coming into class late after break-time. For boys, she would pull up one leg of their wide khaki shorts, and for the girls, the checked green-and white dress allowed easy access. Then she would take that meaty part inside the upper thigh between her fingers, and give it a tight, hard, tug, kind of like wanting to wrench it off the bone. It lasted only a few seconds but the ‘inflictee’s' howls and tears assured her that the punishment had been effective. Even the toughest of little boys cried.

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

Abing Abong was my Std Six teacher. He had a faun-like look, just that his ears were not as pointy, and he didn't hold a lyre. Scraggly beard, thin lips. That man could punish. Thank God he never touched me, but I remember that we wrote our lessons in fear because his mood was like the weather. Sometimes he came late, and because he had the class key, we waited outside even after the bell rang and all the other classes started.
Abing Abong parked his car in a shade near the classroom and we would see him drive into the school as we stood in the corridor outside the classroom. He didn't say “Good morning” to anybody as he walked past us. Just jangled the bunch of keys and opened the door.
On some mornings, “Who wasss sssuppossssed to clean this classsss??” he hissed, through the slit in his lips. No answer. We all looked away, pretending to busy ourselves with our school-bags. He repeated the question. Still no answer. Then he pounced. “You! Come here!!” All heads whipped in the direction of our unfortunate peer.
Abing Abong had a whip in form of a pipe, a broken hose-pipe. The unfortunate victim walked to the front of the class with tears in his eyes to where Abing Abong stood, caressing the pipe in his hands, a half-smile playing on his faun-like features.
“Bend and touch!” That meant “bend, and touch your toes”. And if the victim was wearing a sweater, Abing Abong pulled it away using the end of the pipe. So that the only thing between the pipe and your skin was the thin cotton of your uniform dress or shirt. For maximum effect. The pipe landed on the upper back, near the shoulder. Woe betide you if you put your bu-fingers there to touch, he would give them swift little taps, equally painful.
None of us laughed, even when the victim made all sorts of faces and begged all sorts of ‘begs’, apologizing for a crime he did not commit, howling in pain, and shaking with fear. Five whacks were enough to keep you in tears for the rest of the day.
And MORE woe betide you if you sniffled your way through his lessons.

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

Then there was the Std Five teacher everyone talked about. She loved the wooden ruler. By the way, I wonder why the makers of those rulers put a blade on one side. Madam Teacher usually meted her punishments during Maths lessons, or when she received the list of noise-makers.
She read out the names the class-monitor had put on the piece of exercise book paper, and the owners of those names knew the drill. Ukaenda to the front of the class. They waited in the line for their turn, their bu-knees shaking. “Make a fist and give me your knuckles!!”
The Maths’ sin had its number of strikes, and the noise-making sin had its own. Sometimes  the number, and heaviness of the strikes depended on her mood. And she gave nyongeza if you pulled your hand away and she missed.
And when that punishment was over and the sinners were furiously rubbing the pain away, she announced, “Empty tins make the most noise!”
And the lesson continued.

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

My class Four teacher was not much of a beater. Hers were mind-games. And she was like an elephant, she never forgot. She would “store you” till the end of the day. Then when it came to home-time, or if there was a game in the field, you stayed in and wrote “I will not talk in class”, “I will not reach school late” 100 times, 200 times on a paper. And which, when you handed to her, she tore into 1,000 small pieces, and threw in the waste paper basket.
As you looked on.

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

Before I joined Standard One, my older sister told me that the Headmaster used to give 'hot sticks'. Ati he had a jiiko in his office, and that it was always lit. Yaani, it was always on fire. So woe betide you if your crime was too big for the class teacher to handle and could only be dealt with by the Headie. Mbu he would put the cane on the jiiko, and when it got really hot, then he would give you six of the best, as you lay on the floor of his office, writhing and yelping away for help. Anyway, I soon found out that this was a figment of her very imaginative mind, and that the Headie was as kind as a puppy.

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

Sometimes the teachers pinched your ears and left them feeling really hot, and you imagining that they had turned red. Or they went for your cheek(s), and you would imagine she had left an imprint of her fingers. That feeling lasted for hours. Sometimes you picked leaves for the whole of the morning till break-time at 10am. And the headmistress- Mrs Kamau- we called her "Kamale"- was an expert at caning. Boy or girl, it didn't matter, you all lay down and allowed her to administer the kibokos.

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

In secondary school, which I did in Uganda, there were punishments for all sorts of things- even matters that we scoffed at, like - going with the key, staring (idle-gazing), or wearing high-heels that made you walk like a lame horse. They sounded like very silly charges, but they had been carefully thought out, to stop you being silly, irresponsible and careless later in life.
And so we knelt on the Meditation Green, we walked in bare feet, and we screamed and kicked as we received 15 canes for declining in class.
One time, the ones who “Despised Diet” or who were “Absent Food” had to wear manilla boards over their clothes- to class and in prep- with “I will not miss meals” scribbled on the paper.
There were others- several strokes of the hippo hide for drinking alcohol, and a scrub, and several pails of cold water for the girls who partook of the forbidden drink.

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

There was a cabinet minister’s son who went berserk on a Judge (yes, we had a whole judicial system in school) who had sentenced him to receive some canes for one or other crime. He broke a wooden chair over the Judge’s head when the Senior Four examinations were over. Then he left the school, confident that he would never to return.
Of course the Headmaster was not amused, and so was the Cabinet Minister when he heard what his son had done. Two weeks later, as we were in class, about 11am, the emergency siren sounded. That meant “drop everything and run to the administration block”. From there, we were ordered to hurry down to the main hall, about seven minutes away.
The headmaster’s car was parked in its usual spot. He was already standing on the stage. He announced that the Cabinet Minister’s son had committed a grave offense- attacking a fellow student and grievously harming him- and for that, he would be punished. Publicly.
The Cabinet Minister’s son was led on to the stage, kind of like a sheep to the slaughter, by one of his father’s uniformed bodyguards.
Then very dramatically, with a wave of his fingers and a folding of the arms, the Headmaster declared that the penalty would be 25 sticks of the cane. To be delivered, not by him, but by the bodyguard.
“Lala chini!!” The Cabinet Minister’s son stretched himself out on the floor. We craned our necks. Whack! Whack! Whack! Somewhere in the middle of the whacks, Cabinet Minister’s child started whimpering and leaped up in pain, clutching at his buttocks.
“Rudi chini!!” the guard ordered.
He 'rudid' chini for another bout of torture. Again he jumped up, this time in tears. He clutched at his bottom, it must have been red-hot and numb at the same time. He walked in circles, but the canes were not done. And the Headmaster was counting faithfully.
Again the bodyguard ‘towad order’. By the time the boy’s ordeal was done, he never ever wanted to look at another wooden chair again.
And—— to add salt to the wound—— he had a girlfriend in the "audience".

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

Of course there were more severe punishments in the form of suspensions, some indefinite, and expulsions. A Senior Four girl stole some money, and strenuously denied that she took it. She cried and told pity stories, and even rolled on the ground.
“Those people accusing me, they just hate me, oh God, I don’t know what I ever did to them. I know I am from a poor family, my mother doesn’t have money but I CANNOT STEAL! I am not a thief!!”
I was the chief investigator in the case. Someone said they had seen her, with their “own two eyes”, take the money from under her roommate’s pillow.
The case went on for three days, and the girl did not go to class all this time. She knelt on the Meditation Green, not even the law of Harbeus Corpus could save her.
I talked to her, pleaded with her, and promised that if she told me the truth, I would ask for a lesser sentence. And still she said she didn't take the money.
So, on the afternoon of the third day, armed with my search warrant, I decided to do a thorough final sweep, just so she could be freed from the embarrassment of having to be led to the Green for a fourth day. Everyone was asking what felony she had committed, they were that concerned.
That thorough sweep led me to the store, to her tin trunk where the 'edibles' for the term were stored.
She’d given me her keys at the start of the investigation, and so I opened the trunk. Save for half a bar of washing soap, there was nothing there. The bottom was lined with new newspapers. I put the padlock back, but as I walked away, my gut instinct told me to check under those newspapers.
And there, in the corner, was something folded in an exercise book page. It could only be one thing.
Sure enough. It was the money. She had not touched even a shilling. I expected her to say that I had planted the “evidence” but she didn’t. She was suspended for two weeks and off she went, quietly. She never returned.

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

One Sunday morning at the weekly conference, the Headmaster shamed a girl in my class. As all of us listened, he asked her to stand.
“This girl will have AIDS by the time she’s…”.
Her case was that she was “…disturbing her Auntie during the holidays and running off with boys…” and a lot more. And so he decided that the public shaming was good enough punishment to make her cower, and change.
She disappeared from school in the night and there was a frantic search for her the next morning when her roommates discovered her  unmade bed was empty. The poor “abasadha b’e misaayi” (bloody men) askaris were summoned, and interrogated 'a’kana, n’akataano' about how they could let a student out of the gate but they couldn't explain how.

#alone&frightened

“How did you get yourself pregnant?”

Your parents are yelling. You are huddled in the corner of the long sofa eyes fixed on the floor, shaking inside. Your mother, in between sobs, informs you how she will become the village laughing stock, how much you have let her down, how you are now doomed, how she will not be able to go to the Mother’s Union meetings any more. Your father threatens to throttle you, calling you the child of your mother. Like you are not his.

And just as you are beginning to let it sink in how much of a sinner you are, that you are surely destined for damnation, and the hot fires of hell, they want to know, “Who’s the boy, eh? Who is responsible for putting you in this family way?” (They are too decent to ask, “Who did you sleep with?") “Who’s son is he? Is he a married man? Does he go to school? Where does he work? Does he EVEN know you are pregnant??  Olubuto lwaani?” Your mother shrieks, beating her thighs in anguish.

“It was a mistake!” you plead, as you sob, and cradle your head in your hands, wishing the earth could open and swallow you. “Forgive me, it was a just mistake, it won't happen again!”
“Get out of my sight!” Your father roars. “Mistake my foot, rubbish!!”

Meanwhile, you are there wondering where this boyfriend of yours who kutikkad you that mimba is. I mean he was a man when he was making you pregnant, but suddenly he’s like the wind. He doesn't call, he doesn't check on you, actually, he’d rather be miles away from you, having fun and pretending he’s still young and free. And you’re here pregnant for him. Facing the fire.

Alone. 

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

Ntare School, a boy’s only school, this week sent home 280 students. The whole of the Senior Three class was sent packing after they went on rampage in frustration over “being attacked and beaten by students of International Window School last Thursday… after a football match” (Daily Monitor, Tuesday, 28th March 2017). (By the way, let me re-look at the name of the "beating" school- International Window- who names their school such?) As a result, the games were suspended.

The Headmaster Jimmy Turyagenda is reported as saying that “one class got out of their senses and broke some glass windows…”. So the administration made the decision to suspend the students.
These things of suspensions are hard to deal with. At school, you may all look the same, speak the same language, wear the same uniform, eat the same beans and weevils. Unless otherwise, the matter of your parents’ financial standing rarely comes into play (actually in school they used to say that the poor students always got the good marks while the richer ones were at the tail, because their future was secure).

Teenagers have emotions as well and are wont to express them, as many hot-blooded adolescents would do. Many of them have endured their parents' “avoid peer pressure, remember you came alone with your suitcase” lecture every beginning of term. Now comes this school with a funny name attacking you because you won the football match. I’m sure there are individuals who remembered their parents words at this stage and kept away. But peer pressure caused many others to go breaking window panes on the headmaster’s house and going riot on a dormitory.

The real problem comes when you get out of the school gates and prepare to face your parents to give them an explanation, and in the same breath, deny that you were part of the strike. “Ah, nze bali abaana abalala bebamenye amadirisa. Nze nabagamba balekeraawo, nebagaana!” (Ah, my classmates broke the windows, I was not part of them. Actually, I pleaded with them to stop and they refused!”

At that moment- the one where you are explaining yourself in the best way you can- you are alone. The group is gone. In other houses, some have been slapped, others have got six of the best, others have received it the “musaasaane” way. Alone.

But there are others whose parents told them not to worry, after all, “that ki-school doesn't even teach well”. Their parents have money, and connections in big places, and with powerful names that matter, and another big school is a mere call away. They let the child rest for a week, sleeping in, eating hearty meals, lounging in front of the TV, playing video games, and taking the car to hang out with their friends in the malls in town. And when that week is done, a new uniform has been bought and the guzzler is ready to transport the "suspendee" to a better school.  

Kati you with your problems, you keep your ears glued to the radio, waiting for that announcement mbu the school has asked you to report back with a good explanation. And with your parents.

But feeling all alone.

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

This week Matthew Kanyamunyu, he of the Kenneth Watson Akena murder case over a supposed traffic incident in Kampala, returned to the High Court to apply for bail. And for the second time, he was denied his freedom. His co-accused, accessories to the crime, the judge said, were let free. Cynthia Munwangari, his girlfriend, and his older brother Joseph.

When finally the trio was charged, they all wore “we shall overcome” smiles. The people were angry. “How dare they be happy like that when a life was lost, a life they claimed they were trying to save???” However, a transformation happened in prison. The smiles slowly disappeared into oblivion and their faces wore more worry lines every time they had to reappear.

And just like that, Matthew found himself boarding the prison bus back to Luzira. His dear brother was not with him. His love Cynthia (the Bukedde reporter pronounced the name as Sincere) was returning home. To a warm bath, a hot cup of tea, a delicious supper, movies on DSTV, and hugs from her loving family.

And he was going back to cold prison quarters, squat latrines shared with several other prisoners, and the one daily meal of kawunga, and water with beans. No mazongoto, no cereal for breakfast, no fried chicken for lunch. No stories and laughter with his brother. Just him.

All alone.

#Ihavebeenattacked!

I can't recall the year this happened, it must have been around 2006.

Late one Friday night my phone rang. It was a few minutes to midnight.
“I’ve been attacked! I’ve been attacked!”
I didn't recognize the voice but it was a man’s. He sounded frantic.
“Who’s this?”
“It is me Professor …. I tell you, I have been attacked!”
I was wondering how he wanted me to help. Call the Police perhaps? Was it a wrong number?
“Where are you?”
“I am at my home here in Makerere. The New Vision has attacked me! How can they run an article criticizing my views?!”
Oh God!! A grown Prof making so much noise over a mere newspaper article? I groaned inwardly and rolled my eyes.
“Oh, okay” Calmly. “So how can I help you?”
“Come to my home tomorrow at 11am, I want to talk to the media. I have to issue a rebuttal! How dare this newspaper attack me like this?”

So I went to his house the next day. The dining table where we sat was piled high with books and old newspapers, journals, examination and research papers. There was a red flask, a China teacup on a saucer, and a bowl of sugar on a tray. The room was dingy and there were cobwebs on the ceiling. There were only two journalists there. One from a newspaper. And me. With my heavy hand-held tape recorder.

It turns out that the agriculture Prof, who, on occasion addressed a political party weekly press conference, had purchased the early bird copy of the New Vision. In there, someone had written a letter criticizing an article he had earlier submitted for publication. His article, I don’t remember what it was about, was nearly a month old. It had elicited some response in form of a letter on the Editor’s Page. A month later.

Armed with a copy of the newspaper in which his article ran, and the early edition with the letter, the Professor raved and ranted, waving his hands up and down, banging the table, raising his voice, removing and putting his specs back on, biting on the temple tips, and scrunching his face in anger and disbelief. He alleged that the "rebuttal" must have come from someone working for the government, someone who was bent on seeing him enter the grave before his (Prof’s) time, someone who clearly did not understand that he was a whole Prof who had read his books for years.

The other journalist wrote and wrote and wrote, and scribbled and scribbled and scribbled. I recorded and recorded and recorded and recorded. The first side of the tape ran out. I changed it. The other side also ran out and still, the good Prof continued his monologue. Railing and ranting against the unknown writer. The writer of three paragraphs, mind you. He questioned how the paper, "a big paper at that, could allow him to be challenged, and how it could publish such rubbish, eh?"
 “I am an expert in this subject, how can someone who is not even qualified question my views?? I always doubted this paper, and now they have proved my suspicions right!"

We could not get questions in edgewise because he would put his hand up to give us the Stop sign like a policeman at non-functioning traffic lights.

I pretended to change the tape again and switched off the recorder. I’d heard and had enough. He wasn't even noticing that we were shifting in our chairs and not listening any more. The other journalist had stopped attacking his notebook and was sitting quietly. Then the Prof stopped his tirade.

“Okay, I hope you have got everything, eh? If there is anything you have not understood, I can clarify it now.”

We both looked at him. No one uttered a word.

“Ah, okay. Thank you very much for coming! Make sure you run the story. When can I listen in? And you, you said you are from which paper? When will the story be published? These newspaper people also them. Make sure you don't attack me, you hear!”

He got up, removed the crotchet cover from the flask and poured himself a cup of tea, stirring loudly and carelessly. I wondered who had put it there, because it seemed he was alone in the house.

The story did not see the light of day.