I was at Uganda’s “biggest” referral hospital last weekend. Not by choice of course. My sister had a ghastly accident. Let me first detail that.
Her daughter- my niece- was unwell. So my sister Carol hopped into a taxi and onto a bodaboda at the bypass near Kalerwe, on her way to the clinic at Bwaise. It would not go the way she hoped it would. A careless rider, his motorcycle laden with a huge sack of charcoal, knocked the bodaboda on which Carol and the baby were seated, knocking the child to the ground, where she hit her head and lay motionless.
Meanwhile, Carol landed heavily on her backside, but leaped up immediately to check if the baby was okay. And that was when she noticed the blood. Gushing. It quickly formed a pool around her feet. In her panic over the baby and wondering where the blood was coming from because she felt no pain, the quick thinking good Samaritans who rushed to their aid, quickly got another bodaboda who rushed them to the clinic. Luckily, my aunt, who is a doctor, was on duty and performed first aid. She later discovered that Carol had ruptured an artery and sustained a huge tear as a result of the fall.
When she called me at work, I rushed to the clinic and managed to get them to Mulago hospital, where we were referred, as she needed to be stitched up. To ward 5A or 5 Annex. Where “women’s problems” are dealt with. It is meant to be an emergency treatment center- miscarriages, heavy bleeding from abortions- dealing with that kind of stuff.
The baby had been checked and the doctor assured me she would be okay, that she just suffered some fright. Meanwhile my sister was bleeding profusely as we rushed through the stairs and wards, hoping to get the emergency treatment we badly sought. Alas. It was not meant to be.
First, two doctors- one older (with kind eyes) asked us to go back to 3rd Floor, the casualty section, to get admitted. The second doctor-younger and mean-looking- just looked at us. Dr. One informed us that Dr. Meanie was in-charge and if we talked to him “nicely” we would get treated. I didn’t understand what he meant, but anyway, I left my patient with the baby and rushed back to Casualty.
The numbers there were swarming. And the attendants in their “cage” were swamped. How was I to get an admission number? So I went to the one who was not wearing a Red Cross jacket and tried, in my best Luganda (I calculated that if I used English, he would bring in his inferiority complex - they always do), to explain my problem. He asked me to bring my patient. I told him she was on 5th floor and could not walk. He sent me to the uniformed Red Cross official who was listening to a woman begging for help as her patient had been poisoned.
Anyway, the first guy eventually came and helped me, but the way he crouched over the book as he gave me a number, all the while assuring me how he was “just helping me because he was not authorized to book patients” told me he wanted “kitu kidogo”. C’mon man, my taxes are what are keeping your funny face behind that cage!”, I wanted to scream in his stupid face.
Then he instructed me to go “through the corridor and enter the second door on the left”. Why?
Anyway, the sight that met my eyes was something else. The door was slightly ajar. There was a narrow bed smeared with blood and under it, gauze and cotton wool soaked in someone’s blood. I stood outside for a few minutes, contemplating my next move.
As I gathered up the courage to step into the room, a young man carrying an older woman, probably his mother, sidled up to me. Her eyes were in pain, it was so evident. She kept pleading with him to put her down. Down where, I could not see a spot in that filthy corridor jammed with humans. Right opposite was a young man being quizzed by some doctors who threatened they would not treat him unless he told them how and where he had his injuries. His head was wrapped in what was probably his shirt- he was shirtless, and he crouched miserably, refusing to say a word. And he was bleeding from a head wound, or were they wounds? Eventually, the man carrying his mother got down and cradled her in his lap, got out leso and quickly laid it on the floor. Then he placed her on it. She grabbed at her busuuti, unbuttoning it and undressing, in full view of everyone. Like they really cared anyway! When she started fanning herself, I looked away. I just could not imagine the pain she was in and here I was feeling extremely helpless.
I finally gathered the guts to enter the room. More gruesome sights. On my right, a young man, whose face had swelled to twice its size. His chin had a deep gash. His forehead was grazed in many places. He lay on a cot, no sheets, his clothes all bloodied. He looked unconscious. And cold.
I rushed to the nearest person I could see. A sister in a white uniform and red belt. I explained to her my “problem” all the while trying to avert my eyes from the bloodied cots in the room, and willing myself out of it. She told me what I was supposed to do- I can’t even remember what- and I machine-gunned out. Back to 5 Annex.
Dr. Meanie was nowhere to be seen. Another plain-clothed gentleman walked up to me, I told him what I wanted and he asked us to wait and we would be attended to. Shortly, a ‘nurse” wearing a Nytil green uniform- shirt and pants- came up to us and rudely ordered us to make sure we had a kaveera. This I bought for 2,000 shillings.
Then we laid it on the cot in the “annex” and waited. And waited. And waited, and waited. I called my sisters. They eventually came over. But this was after the baby had woken up, and bewildered and hungry, started whimpering. So I bundled her on my back and went down to the canteen near the gate, where I got her a bottle of Fanta and a piece of cake to keep her quiet.
After about three hours, the patient gathered the strength to get up off the bed and walked out of the room. We all rushed to her side, hoping to hear some good news, that she had been treated and we were leaving this dreadful place. That was not to be. Apparently, Dr. Meanie had handed her a small packet- it contained surgical thread- and left her on her own- for about two hours. Just lying there and bleeding away. God help him. In his small jeans and black sandals. Is that how doctors are supposed to dress anyway?
Angrily, I told Carol to pack her stuff and we would go elsewhere, a place where we could fork some money and get proper treatment, and not be treated like some beggars. Actually what struck me was the demeanor of the staff- doctors, nurses, sisters, midwives, cleaners. The downcast look on their faces. No smiles whatsoever. It smelt of poor pay, unhappiness at being forced to work, having no option.
They eventually worked on us. We paid them 20,000 shillings and fled Mulago hospital.
But just as we were leaving, after carefully avoiding Casualty ward, we heard an agonized scream. A man had just got an epileptic seizure and was twitching uncontrollably, his body contorted in pain. And as he writhed like a snake on the ground, his head bleeding badly where he had hit himself when he fell, the nurses and Red Cross officials, who are supposed to offer first aid, just looked on, and continued with their business.
Mulago for you.
Tuesday, 25 July 2017
#newbeginnings
Six years ago, at this same time- 10:33pm, I was groggy, hooked up on saline and blood drips, my abdomen was heavily bandaged. And I was starting a new life.
And a new life it has been. No periods. For six years now.
When I look back at the kind of life I led, I wonder how I even made it through those years.
I think it all started when I was still in my teens. Dysmenorrhea, cramps in the tummy and legs, headaches and a general feeling of unease during those three “red” days of the month. But after a day of rest and a dose of Panadol, which was never completed anyway, life was back to normal until the next period.
I had my son quite early. I still got the cramps but now I started taking Indocid. Two at a time, till my body felt completely numb. That was how bad it was. My first major scare was when I was returning home from university one holiday I nearly collapsed in the taxi in which I was travelling. Suddenly I felt a great weight pushing down on my abdomen. And when I got up there was a sudden heavy gush of blood that soiled my clothes and then a huge mass popped out.
I started to get really worried around 2003 when these gushes became more frequent. One weekend as I was preparing to travel with a group of friends I noticed that I had a smelly discolored discharge.
But I did not even have the money to see a doctor and so I let it pass and tried to enjoy the weekend.
Another time, on a cold Saturday night, I was out again with a group of friends. Then disaster struck, and I was in white pants. Whenever I remember that incident, I get shivers down my spine. Out of nowhere, the gush happened. I was not padded. I didn’t know where the loo was. It was raining heavily. I was so ashamed, I could not tell anyone about these sudden flows and so I just sat on a chair and bled away. Luckily, one my friends had lent me his black leather jacket and when the opportune moment came, I got up from the chair, leaving a red flood and fled into the dark.
When we got back to the hotel, I told him what had happened. He made fun of me, but was very helpful and made me feel comfortable but insisted I should see a doctor. Still I didn’t. I had no money for such “luxuries”.
Fast forward to 2005. On a three-week trip to America, the unthinkable happened. Much as it was traumatizing, it made me rethink the whole trip to the doctor aversion. This time the periods- I called them flash floods- were heavier and were now lasting about six days.
I was now getting scared. I thought about the worst. That I would bleed to death one day and leave my children motherless. And I have always had this embarrassment about periods. I was not told about them when growing up and had to improvise using toilet paper and many a time got stains on my dress because nobody bought me any sanitary pads.
I had a workmate at the office, who I started to tell about my problem. Not everything though. One thing I wanted was someone to listen. She was sympathetic but her advice was--- I should see a doctor. By then, the situation was seven to eight days of bleeding at a time and the periods were erratic. The pain was also growing worse each time and I was taking two Indocid capsules after every three hours. Also, I suspected I was developing ulcers and was becoming anaemic.
By then my wardrobe consisted of only black bottoms. Skirts, jeans, trousers. No light hues just waiting for a disaster to happen.
I gathered up all my guts and decided to go and see a doctor. She was my aunt, my mum’s younger sister. I did not tell her my fears. My courage was drawn from the fact that I was tired of this suffering and wanted to get well, even if it meant that I had a terminal disease. She sent me for a scan which returned after two hours. When she looked at the results, she laughed out loud, which gave me some relief. So it was not cancer. Fibroids. Because you young girls are having children late, or none at all. Because of your lifestyle. The food you eat.
She sent me downstairs to another gynecologist who inserted a cold machine that she wound up to peer into my insides. God, it was uncomfortable. She gave me a prescription and asked me to return in two weeks. I did not.
I told my two close friends and Mum about the diagnosis. But I did not go back to the hospital. By then I was dating but life was not easy. And when Mum suggested going to see a local doctor- like I was bewitched- I was mortified. We didn’t talk for three months.
A few months later- sometime in 2007- I was struck with intense pain and heavy bleeding, my legs lost all feeling and I could not go to work. Luckily, I had started paying medical insurance and gathered my strength to stagger to a doctor. I had never felt lonelier in my life. Here I was struggling with a problem I was so embarrassed about. But he was kind. He sent me to do a scan at a bigger hospital and gave me a few days off work.
I did the scan the next day. I even got assigned a gynecologist. The scan showed a huge mass in my abdomen. And I was asked to do a pregnancy test. The doctor said I could be about two to three months gone. Unbelievable. But I did the test, which turned out negative. But he told me I had a forced abortion- God knows what that means- and gave me some more days off work.
Some of the things that made me feel so alone-I found out that my boyfriend was sneaking behind my back, because I was always sick and yet he wanted to sow his oats. I left him that holiday. I just couldn’t take it any more.
I continued to see the gynecologist in 2008 but there was not much he could do. He was a kind young man, with a nice soothing voice, but he insisted that he needed to operate. The costs were high, he said. But he was willing to do it at another hospital at a cheaper cost if I could raise the money.
But anyway, he booked me for an operation. I told Mum. She was ballistic. She didn’t believe in having part of my body removed. She suggested traditional herbs. We got some from my uncle’s girlfriend. I honestly do not know if they worked. I just wanted to get well. My relationship with Mum returned to its frosty state.
Because I was the one suffering here, I talked to the doctor again. He booked me for an operation at a major hospital in two days but then told me the costs were rather high and it would be a long process. However, the hospital called me later that night asking if I was booked in for surgery at 7 the next morning. I wasn’t.
The next time I tried to get an operation, the same doctor had offered to do it free, but at another facility. He asked me to collect about 800,000 shillings which I could use for a comfortable room at the hospital, where I would be admitted for about five days. I was back in the relationship, and my boyfriend gave me the money. This venture also failed as the medical personnel failed to provide answers and the doctor cancelled the appointment.
Feeling too ashamed, I decided I had had it with doctors and hospitals and needles and white gowns and boring receptionists who all knew my name and my ailment. I decided I was going to bleed to death but I needed to prepare for my children. I also abandoned the herbal treatments- they were too bitter to drink anyway. And whenever my family asked, I just lied to them that I felt better, when in actual fact, the situation was even worse.
By 2010, I was going through nearly four packets of sanitary pads every period, and the bleeding would last 10-12 days. My hair was breaking. I was anaemic. I felt lifeless, always in pain and the ulcer in my stomach was acting up. Also, it was becoming hard for me to concentrate at work because I was always worried about the constant gushes. I would sleep badly at night, having nightmares that were coming true during the day.
I cannot recall how many times between 2010 and 2011, that I would get up from my seat and my skirt or dress would be wet, the chair soiled. Other terrifying incidents were when the blood just went down my legs. Another time, I bled on the office floor. Then there were the huge clots. I could always sense when they were about to emerge and run to the toilets. And I had started wearing two pads at a time.
My social life started to go downhill. I started having quarrels with boyfriend again. I could not handle telling him that we could not have a normal life because of my condition. There were so many other normal girls. Finally, I found out that after feeling ignored, he had had an affair with one of his friends and when he denied it, I left him.
I was now all alone. My children would return from school and notice I was depressed but poor boys, all I could tell them was that Mama was unwell, but would get better. My boss started to get short with me, I was underperforming, she said. I moved house to a quieter place out of town. My children went to stay with my sister. I would come home from work and weep myself to sleep. And some of my workmates treated me really bad because they imagined I was pretending to be unwell. I was now constantly padding myself, month in month out. It was hell. But in reality, I had started to give up on life. But still I did not tell a living soul. I told God.
One day in June 2011, I decided that it was either going to be life or death. I had been gathering courage to ask my friend to escort me to the hospital for the last time because I was so fed up. But God said he would give me a push. So I went. I also wanted to get a few days off work, so I decided to malinger. Luckily, I found a nice lady doctor. I pretended that I had stress and a headache, just to test her. She said I was fine. Then I broke down and told her the reason I was there. That I wanted her to listen to me. Just remembering the way she looked at me brings tears to my eyes. She listened! That mattered so much to me. She wrote me a prescription, called a gynecologist, and set an appointment for me. Then she called me back to the room and checked my tummy. She said the fibroids were really huge and said I should go to see the gynecologist immediately.
So started a long process. I went to the gynecologist. He asked me to undress. Then he asked his assistant to get a very bright torch and shine it in my insides, while he got that cold machine and checked. It was horrible. When he was done, he asked me to dress up, smiled at me and told me that I was going to be with him ‘for a very long time’. Oh, God. It’s cancer, I thought. I am finished. My children.
He gave me three options. This was after informing me that there was a fibroid that was causing a life-threatening situation and was a great risk to my health. He could either operate and remove that swelling, which he drew on a piece of paper for me to see for myself, the direness of the situation. Two, he could operate to remove that one and other problematic fibroids. Or he could just remove my womb- hysterectomy- and save me further danger. Not easy!
I asked about the costs. Between two and three million shillings. Problem. So I was just going to die like that. Where in the world was I going to “steal” this colossal amount? I told him about the medical insurance and because God was working through him, he said he would try to work something out, but repeated urgently he needed to operate almost immediately otherwise…
So he sent me with a chit to the main hospital. It was a hot afternoon but I did not feel the heat. That is what hope does to you. After many bends and turns and stairs and many inquiries about directions, I handed the chit to a lady, who handed the chit over to one of my life-savers. And she read the chit and signed it without a moment’s hesitation!
Back to the gynecologist I went. On a boda boda. I handed the chit back to the doctor and a date was set for the operation. I decided on a hysterectomy. I was so done with periods, and pads, and clots, and nightmares. I called Mum. I asked her to listen to me for once and not push me out. She said to take some time and talk to Dad. Then she called me back. With her blessing.
Something I forgot. One of the questions I encountered from the doctors was if I had children. But anyway, I could not get pregnant with that mass in my womb. Actually, this last doctor said it was the size of a four and a half months’ old fetus.
So after some changes in dates, I packed my suitcase, not even sure whether I would return home. I went to visit my children in school. But I did not tell them because I did not want to scare them. And on that Sunday evening, my younger sister picked me up and off to the hospital I went. With Mum.
The doctor had told me that my last meal was to be Sunday lunch. I wondered why. I got checked when I arrived. I asked about injections and what to expect. But all doctors tell you that you will be fine. The blood check took about an hour to process, and the results did not even come back that day. Then the hospital’s accountant informed us that we were not on the insurance list that allowed operations and it was another hour before we could be cleared. When I was finally tagged, we wheeled our luggage up to the ward where I was to be admitted and got a bed.
There was a nurse waiting for us. She was watching one of the Spanish soaps. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an askari ordered us to take our mattress and blanket out of the ward. He demanded to know who had given us permission to bring it in anyway. We tried to explain that no-one spelt out the rules and regulations to us. But he took them anyway. It just hurt me to know that my mother had nowhere to sleep, but I put it at the back of my mind and tried to sleep.
I tossed and turned the whole night not knowing what to expect. Would the hospital cancel? Would there be pain? Would I be able to smile again? And the hard question- would I die? Finally at 6am, when I could not handle the pressure any more, I sat up in bed and told Mum my worries. I could tell she was also worried but could not show me, and she assured me that I would be fine.
At 8am, a nurse came to dress me up. Catheter. Pain. Hospital gown. Needles in my arm. More pain. Bed laid. Get on the bed. Tucked in. Bed lowered. Meanwhile, the catheter was terribly uncomfortable. I remember seeing the nurse smiling at me and telling me I’d be fine. Saying bye to Mum. Being wheeled down into the operating area. Parking. Figures in green. My hair being covered. My gown being changed. Being wheeled into the operating room. On to the operating table. Seeing the surgeon. Him being so happy to see me. I didn’t even remember signing my certificate. There was a radio station playing. I was not even scared anymore because I was so scared. The table was cold and made of steel. Or is it the other way round? The anesthetist sitting behind me. Telling me his name and where he was from. Vincent from Makindye. The surgeon dressed in white. Even white gumboots. Then he was walking away from me. His face masked. God, I was dead!
I came to hours later, with the surgeon asking me how I was, and assuring me that he was going to give me most peaceful, and best sleep I had ever had. My tummy felt heavy. Like someone was sitting on me. I don’t even remember being wheeled back.
But from what I heard later, Mummy was so worried that something bad (read: died) had happened to me, and she was frantic. Her relief at seeing me, even though I couldn’t see or hear her, was indescribable. There had been so many messages and calls that had come through, words of encouragement, others wanting to know if I was fine, some praying that I went through the ordeal. And she took all of them. I just wonder what was going through her mind.
That night I flitted between consciousness and unconsciousness, my arms both fixed to a drip, the catheter I couldn’t even feel. I remember the kind nurse, a Kenyan lady with long painted nails, who rushed to my aid whenever I threw up. And there was nothing in my tummy. Remember, my last meal was Sunday morning, or lunch. But I got through the night. I pitied Mum, lying on a mat on the floor, head covered from the mosquitoes. The next day I just slept most of the time. My sisters and some friends came to see me. Even workmates. Later I got out of bed to listen to someone tell me about his problems with his girlfriend. What the hell was HE thinking????
I left the hospital on my birthday. To start a new life.
And have I lived it!
And a new life it has been. No periods. For six years now.
When I look back at the kind of life I led, I wonder how I even made it through those years.
I think it all started when I was still in my teens. Dysmenorrhea, cramps in the tummy and legs, headaches and a general feeling of unease during those three “red” days of the month. But after a day of rest and a dose of Panadol, which was never completed anyway, life was back to normal until the next period.
I had my son quite early. I still got the cramps but now I started taking Indocid. Two at a time, till my body felt completely numb. That was how bad it was. My first major scare was when I was returning home from university one holiday I nearly collapsed in the taxi in which I was travelling. Suddenly I felt a great weight pushing down on my abdomen. And when I got up there was a sudden heavy gush of blood that soiled my clothes and then a huge mass popped out.
I started to get really worried around 2003 when these gushes became more frequent. One weekend as I was preparing to travel with a group of friends I noticed that I had a smelly discolored discharge.
But I did not even have the money to see a doctor and so I let it pass and tried to enjoy the weekend.
Another time, on a cold Saturday night, I was out again with a group of friends. Then disaster struck, and I was in white pants. Whenever I remember that incident, I get shivers down my spine. Out of nowhere, the gush happened. I was not padded. I didn’t know where the loo was. It was raining heavily. I was so ashamed, I could not tell anyone about these sudden flows and so I just sat on a chair and bled away. Luckily, one my friends had lent me his black leather jacket and when the opportune moment came, I got up from the chair, leaving a red flood and fled into the dark.
When we got back to the hotel, I told him what had happened. He made fun of me, but was very helpful and made me feel comfortable but insisted I should see a doctor. Still I didn’t. I had no money for such “luxuries”.
Fast forward to 2005. On a three-week trip to America, the unthinkable happened. Much as it was traumatizing, it made me rethink the whole trip to the doctor aversion. This time the periods- I called them flash floods- were heavier and were now lasting about six days.
I was now getting scared. I thought about the worst. That I would bleed to death one day and leave my children motherless. And I have always had this embarrassment about periods. I was not told about them when growing up and had to improvise using toilet paper and many a time got stains on my dress because nobody bought me any sanitary pads.
I had a workmate at the office, who I started to tell about my problem. Not everything though. One thing I wanted was someone to listen. She was sympathetic but her advice was--- I should see a doctor. By then, the situation was seven to eight days of bleeding at a time and the periods were erratic. The pain was also growing worse each time and I was taking two Indocid capsules after every three hours. Also, I suspected I was developing ulcers and was becoming anaemic.
By then my wardrobe consisted of only black bottoms. Skirts, jeans, trousers. No light hues just waiting for a disaster to happen.
I gathered up all my guts and decided to go and see a doctor. She was my aunt, my mum’s younger sister. I did not tell her my fears. My courage was drawn from the fact that I was tired of this suffering and wanted to get well, even if it meant that I had a terminal disease. She sent me for a scan which returned after two hours. When she looked at the results, she laughed out loud, which gave me some relief. So it was not cancer. Fibroids. Because you young girls are having children late, or none at all. Because of your lifestyle. The food you eat.
She sent me downstairs to another gynecologist who inserted a cold machine that she wound up to peer into my insides. God, it was uncomfortable. She gave me a prescription and asked me to return in two weeks. I did not.
I told my two close friends and Mum about the diagnosis. But I did not go back to the hospital. By then I was dating but life was not easy. And when Mum suggested going to see a local doctor- like I was bewitched- I was mortified. We didn’t talk for three months.
A few months later- sometime in 2007- I was struck with intense pain and heavy bleeding, my legs lost all feeling and I could not go to work. Luckily, I had started paying medical insurance and gathered my strength to stagger to a doctor. I had never felt lonelier in my life. Here I was struggling with a problem I was so embarrassed about. But he was kind. He sent me to do a scan at a bigger hospital and gave me a few days off work.
I did the scan the next day. I even got assigned a gynecologist. The scan showed a huge mass in my abdomen. And I was asked to do a pregnancy test. The doctor said I could be about two to three months gone. Unbelievable. But I did the test, which turned out negative. But he told me I had a forced abortion- God knows what that means- and gave me some more days off work.
Some of the things that made me feel so alone-I found out that my boyfriend was sneaking behind my back, because I was always sick and yet he wanted to sow his oats. I left him that holiday. I just couldn’t take it any more.
I continued to see the gynecologist in 2008 but there was not much he could do. He was a kind young man, with a nice soothing voice, but he insisted that he needed to operate. The costs were high, he said. But he was willing to do it at another hospital at a cheaper cost if I could raise the money.
But anyway, he booked me for an operation. I told Mum. She was ballistic. She didn’t believe in having part of my body removed. She suggested traditional herbs. We got some from my uncle’s girlfriend. I honestly do not know if they worked. I just wanted to get well. My relationship with Mum returned to its frosty state.
Because I was the one suffering here, I talked to the doctor again. He booked me for an operation at a major hospital in two days but then told me the costs were rather high and it would be a long process. However, the hospital called me later that night asking if I was booked in for surgery at 7 the next morning. I wasn’t.
The next time I tried to get an operation, the same doctor had offered to do it free, but at another facility. He asked me to collect about 800,000 shillings which I could use for a comfortable room at the hospital, where I would be admitted for about five days. I was back in the relationship, and my boyfriend gave me the money. This venture also failed as the medical personnel failed to provide answers and the doctor cancelled the appointment.
Feeling too ashamed, I decided I had had it with doctors and hospitals and needles and white gowns and boring receptionists who all knew my name and my ailment. I decided I was going to bleed to death but I needed to prepare for my children. I also abandoned the herbal treatments- they were too bitter to drink anyway. And whenever my family asked, I just lied to them that I felt better, when in actual fact, the situation was even worse.
By 2010, I was going through nearly four packets of sanitary pads every period, and the bleeding would last 10-12 days. My hair was breaking. I was anaemic. I felt lifeless, always in pain and the ulcer in my stomach was acting up. Also, it was becoming hard for me to concentrate at work because I was always worried about the constant gushes. I would sleep badly at night, having nightmares that were coming true during the day.
I cannot recall how many times between 2010 and 2011, that I would get up from my seat and my skirt or dress would be wet, the chair soiled. Other terrifying incidents were when the blood just went down my legs. Another time, I bled on the office floor. Then there were the huge clots. I could always sense when they were about to emerge and run to the toilets. And I had started wearing two pads at a time.
My social life started to go downhill. I started having quarrels with boyfriend again. I could not handle telling him that we could not have a normal life because of my condition. There were so many other normal girls. Finally, I found out that after feeling ignored, he had had an affair with one of his friends and when he denied it, I left him.
I was now all alone. My children would return from school and notice I was depressed but poor boys, all I could tell them was that Mama was unwell, but would get better. My boss started to get short with me, I was underperforming, she said. I moved house to a quieter place out of town. My children went to stay with my sister. I would come home from work and weep myself to sleep. And some of my workmates treated me really bad because they imagined I was pretending to be unwell. I was now constantly padding myself, month in month out. It was hell. But in reality, I had started to give up on life. But still I did not tell a living soul. I told God.
One day in June 2011, I decided that it was either going to be life or death. I had been gathering courage to ask my friend to escort me to the hospital for the last time because I was so fed up. But God said he would give me a push. So I went. I also wanted to get a few days off work, so I decided to malinger. Luckily, I found a nice lady doctor. I pretended that I had stress and a headache, just to test her. She said I was fine. Then I broke down and told her the reason I was there. That I wanted her to listen to me. Just remembering the way she looked at me brings tears to my eyes. She listened! That mattered so much to me. She wrote me a prescription, called a gynecologist, and set an appointment for me. Then she called me back to the room and checked my tummy. She said the fibroids were really huge and said I should go to see the gynecologist immediately.
So started a long process. I went to the gynecologist. He asked me to undress. Then he asked his assistant to get a very bright torch and shine it in my insides, while he got that cold machine and checked. It was horrible. When he was done, he asked me to dress up, smiled at me and told me that I was going to be with him ‘for a very long time’. Oh, God. It’s cancer, I thought. I am finished. My children.
He gave me three options. This was after informing me that there was a fibroid that was causing a life-threatening situation and was a great risk to my health. He could either operate and remove that swelling, which he drew on a piece of paper for me to see for myself, the direness of the situation. Two, he could operate to remove that one and other problematic fibroids. Or he could just remove my womb- hysterectomy- and save me further danger. Not easy!
I asked about the costs. Between two and three million shillings. Problem. So I was just going to die like that. Where in the world was I going to “steal” this colossal amount? I told him about the medical insurance and because God was working through him, he said he would try to work something out, but repeated urgently he needed to operate almost immediately otherwise…
So he sent me with a chit to the main hospital. It was a hot afternoon but I did not feel the heat. That is what hope does to you. After many bends and turns and stairs and many inquiries about directions, I handed the chit to a lady, who handed the chit over to one of my life-savers. And she read the chit and signed it without a moment’s hesitation!
Back to the gynecologist I went. On a boda boda. I handed the chit back to the doctor and a date was set for the operation. I decided on a hysterectomy. I was so done with periods, and pads, and clots, and nightmares. I called Mum. I asked her to listen to me for once and not push me out. She said to take some time and talk to Dad. Then she called me back. With her blessing.
Something I forgot. One of the questions I encountered from the doctors was if I had children. But anyway, I could not get pregnant with that mass in my womb. Actually, this last doctor said it was the size of a four and a half months’ old fetus.
So after some changes in dates, I packed my suitcase, not even sure whether I would return home. I went to visit my children in school. But I did not tell them because I did not want to scare them. And on that Sunday evening, my younger sister picked me up and off to the hospital I went. With Mum.
The doctor had told me that my last meal was to be Sunday lunch. I wondered why. I got checked when I arrived. I asked about injections and what to expect. But all doctors tell you that you will be fine. The blood check took about an hour to process, and the results did not even come back that day. Then the hospital’s accountant informed us that we were not on the insurance list that allowed operations and it was another hour before we could be cleared. When I was finally tagged, we wheeled our luggage up to the ward where I was to be admitted and got a bed.
There was a nurse waiting for us. She was watching one of the Spanish soaps. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an askari ordered us to take our mattress and blanket out of the ward. He demanded to know who had given us permission to bring it in anyway. We tried to explain that no-one spelt out the rules and regulations to us. But he took them anyway. It just hurt me to know that my mother had nowhere to sleep, but I put it at the back of my mind and tried to sleep.
I tossed and turned the whole night not knowing what to expect. Would the hospital cancel? Would there be pain? Would I be able to smile again? And the hard question- would I die? Finally at 6am, when I could not handle the pressure any more, I sat up in bed and told Mum my worries. I could tell she was also worried but could not show me, and she assured me that I would be fine.
At 8am, a nurse came to dress me up. Catheter. Pain. Hospital gown. Needles in my arm. More pain. Bed laid. Get on the bed. Tucked in. Bed lowered. Meanwhile, the catheter was terribly uncomfortable. I remember seeing the nurse smiling at me and telling me I’d be fine. Saying bye to Mum. Being wheeled down into the operating area. Parking. Figures in green. My hair being covered. My gown being changed. Being wheeled into the operating room. On to the operating table. Seeing the surgeon. Him being so happy to see me. I didn’t even remember signing my certificate. There was a radio station playing. I was not even scared anymore because I was so scared. The table was cold and made of steel. Or is it the other way round? The anesthetist sitting behind me. Telling me his name and where he was from. Vincent from Makindye. The surgeon dressed in white. Even white gumboots. Then he was walking away from me. His face masked. God, I was dead!
I came to hours later, with the surgeon asking me how I was, and assuring me that he was going to give me most peaceful, and best sleep I had ever had. My tummy felt heavy. Like someone was sitting on me. I don’t even remember being wheeled back.
But from what I heard later, Mummy was so worried that something bad (read: died) had happened to me, and she was frantic. Her relief at seeing me, even though I couldn’t see or hear her, was indescribable. There had been so many messages and calls that had come through, words of encouragement, others wanting to know if I was fine, some praying that I went through the ordeal. And she took all of them. I just wonder what was going through her mind.
That night I flitted between consciousness and unconsciousness, my arms both fixed to a drip, the catheter I couldn’t even feel. I remember the kind nurse, a Kenyan lady with long painted nails, who rushed to my aid whenever I threw up. And there was nothing in my tummy. Remember, my last meal was Sunday morning, or lunch. But I got through the night. I pitied Mum, lying on a mat on the floor, head covered from the mosquitoes. The next day I just slept most of the time. My sisters and some friends came to see me. Even workmates. Later I got out of bed to listen to someone tell me about his problems with his girlfriend. What the hell was HE thinking????
I left the hospital on my birthday. To start a new life.
And have I lived it!
#begningofwisedom
I have an eye and ear for what I would call "funny stuff". My funny stuff. I compiled this list a few years back.
1. Familiarity leads content- on a boda-boda
2. Wind us on that- Odongtho
3. Police Bagonza- a name
4. I feel pain…very pain- a Ugandan politician
5. Police would like to give six advice- Police spokesperson
6. Mista-demeanor case- Al- Hajji Sebagala
7. I am working as a mixer-material- Man protesting poor pay
8. Customers pass-bying them- Man on radio
9. I am not a born of Masaka- Also on radio
10. Dr. Alex Favor- a name
11. All youths of school-age going- A Ugandan cabinet minister
12. BBC, CNN, Al Jewzeera- on a poster of youths campaigning against homosexuality
13. We have been doing cracky jokes- an MC at 360 degrees function
14. Mu Concepusion- a news anchor on NBS TV
15. For me it was a learning lesson - facilitator at a workshop (not sure, it could be right)
16. The best bed a lover can enjoy with a pleasant emotion- ad on TV
17. Pourage (porridge) - in a Nigerian movie
18. What made the fire not spread to the other rooms is the ‘petitionwar’(partition)- police fireman
19. There is one day we spent two weeks here- truck driver stuck on Nimule road
20. U gate-cratched- Policeman arresting a gatecrasher
21. I think that was too few- school child
22. The policeman has beaten me a stick- woman during protest
23. Just hear the aroma!- the receptionist smelling into her cup of coffee
24. It is raining outside- heard so many times.
25. We miss our former manager who was leading us very goodly - striking worker
1. Familiarity leads content- on a boda-boda
2. Wind us on that- Odongtho
3. Police Bagonza- a name
4. I feel pain…very pain- a Ugandan politician
5. Police would like to give six advice- Police spokesperson
6. Mista-demeanor case- Al- Hajji Sebagala
7. I am working as a mixer-material- Man protesting poor pay
8. Customers pass-bying them- Man on radio
9. I am not a born of Masaka- Also on radio
10. Dr. Alex Favor- a name
11. All youths of school-age going- A Ugandan cabinet minister
12. BBC, CNN, Al Jewzeera- on a poster of youths campaigning against homosexuality
13. We have been doing cracky jokes- an MC at 360 degrees function
14. Mu Concepusion- a news anchor on NBS TV
15. For me it was a learning lesson - facilitator at a workshop (not sure, it could be right)
16. The best bed a lover can enjoy with a pleasant emotion- ad on TV
17. Pourage (porridge) - in a Nigerian movie
18. What made the fire not spread to the other rooms is the ‘petitionwar’(partition)- police fireman
19. There is one day we spent two weeks here- truck driver stuck on Nimule road
20. U gate-cratched- Policeman arresting a gatecrasher
21. I think that was too few- school child
22. The policeman has beaten me a stick- woman during protest
23. Just hear the aroma!- the receptionist smelling into her cup of coffee
24. It is raining outside- heard so many times.
25. We miss our former manager who was leading us very goodly - striking worker
#softloans
He wants money, he tells me. A million shillings, perhaps? A soft loan. To be paid back. When?
I got the call on Saturday, when I was deep into my afternoon nap, and I groggily told him to see me Monday. He said he had a business proposal.
I had not heard from this guy for ages, and considering that there is the “deep rift” between his family and mine, we see no business in finding out how we're all doing. But- when a man is down, he is down. He wants the money to "buy into the taxi business".
Gideon, let me call him that- starts by giving me some long tale about a shifty friend of his with whom they did business. But they parted ways when he felt he was being treated worse than a little serf. That that his “business partner” did not pay him, did not bother to inform him when there was big work to be done, that he criticized his dressing style, and that all that left him feeling down and unwanted. I know Gideon from when we were growing up- he still lives with his mother (whom I don’t really like- that two-faced bitch) and from what I gather, she is fed up with feeding and looking after a nearly 40- year old, who shows no signs of looking for a wife or leaving home.
Gideon then launches into another long-winded tale of how he "was an accountant of some religious group and how I was eventually fired for loaning out money and not keeping records". And how he had tried to con his older sister in the UK to give him the money, but that if he had received the money, he would not buy the equipment he wanted the money for. Then he also talks about how he tried another uncle living in the UK, but that that relation was also not forthcoming (said with an air of “we shall see one day!”). Then how another aunt- also resident in the UK- had promised to fund this business, and next thing he knows, she doesn’t even want to talk to him now (what is this with us thinking that people out there are having it easy?? C’mon Ugandans are shoveling dirt off the walk-ways, changing the pampers off senior citizens’ soiled butts in old peoples’ homes, spending sleepless nights driving across the interstate, and here you are demanding that they fund your plans! You able-bodied middle-aged man with all limbs intact!).
After much probing from my side, he says he wants the money for his transport business aka taxi. I have heard this rumor before - (our extended family really have this grapevine) and I am not surprised. He tells me what the vehicle costs, and that he wants me to settle the “balance”. Just like that.
Hmmm…. I cannot believe my ears. I inform him, without cutting any corners- that I do not have that type of money and it will take me some time before I could offer some. Some that I know won’t hurt if I don’t get it back.
Then he suddenly becomes demanding. “When do I get the money? You know you relatives who work in offices always promise and then don’t deliver. And now there is another cousin who I have asked but she first wants to see the 6.5m shillings before she can commit to giving me any more!” Then deviousness appears in the same breath- “But that one, I’ll just show her something small, and try to convince her that I have the other money, then she’ll give me her contribution!”.
Another long hmmm…. This young man has come to borrow money but is busy criticizing others and forgetting that he is displaying to me just how crafty he is and can be.
After making several attempts to end the conversation because I have piles of work on my desk, I finally convince him to leave and promise that I will "see what I can do". No big promises.
When I get home, I recount the tale to Dad. He listens to my speech then calmly tells me, “Your cousin is scared of going to prison.”
Dad tells me Gideon has a huge debt to pay off. That he had “eaten” an unspecified amount of cash when he was the bursar at some school. He lost his job and was asked to refund the cash and the matter would be forgotten, meaning it would not go to the Police. Seems he had made a commitment to refund the cash by end of 2016. But this has not been possible. The reason he is panicky.
************ *********** *********** ********** *********** **************
Now I know that there is no taxi business.
I got the call on Saturday, when I was deep into my afternoon nap, and I groggily told him to see me Monday. He said he had a business proposal.
I had not heard from this guy for ages, and considering that there is the “deep rift” between his family and mine, we see no business in finding out how we're all doing. But- when a man is down, he is down. He wants the money to "buy into the taxi business".
Gideon, let me call him that- starts by giving me some long tale about a shifty friend of his with whom they did business. But they parted ways when he felt he was being treated worse than a little serf. That that his “business partner” did not pay him, did not bother to inform him when there was big work to be done, that he criticized his dressing style, and that all that left him feeling down and unwanted. I know Gideon from when we were growing up- he still lives with his mother (whom I don’t really like- that two-faced bitch) and from what I gather, she is fed up with feeding and looking after a nearly 40- year old, who shows no signs of looking for a wife or leaving home.
Gideon then launches into another long-winded tale of how he "was an accountant of some religious group and how I was eventually fired for loaning out money and not keeping records". And how he had tried to con his older sister in the UK to give him the money, but that if he had received the money, he would not buy the equipment he wanted the money for. Then he also talks about how he tried another uncle living in the UK, but that that relation was also not forthcoming (said with an air of “we shall see one day!”). Then how another aunt- also resident in the UK- had promised to fund this business, and next thing he knows, she doesn’t even want to talk to him now (what is this with us thinking that people out there are having it easy?? C’mon Ugandans are shoveling dirt off the walk-ways, changing the pampers off senior citizens’ soiled butts in old peoples’ homes, spending sleepless nights driving across the interstate, and here you are demanding that they fund your plans! You able-bodied middle-aged man with all limbs intact!).
After much probing from my side, he says he wants the money for his transport business aka taxi. I have heard this rumor before - (our extended family really have this grapevine) and I am not surprised. He tells me what the vehicle costs, and that he wants me to settle the “balance”. Just like that.
Hmmm…. I cannot believe my ears. I inform him, without cutting any corners- that I do not have that type of money and it will take me some time before I could offer some. Some that I know won’t hurt if I don’t get it back.
Then he suddenly becomes demanding. “When do I get the money? You know you relatives who work in offices always promise and then don’t deliver. And now there is another cousin who I have asked but she first wants to see the 6.5m shillings before she can commit to giving me any more!” Then deviousness appears in the same breath- “But that one, I’ll just show her something small, and try to convince her that I have the other money, then she’ll give me her contribution!”.
Another long hmmm…. This young man has come to borrow money but is busy criticizing others and forgetting that he is displaying to me just how crafty he is and can be.
After making several attempts to end the conversation because I have piles of work on my desk, I finally convince him to leave and promise that I will "see what I can do". No big promises.
When I get home, I recount the tale to Dad. He listens to my speech then calmly tells me, “Your cousin is scared of going to prison.”
Dad tells me Gideon has a huge debt to pay off. That he had “eaten” an unspecified amount of cash when he was the bursar at some school. He lost his job and was asked to refund the cash and the matter would be forgotten, meaning it would not go to the Police. Seems he had made a commitment to refund the cash by end of 2016. But this has not been possible. The reason he is panicky.
************ *********** *********** ********** *********** **************
Now I know that there is no taxi business.
#egging'emon
Ugandans who are great admirers of Bukedde TV’s Agataliiko Nfuufu receive a daily treat at 10pm, of comedy, with scenes of women pulling out each other’s hair, boda-boda riders beating up a “thief”, or the mysterious death of a rich businessman caused by an evil spirit.
Granted, some of their videos are hilarious and provide the much needed de-stresser, necessary after serious day of ranting from your boss, but I often wonder what the cameraperson and reporter are doing, egging on this sort of misbehavior. Take the case of a little boy whose fingers were subjected to a merciless, cruel, brutal squeezing, in a pair of pliers.
Some may argue that this shows us the depravity, disorganization, derangement and dysfunctions of the society in which we live, but what were the pressmen doing to save the little child whose fingers he will never be able to use again, or the ‘thief’ who is crying for his life as blows are rained on his back, as the brick that will eventually kill him is menacingly swung above his head?
In April of 2011, the BBC was accused of being a “cheerleader for assisted suicide” after filming a man killing himself in a controversial Terry Pratchett documentary. This was at the notorious Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, and the man was in the late stages of motor neurone disease. Obviously, the move by the terrestrial television was condemned by campaigners, politicians, medical professionals and religious leaders.
But what do these groups of people with considerable clout and power do about the pictures shown on Agataliiko Nfuufu? Nothing. The politicians continue to steal and misuse government funds, the church continues to engage in the no-go arena of politics, the medical professionals continue to take bribes, campaigners make noise about unimportant issues, we continue to whip out our latest model bible phones, while that sad group of society continues to suffer in silence.
The Weekly Observer in March 2011 published an article by Moses Talemwa and Juliana Nantale, which said “ Agataliiko Nfuufu… warrants day-long anticipation mostly because of its unending tit-bits of scandal, albeit short on basic journalism principles. Some people still can't believe it is on TV. The Vision Group management picked on longstanding Bukedde newspaper writers Semei Wessaali and Hadijja Nabukenya to head the search for an appropriate package. In turn, the two picked on a successful model started by Citizen TV in Kenya; making local programming acceptable to an audience used to foreign productions. Wessaali and Nabukenya decided that this was a bulletin which would involve the local people more than the conventional journalists; so, they gave their contact phone number to several local people in markets, trading centres and far-off villages, so they could send the news in. Wessaali helped form a 50-man team of freelance stringers or reporters with cameras that send their pictures to the station for the news. These stringers hunt for any whiff of newsworthy scandal for a fee of between Shs 15,000 and Shs 20,000 per story. Two weeks after the bulletin came on air, Wessaali got better response than he had been hoping for. Reviews and surveys put the station in a driving position because of the bulletin. "The idea came out of demand from viewers who wanted news prepared in much the same way as Bukedde newspaper; so, we responded", he says. The bulletin has reached incredible levels of acceptance, to the extent that total strangers turn up daily with news stories complete with video, which explains how the bulletin has news from remote areas, usually captured in the nick of time. While the critics are upset with many in the journalism schools lambasting it for being unprofessional, Wessaali is persuaded that it works. Right down to its unconventional upright pyramid concept of running light stories first, showing faces of rape victims and dead bodies, insisting that it is by design rather than plain incompetence."
I applaud Bukedde TV for always having a camera on hand and for having a strong nose to sniff out these “funny” incidents that have “no dust”, but really--- what has our government done? Granted, there have been positive responses- the little boy was offered treatment (where is he now, by the way?) and the police arrested (and I am ‘conc’ sure, released) the men who subjected him to that agony. Then, the police arrested the beater of a policeman (this incident happened outside Namboole Stadium at the time when there was a match between Kenya and Uganda) who also stole the officer’s phone and left his face muddied and the policeman dizzy from shock. But I can bet that the culprits were set free. Maybe that very day itself.
You see, the pattern is so “this eat that”, “how do I benefit?” that is sickening. Agataliiko Nfuufu may be doing a wonderful job, but on the other hand, if their reporters “revel” in seeing people in pain, how then can I not accuse them of being apathetic? Here is someone writhing in pain, screaming their lungs out begging for mercy and here is the happy snappy cameraman earning his day’s bread. It’s so sad.
I think that journalists have a duty to society- to report what is going on, to expose the dirt and the rot--- and the good as well, but on the other hand, would it hurt to help? Would it be so hard to say to the mob crew to have some heart and not judge a man who knows he will be dead in the next few seconds?
But, like the BBC incident that I mentioned in the paragraph above, I saw another picture in the Daily Mail (dailymail.co.uk) of a depraved man, high on bath salts, chewing off the face of another homeless man who had been enjoying his sleep on the street minutes before the horrific incident. Someone took those pictures. But were they also dialing the police as they snapped away.
Society tends to love watching others suffer, I think. We love posting gory pictures on our facebook pages, just for the fun of it. Why can’t we just say--- “no” to this depravity? Why do we just look on and not fight back? Maybe it’s a deeply rooted thing of human nature- something like “today’s his day, tomorrow may be mine, let him stew in it!”.
BBC was accused of being unethical and disregarding the sanctity of life. Maybe things are changing for the worse- or for the better. Whereas a few years ago, disregarding media ethics was frowned upon, today the climate kind of applauds the lengths the media will reach to catch viewer attention.
So instead of our policemen sitting idly by and guffawing at the antics by the actors in Agataliiko Nfuufu, they should get off their bony backsides and do their job. The media guys should be mindful, and know when to jump in to put a stop to the situation (the image of the little boy having his fingers “wrenched”, wrenched (pun unintended) at my heart strings) and not let the situation go out of hand. I mean, they could explain to us that they had to intervene and stop taking pictures and we would understand and let them off the hook.
And I also think this promotes violence among the little ones. I sometimes hear kids giving graphic details about the ka-story of the old woman who was beaten by villagers on suspicion of being a witch, or the bad mother who caned her daughter senseless, or the village thug who burnt his family as they slept in their hut because they had accused him of stealing a mobile phone. And they laugh away innocently.
Granted, some of their videos are hilarious and provide the much needed de-stresser, necessary after serious day of ranting from your boss, but I often wonder what the cameraperson and reporter are doing, egging on this sort of misbehavior. Take the case of a little boy whose fingers were subjected to a merciless, cruel, brutal squeezing, in a pair of pliers.
Some may argue that this shows us the depravity, disorganization, derangement and dysfunctions of the society in which we live, but what were the pressmen doing to save the little child whose fingers he will never be able to use again, or the ‘thief’ who is crying for his life as blows are rained on his back, as the brick that will eventually kill him is menacingly swung above his head?
In April of 2011, the BBC was accused of being a “cheerleader for assisted suicide” after filming a man killing himself in a controversial Terry Pratchett documentary. This was at the notorious Dignitas clinic in Switzerland, and the man was in the late stages of motor neurone disease. Obviously, the move by the terrestrial television was condemned by campaigners, politicians, medical professionals and religious leaders.
But what do these groups of people with considerable clout and power do about the pictures shown on Agataliiko Nfuufu? Nothing. The politicians continue to steal and misuse government funds, the church continues to engage in the no-go arena of politics, the medical professionals continue to take bribes, campaigners make noise about unimportant issues, we continue to whip out our latest model bible phones, while that sad group of society continues to suffer in silence.
The Weekly Observer in March 2011 published an article by Moses Talemwa and Juliana Nantale, which said “ Agataliiko Nfuufu… warrants day-long anticipation mostly because of its unending tit-bits of scandal, albeit short on basic journalism principles. Some people still can't believe it is on TV. The Vision Group management picked on longstanding Bukedde newspaper writers Semei Wessaali and Hadijja Nabukenya to head the search for an appropriate package. In turn, the two picked on a successful model started by Citizen TV in Kenya; making local programming acceptable to an audience used to foreign productions. Wessaali and Nabukenya decided that this was a bulletin which would involve the local people more than the conventional journalists; so, they gave their contact phone number to several local people in markets, trading centres and far-off villages, so they could send the news in. Wessaali helped form a 50-man team of freelance stringers or reporters with cameras that send their pictures to the station for the news. These stringers hunt for any whiff of newsworthy scandal for a fee of between Shs 15,000 and Shs 20,000 per story. Two weeks after the bulletin came on air, Wessaali got better response than he had been hoping for. Reviews and surveys put the station in a driving position because of the bulletin. "The idea came out of demand from viewers who wanted news prepared in much the same way as Bukedde newspaper; so, we responded", he says. The bulletin has reached incredible levels of acceptance, to the extent that total strangers turn up daily with news stories complete with video, which explains how the bulletin has news from remote areas, usually captured in the nick of time. While the critics are upset with many in the journalism schools lambasting it for being unprofessional, Wessaali is persuaded that it works. Right down to its unconventional upright pyramid concept of running light stories first, showing faces of rape victims and dead bodies, insisting that it is by design rather than plain incompetence."
I applaud Bukedde TV for always having a camera on hand and for having a strong nose to sniff out these “funny” incidents that have “no dust”, but really--- what has our government done? Granted, there have been positive responses- the little boy was offered treatment (where is he now, by the way?) and the police arrested (and I am ‘conc’ sure, released) the men who subjected him to that agony. Then, the police arrested the beater of a policeman (this incident happened outside Namboole Stadium at the time when there was a match between Kenya and Uganda) who also stole the officer’s phone and left his face muddied and the policeman dizzy from shock. But I can bet that the culprits were set free. Maybe that very day itself.
You see, the pattern is so “this eat that”, “how do I benefit?” that is sickening. Agataliiko Nfuufu may be doing a wonderful job, but on the other hand, if their reporters “revel” in seeing people in pain, how then can I not accuse them of being apathetic? Here is someone writhing in pain, screaming their lungs out begging for mercy and here is the happy snappy cameraman earning his day’s bread. It’s so sad.
I think that journalists have a duty to society- to report what is going on, to expose the dirt and the rot--- and the good as well, but on the other hand, would it hurt to help? Would it be so hard to say to the mob crew to have some heart and not judge a man who knows he will be dead in the next few seconds?
But, like the BBC incident that I mentioned in the paragraph above, I saw another picture in the Daily Mail (dailymail.co.uk) of a depraved man, high on bath salts, chewing off the face of another homeless man who had been enjoying his sleep on the street minutes before the horrific incident. Someone took those pictures. But were they also dialing the police as they snapped away.
Society tends to love watching others suffer, I think. We love posting gory pictures on our facebook pages, just for the fun of it. Why can’t we just say--- “no” to this depravity? Why do we just look on and not fight back? Maybe it’s a deeply rooted thing of human nature- something like “today’s his day, tomorrow may be mine, let him stew in it!”.
BBC was accused of being unethical and disregarding the sanctity of life. Maybe things are changing for the worse- or for the better. Whereas a few years ago, disregarding media ethics was frowned upon, today the climate kind of applauds the lengths the media will reach to catch viewer attention.
So instead of our policemen sitting idly by and guffawing at the antics by the actors in Agataliiko Nfuufu, they should get off their bony backsides and do their job. The media guys should be mindful, and know when to jump in to put a stop to the situation (the image of the little boy having his fingers “wrenched”, wrenched (pun unintended) at my heart strings) and not let the situation go out of hand. I mean, they could explain to us that they had to intervene and stop taking pictures and we would understand and let them off the hook.
And I also think this promotes violence among the little ones. I sometimes hear kids giving graphic details about the ka-story of the old woman who was beaten by villagers on suspicion of being a witch, or the bad mother who caned her daughter senseless, or the village thug who burnt his family as they slept in their hut because they had accused him of stealing a mobile phone. And they laugh away innocently.
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
#blanketsandbulls
The bodaboda had hardly come to a halt when the yelling began.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”
Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.
Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”
The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”
The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.
“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!” What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.
The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.
Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.
The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.
The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.
Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.
In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.
I turned up the volume of Botched on E.
“You! What are you doing?!! What is this?? What rubbish is this on my veranda???!!”
Someone was lying under a blanket on the porch which was littered with papers torn from exercise books, pieces of broken yellow plastic, and sand from the nearby sandpit which the builders had been using to renovate the chipped floor in another house.
Ma Lihanna practically sprang from the motorcycle, charging for the being on her porch, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs. She kicked at the dog-eaten, (very) dodgy-looking, stained piece of foam that had once served as somebody’s mattress, most probably picked off the dump as it waited for the rubbish truck to come. She was so disgusted that the words failed to come. “How…? You… Where…? Just wait for me!!”
The boda man looked on in shock as Ma Lihanna yanked the blue woolly blanket off and tossed it into the air. It was Lihanna under there. She had somehow fallen asleep amidst all the noise. She wore a very startled look at being woken up so rudely in this afternoon heat. It was not nighttime after all. Why was her mother home this early? Her startled look was one of “I’m in a pot of hot soup. REALLY hot soup!”
The little children who had been playing and singing around the veranda, and who had greatly contributed to the chaos melted out of the gate at lightning speed.
“Tell me, what is the meaning of this you stupid girl!” What is your blanket doing outside here? Is this where it belongs?!! I swear you will see me today!! What is this?” she screamed.
The boda man started feebly, “Nyabo ssente zange…” He was not waiting here to witness bloodshed committed by this woman with whom, minutes before, he had been making small talk about the unpredictable weather and the dust, but who had been suddenly transformed into this raging bull, foaming at the mouth over a child lying on her porch. No, he wouldn't wait.
Somehow she heard him over her yelling, whipped out her purse and thrust him some notes. Lihanna was already on her feet, pulling at the mess, and trying to make it disappear somehow.
The boda revved off and Ma Lihanna pulled at the handle of the front door, which opens rather noisily. Lihanna grabbed at the blanket and quickly disappeared into the house. Probably to put it back onto the bed.
The next few minutes became a mix of frenzied adult yelling and a child’s cries. Sounds of a slipper connecting with something, someone making to flee, and being threatened that if she ran, then she could stay out forever. “Where is your sister??!!” Ma Lihanna roared.
Little Sister had crept onto the veranda, terrified, and trying her best not to let her Sunday best shoes make any noise as she cleared what was left of the clutter. For her, the pot of soup would be at boiling point because she had taken her sheets out as well. She crept to the back gate to see if she could sneak in. It was locked.
In this state of rage, even as a good neighbor, it would be almost impossible to approach Ma Lihanna and plead for the girls.
I turned up the volume of Botched on E.
Friday, 30 June 2017
#drat!!
In your never-ending dream there’s a toilet. Somehow, you're seeing it in the distance, but cant' get to it. Suddenly, you jerk awake and run to the bathroom. You don't want to open your eyes, or switch on the lights because you know your way as you've lived in this house for seven years. Also, you can’t afford a disaster because there is no way you will take your mattress out in this rainy weather. And, remember, the neighbors at the back will see the mattress drying on the wall where you put it… then they will start wondering who the bed-wetter is, because there are no kids in your house. When you're done with the bathroom business, you dive back into bed, wanting to recapture that ka-warmth and catch up with the another dream. You snuggle in, find the hollow on the pillow which is still warm from where you head has been, pull the covers up to your head. and wait for the dream to set in...
… then your wake-up alarm rings!!!
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
#whowillmyMPbe?
The first time I really heard Apollo Kantinti speak was when he was
recovering from the shock of being kicked out of Parliament. In the one year
that he enjoyed the perks and benefits that come from being an Honorable,
before the rug was rudely pulled from under his feet, he did not say a
single word in the House. At least I did not get to hear one. Not as the shadow minister for information and communication,
or on the committee of physical infrastructure on which he was a member.
Actually when Bukedde newspaper did a post-mortem on the first year of the 10th Parliament, the article (17th May 2017) entitled ‘ … Baabano ababaka abavumbedde’, Kantinti’s name appeared 7th on the list of those who have let moss grow in their mouths. They said they had combed through the Hansard for records on what contribution the legislators had made.
And when I googled the name Apollo Kantinti, the first two pages of results showed something about losing the election, being kicked out of Parliament and so many other words to mean the same thing.
But no, Apollo is not challenged by the English language, I actually think he is a good orator.
Since the rude awakening, he has found his voice and can be heard fighting for his departed power on TVs and radios, arguing about this and about that.
Kantinti opened his campaign at the Wampeewo Football Grounds brandishing a key. FDC had decided to abandon poor Muwada Nkunyingi and go with him. I tell you, Kantinti pulled in all the bigwigs. His wife, Kizza Besigye, Nandala Mafabi. Even Wasswa Birigwa came along and pulled some extraordinary dancing strokes, twisting his thickening waist this-a-way and that-a-way, doing a rendition of the running man from the ‘70s, a cocktail of the rumba, chacha and foxtrot, and shaking his shoulders like a go-go dancer. But he didn't attempt the paka chini which could have been a big disaster. Imagine if he had sunk right there on the wooden stage and never gotten up.
Kantinti managed to hook a ‘big fish’ in the name of Buchaman, Bobi Wine’s former ally. It could be a revenge game however. I mean, Buchaman once complained that in their ghetto days, Bobi Wine would feast on huge platters of chicken and chips and leave the crew to binge on air-pies.
So on the day of unveiling, Buchaman was up on stage, waving his crutch in the air, carrying a bulky waist bag. He was saying words like “Chali”, “Araali”, "Mwana”.
I can identify the house in the background. Big, grandiose and abandoned, the only light comes from the switch for the bell outside the gate.
Kantinti says the Electoral Commission cost him this election. Hearing Kantinti bash Sitenda Sebalu about not doing anything during the five years he was in parliament. REALLY??!!
Kantinti has a campaign song, a female singer. “Amazima y’ono, bannange, y’ono Kantinti!”
################ ################## ################# ################
In May, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine, made the earth-shattering decision to shed his thick, shaggy, untidy locks. Parliamentary ambitions. God must have been smiling down on him because in last August, he had enrolled for a law degree at a local university.
A picture on the Internet shows him in Bad Boy pose, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other carrying a holdall, his white shirt is untucked, the top button open, black skinny tie in place. The rebellious look is completed by dark glasses concealing his eyes.
That bad boy image has since been replaced by well-fitting suits and jackets, a clean-shaven face, and polished shoes. The transformation is a result of the overwhelming desire to sit in that prestigious house and make laws for this country.
He is the Mubanda w’a Kabaka, the Ghetto President on the inside, and an altar convert on the outside.
He has also remembered that his name is Robert Sentamu Kyagulanyi, just in case the voter looks for ‘Bobi Wine’ on the ballot sheet.
And even when the FDC party, whose former President Kizza Besigye with whom he condoled and played the guitar for when he was put under house arrest after the Presidential election in Feb 2016, said it would not ‘put its behind’ on him, Bobi was not fazed. He just held his head high and did his thing.
This Bobi Boy has done things- from dancing on top a moving car (traffic police did ‘not' see this), downing mugoyo on a plastic plate with his son Kampala, swallowing steaming katogo ka mukene n’a matooke, to bounding out of the gate of his palatial mansion to go and greet the voters in Magere where he stays. He has talked himself hoarse, allowed his lips to become dry, smiled widely for people he cannot see, done free concerts with the aid of fellow musicians, and endured the hangers-on who flock his house night and day, and turn his compound into a grazing green of sorts.
Councillor Eddobozi ly'eKyebando in his red-tie has joined the campaign, David Lutalo has crooned along, Hilderman has growled, Gashumba has lectured. Even the up and coming artistes- the likes of the Parrots and Baby Snakes - have been allowed to show off their talent to the mesmerized crowd.
Barbie, Bobi’s significant other has made it a point to dress up as a prospective Member of Parliament’s wife. One time it is the traditional busuuti, other times its a shift dress that perfectly shows off her trim figure.
She does a small Queen Elizabeth-like wave (careful not to twist the wrist) to the potential votes. Other times she sends flying kisses to the eager faces looking up at them, placing hand patriotically over her chest in a kind of “Oh wowwww!” appreciation.
The scores of hoods keep watch over her and the Ghetto President as they run along the car. The huge truck that accompanies the candidate on the hunt is filled with all sorts of human beings, some bare, hairy-chested, perched precariously in that place where trailer drivers pack matooke and sacks of maanda.
Bobi says he is representing the downtrodden. The bodaboda rider, the ‘kanaabe' car-washer, the chali in the ghetto with whom they shared good times as they downed glass after glass of the bitter, the market mama, the taxi tout who spends his days opening and closing doors for people.
Bobi and Barbie Doll have endured grown men with Dikuula-like bottoms who twerk and grind at the camera. Even the cutex man with his plastic tray has joined the fray, instead of painting designs on women’s toenails. The groundnut hawker takes takes advantage of the traffic caused by Omubanda’s convoy and makes a killing.
Most of the time, Bobi strides along, a swagger in his step, saying nothing, his mouth set in a lock. His security men are decked in green aprons with ‘Security Team Bobi Wine’, shoving and pushing people out of his way.
His most faithful flunky is Tony, the Kasangati town council mayor, whose shirts are always open to show some chest. God, has he sunk this low? The Mayor makes sure he has a strategic place on Bobi’s stage, sometimes smiling on and looking a bit silly.
If Bobi had hangers-on in the ghettos of Kamwokya, the ones in Kyadondo East cannot be matched.
For these 25 or so days, they have had something positive to wake up to, to ride on the trailer and swing their legs.
Bobi has done a good job with his posters and flyers compared to the other candidates. I mean, Sowedi Kayongo had a lonely poster all through his interview.
If the Ghetto President has always ignored advice from all the older people who implored him to give up on sada, this vote hunt has surely humbled him. He has sat down on the ground and listened to wise words from an old woman. Another man in Magere warned him about people who promise him votes “verbly”. Yes, verbly.
The search has taken him to Kyadondo East’s families-that-matter, and to the mosque where he has done wuzu from a Butto jerrican. Wash behind the ears, the hair, the feet, the hands.
In Kiteezi, a man, a fattido wearing a faded Museveni t-shirt, a bottle of Beckham gin in his hand, danced something like reggae in between cars, his big stomach jigging like jelly. A woman was screaming “Kyagulanyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Bodas hooted crazily dragging branches along (whatever happened to preservation of green?), doing impossible feats in the dust, and forgetting that they make up most of the cases that are admitted to Mulago hospital’s casualty ward. A weather-beaten Peugeot 404 with PALA PALA painted on its body was weaving across the field, raising huge clouds of dust, and some dare-devil hanging on for dear life.
################## ################# #################### #################
Enter Omwana w’Omulaalo.
William Sitenda Sebalu’s claim to fame is based on the fact that he took Kantinti to the courts, which then dismissed his election after it found that the Electoral Commission did not comply with electoral laws. Lots of playing around with the word ‘elect’... eh?
He came second in the 2016 election but being the ‘bad’ loser that he is, he immediately ran to the courts.
By the way, where is his wife? There was that story in the Kampala Sun that insinuated something about his wives being sisters. It is not my place to do lugambo now, but…, like pastors, this is the chance to show off that one who stole your heart, that one who cooks you breakfast katogo, the one who irons for you, the one who 'presses' your campaign wounds away at the end of the day, and listens to you bubbling your shit about “Abalonzi bano!”.
NRM started this campaign with a war cry, saying that the race for this seat would be a battle between President Museveni and Dr. Besigye, whose home is in Kyadondo East, and promising to whop FDC’s bottom till it was raw with red. Oh, the damage it would inflict! That remains to be seen.
That event was marked at a popular club in Kasangati with a row of dancers in the trademark yellow t-shirts shaking to traditional drums and kicking up a lot of dust. The crowd consisted mainly of middle-aged women wearing t-shirts over their other t-shirts and busuutis, sitting on a row of plastic chairs and sipping on mineral water, looking coy, and unconvinced that they were following the right candidate.
One man admitted that he had not voted for Sitenda in the last election, but promised that he would vote this time because Sitenda had once shipped in bunches of matooke and sold it to them at 2,000 shillings!
Omwana w'Omulaalo took to the front in an oversized coat. He sang praises about the chairman of the Paaate NRM, and the close relationship they had. He made promises about the tarmacking the Kira to Matugga road; about using the constituency fund to finance upcoming artistes, and that “Bobi Wine would head that committee”! I hope good Bobi did not hear that.
He made it clear that “Kizza Besigye was not popular in this area’. He showed off the banene banene like Minister Rose Seninde and “omukyala ono ava mu Siteeti Awusi”, before he was made to kneel down and was prayed for and lectured like a little boy.
The Paaate’s SG Lumumba reiterated the damage they would inflict on FDC, and that if things went out of hand, they would “take the law in our hands”. She spoke as Sitenda stood close by, laboring under the party flag on a wooden staff.
Then the dance opened and the coyness flew out the window. Legs and waists became liquid as the muziki took hold.
And just the other day, according to New Vision, NRM stalwart Gertrude Njuba threw a small spanner in the works, declaring that she would never support Sitenda because she has doubts about how he won the primaries, and how her late husband went to his grave with Sitenda never paying the money he owed him.
If he thought that FDC was the threat, he better think again.
This young lawyer Nkunyingi Muwada has really outdone himself this time round.
He didn't let the fact that FDC opted for Kantinti over him dampen his spirit.
His campaign has been peppered with all sorts of drama-filled episodes from carrying a 20-liter jerrycan filled with water on his head, throwing dice on a Ludo board with scores of ‘supporters, sitting in the dust as he literally 'wails' about the deplorable state of the roads in this constituency, and making promise after promise about how these will be things of the past when he is in Parliament.
The man has cleaned roadside drains, traversed the kilns to converse with brick-layers, bought bananas from village duukas, hawked cheap socks and hankies on a panty-peg hung from his neck, and eaten katogo k’a muwogo in tonninyira—— all in his dark-colored velvet coats which he sometimes wraps around his lean waist.
Muwada must have a lot of balls (pun intended) because he has one on every occasion- as he jigs away on top of his Noah, sorts green grams on a kadeeya, or sweeps a dusty school yard with the students. The man has even promised to eat a rat!
And his small army of faithful bakuyeges kneel as he kneels, they clap along as makes his pleas, and carry his posters on his door-to-door campaigns.
He sometimes forgets himself and gives the camera a sly side eye. A real drama king this one.
################# ################# ############### #################
Then there is Sowedi Kayongo Male, the doctor from Wattuba parish. He describes himself as a health worker. I thought people loved to throw that “Doctor” title around. Hmmm… I may be wrong. I did not witness his nomination, but the picture in the New Vision newspapers shows him decked out in a pristine white tuxedo.
The media has largely ignored him, preferring to take their television cameras and tape recorders to those they brand the 'front-runners'- the Bobis, Sitendas, Kantintis and Muwadas of this world.
In his only interview so far, he told the TV reporter that coverage in the media was hard.
The under-dog, the little-known candidate admits a funding problem, but is quick to add that though he may not be as popular as those front-runners, he will surely give them a run for their money.
He is also tired of sitting in the passenger seat, and wants to be the driver.
By the way, he is not moved by large gatherings. And he says that he’s not fazed by the other contestants because, “Everybody had their cards on Hillary Clinton. And see what happened!”
The Hajji also hates the commercialization of politics.
In this TV interview, it is very obvious that he got out the best suit after the tuxedo, gathered his small crowd of campaign agents- I can identify one as the sumbusa seller’s son (who now wears trousers)- and they walk around the village as they greet and shake people’s hands and tell them to vote Kayongo.
His campaign agent acknowledges that they may not be in the media but they are on the ground. That “we have the mathematics well-calculated and well- motivated and other contestants have misread the barometer.” Good PCM student this one.
Sowedi then proceeds to announce that he is giving out free treatment at his Iqra medical center in Wattuba.
The camera pans across an empty room where the bakuyege are gathered at his feet as he sits on the only chair present.
(Kayongo was my son’s doctor 20 years ago, treating him for all sorts of ailments and allowing to give his poor grandmother treatment on banja.)
But—— he knows he is sweeping the vote by 80%.
The only woman in the race was a non-starter and I wonder why she even declared her interest in the first place. Ms. Babirye Kamoome of the Democratic Party, that party that couldn't even field its own candidate in the presidential election, and went with Amama Mbabazi who collected a paltry 130,000 votes countrywide, decided that it would be better for Kamoome to opt out and let them put their ‘behinds' (as they are wont to do) behind a stronger candidate to defeat Na Ra Ma, the Paaate.
So, what sort of representative am I looking for?
What sort of MP do I want?
What do I want from my MP?
One who makes empty promises of paying my children’s school fees once he is in the august House; one who will go to Parliament and only warm the seat; one who loves to entertain; one who only thinks about his stomach; one who knows that the road to my home has pot-holes as deep as a pit-latrine; one who only comes to me when he wants my vote; one who has connections with high people but who I cannot guarantee will connect me to them, or that one who will tear open a rat and munch on its entrails?
This kneeling, pleading, bending over backwards- is it because they are SOOOO dying to serve me, or is it about the air-conditioned guzzlers and fully-funded perdiemed trips abroad.
A wide choice for the 68,000 voters of Kasangati, Wattuba, Gayaza, Kiteezi, Nangabo, Katadde, Wampewo, Bulamu, Masooli and Kabubbu to choose from the chest-thumpers, the power-hungry, the braggarts and the commoners.
So, my candidate of choice is ………
(Oh, I forgot that I am one of those disenfranchised (Oh, how I love saying that word!) Ugandans. And something else that I know from the two long nights I spent at the Gombolola headquarters in Nangabo in May, is that many Kyadondo Eastians are not registered for the national ID.)
Actually when Bukedde newspaper did a post-mortem on the first year of the 10th Parliament, the article (17th May 2017) entitled ‘ … Baabano ababaka abavumbedde’, Kantinti’s name appeared 7th on the list of those who have let moss grow in their mouths. They said they had combed through the Hansard for records on what contribution the legislators had made.
And when I googled the name Apollo Kantinti, the first two pages of results showed something about losing the election, being kicked out of Parliament and so many other words to mean the same thing.
But no, Apollo is not challenged by the English language, I actually think he is a good orator.
Since the rude awakening, he has found his voice and can be heard fighting for his departed power on TVs and radios, arguing about this and about that.
Kantinti opened his campaign at the Wampeewo Football Grounds brandishing a key. FDC had decided to abandon poor Muwada Nkunyingi and go with him. I tell you, Kantinti pulled in all the bigwigs. His wife, Kizza Besigye, Nandala Mafabi. Even Wasswa Birigwa came along and pulled some extraordinary dancing strokes, twisting his thickening waist this-a-way and that-a-way, doing a rendition of the running man from the ‘70s, a cocktail of the rumba, chacha and foxtrot, and shaking his shoulders like a go-go dancer. But he didn't attempt the paka chini which could have been a big disaster. Imagine if he had sunk right there on the wooden stage and never gotten up.
Kantinti managed to hook a ‘big fish’ in the name of Buchaman, Bobi Wine’s former ally. It could be a revenge game however. I mean, Buchaman once complained that in their ghetto days, Bobi Wine would feast on huge platters of chicken and chips and leave the crew to binge on air-pies.
So on the day of unveiling, Buchaman was up on stage, waving his crutch in the air, carrying a bulky waist bag. He was saying words like “Chali”, “Araali”, "Mwana”.
I can identify the house in the background. Big, grandiose and abandoned, the only light comes from the switch for the bell outside the gate.
Kantinti says the Electoral Commission cost him this election. Hearing Kantinti bash Sitenda Sebalu about not doing anything during the five years he was in parliament. REALLY??!!
Kantinti has a campaign song, a female singer. “Amazima y’ono, bannange, y’ono Kantinti!”
################ ################## ################# ################
In May, Robert Kyagulanyi better known as Bobi Wine, made the earth-shattering decision to shed his thick, shaggy, untidy locks. Parliamentary ambitions. God must have been smiling down on him because in last August, he had enrolled for a law degree at a local university.
A picture on the Internet shows him in Bad Boy pose, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other carrying a holdall, his white shirt is untucked, the top button open, black skinny tie in place. The rebellious look is completed by dark glasses concealing his eyes.
That bad boy image has since been replaced by well-fitting suits and jackets, a clean-shaven face, and polished shoes. The transformation is a result of the overwhelming desire to sit in that prestigious house and make laws for this country.
He is the Mubanda w’a Kabaka, the Ghetto President on the inside, and an altar convert on the outside.
He has also remembered that his name is Robert Sentamu Kyagulanyi, just in case the voter looks for ‘Bobi Wine’ on the ballot sheet.
And even when the FDC party, whose former President Kizza Besigye with whom he condoled and played the guitar for when he was put under house arrest after the Presidential election in Feb 2016, said it would not ‘put its behind’ on him, Bobi was not fazed. He just held his head high and did his thing.
This Bobi Boy has done things- from dancing on top a moving car (traffic police did ‘not' see this), downing mugoyo on a plastic plate with his son Kampala, swallowing steaming katogo ka mukene n’a matooke, to bounding out of the gate of his palatial mansion to go and greet the voters in Magere where he stays. He has talked himself hoarse, allowed his lips to become dry, smiled widely for people he cannot see, done free concerts with the aid of fellow musicians, and endured the hangers-on who flock his house night and day, and turn his compound into a grazing green of sorts.
Councillor Eddobozi ly'eKyebando in his red-tie has joined the campaign, David Lutalo has crooned along, Hilderman has growled, Gashumba has lectured. Even the up and coming artistes- the likes of the Parrots and Baby Snakes - have been allowed to show off their talent to the mesmerized crowd.
Barbie, Bobi’s significant other has made it a point to dress up as a prospective Member of Parliament’s wife. One time it is the traditional busuuti, other times its a shift dress that perfectly shows off her trim figure.
She does a small Queen Elizabeth-like wave (careful not to twist the wrist) to the potential votes. Other times she sends flying kisses to the eager faces looking up at them, placing hand patriotically over her chest in a kind of “Oh wowwww!” appreciation.
The scores of hoods keep watch over her and the Ghetto President as they run along the car. The huge truck that accompanies the candidate on the hunt is filled with all sorts of human beings, some bare, hairy-chested, perched precariously in that place where trailer drivers pack matooke and sacks of maanda.
Bobi says he is representing the downtrodden. The bodaboda rider, the ‘kanaabe' car-washer, the chali in the ghetto with whom they shared good times as they downed glass after glass of the bitter, the market mama, the taxi tout who spends his days opening and closing doors for people.
Bobi and Barbie Doll have endured grown men with Dikuula-like bottoms who twerk and grind at the camera. Even the cutex man with his plastic tray has joined the fray, instead of painting designs on women’s toenails. The groundnut hawker takes takes advantage of the traffic caused by Omubanda’s convoy and makes a killing.
Most of the time, Bobi strides along, a swagger in his step, saying nothing, his mouth set in a lock. His security men are decked in green aprons with ‘Security Team Bobi Wine’, shoving and pushing people out of his way.
His most faithful flunky is Tony, the Kasangati town council mayor, whose shirts are always open to show some chest. God, has he sunk this low? The Mayor makes sure he has a strategic place on Bobi’s stage, sometimes smiling on and looking a bit silly.
If Bobi had hangers-on in the ghettos of Kamwokya, the ones in Kyadondo East cannot be matched.
For these 25 or so days, they have had something positive to wake up to, to ride on the trailer and swing their legs.
Bobi has done a good job with his posters and flyers compared to the other candidates. I mean, Sowedi Kayongo had a lonely poster all through his interview.
If the Ghetto President has always ignored advice from all the older people who implored him to give up on sada, this vote hunt has surely humbled him. He has sat down on the ground and listened to wise words from an old woman. Another man in Magere warned him about people who promise him votes “verbly”. Yes, verbly.
The search has taken him to Kyadondo East’s families-that-matter, and to the mosque where he has done wuzu from a Butto jerrican. Wash behind the ears, the hair, the feet, the hands.
In Kiteezi, a man, a fattido wearing a faded Museveni t-shirt, a bottle of Beckham gin in his hand, danced something like reggae in between cars, his big stomach jigging like jelly. A woman was screaming “Kyagulanyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Bodas hooted crazily dragging branches along (whatever happened to preservation of green?), doing impossible feats in the dust, and forgetting that they make up most of the cases that are admitted to Mulago hospital’s casualty ward. A weather-beaten Peugeot 404 with PALA PALA painted on its body was weaving across the field, raising huge clouds of dust, and some dare-devil hanging on for dear life.
################## ################# #################### #################
Enter Omwana w’Omulaalo.
William Sitenda Sebalu’s claim to fame is based on the fact that he took Kantinti to the courts, which then dismissed his election after it found that the Electoral Commission did not comply with electoral laws. Lots of playing around with the word ‘elect’... eh?
He came second in the 2016 election but being the ‘bad’ loser that he is, he immediately ran to the courts.
By the way, where is his wife? There was that story in the Kampala Sun that insinuated something about his wives being sisters. It is not my place to do lugambo now, but…, like pastors, this is the chance to show off that one who stole your heart, that one who cooks you breakfast katogo, the one who irons for you, the one who 'presses' your campaign wounds away at the end of the day, and listens to you bubbling your shit about “Abalonzi bano!”.
NRM started this campaign with a war cry, saying that the race for this seat would be a battle between President Museveni and Dr. Besigye, whose home is in Kyadondo East, and promising to whop FDC’s bottom till it was raw with red. Oh, the damage it would inflict! That remains to be seen.
That event was marked at a popular club in Kasangati with a row of dancers in the trademark yellow t-shirts shaking to traditional drums and kicking up a lot of dust. The crowd consisted mainly of middle-aged women wearing t-shirts over their other t-shirts and busuutis, sitting on a row of plastic chairs and sipping on mineral water, looking coy, and unconvinced that they were following the right candidate.
One man admitted that he had not voted for Sitenda in the last election, but promised that he would vote this time because Sitenda had once shipped in bunches of matooke and sold it to them at 2,000 shillings!
Omwana w'Omulaalo took to the front in an oversized coat. He sang praises about the chairman of the Paaate NRM, and the close relationship they had. He made promises about the tarmacking the Kira to Matugga road; about using the constituency fund to finance upcoming artistes, and that “Bobi Wine would head that committee”! I hope good Bobi did not hear that.
He made it clear that “Kizza Besigye was not popular in this area’. He showed off the banene banene like Minister Rose Seninde and “omukyala ono ava mu Siteeti Awusi”, before he was made to kneel down and was prayed for and lectured like a little boy.
The Paaate’s SG Lumumba reiterated the damage they would inflict on FDC, and that if things went out of hand, they would “take the law in our hands”. She spoke as Sitenda stood close by, laboring under the party flag on a wooden staff.
Then the dance opened and the coyness flew out the window. Legs and waists became liquid as the muziki took hold.
And just the other day, according to New Vision, NRM stalwart Gertrude Njuba threw a small spanner in the works, declaring that she would never support Sitenda because she has doubts about how he won the primaries, and how her late husband went to his grave with Sitenda never paying the money he owed him.
If he thought that FDC was the threat, he better think again.
This young lawyer Nkunyingi Muwada has really outdone himself this time round.
He didn't let the fact that FDC opted for Kantinti over him dampen his spirit.
His campaign has been peppered with all sorts of drama-filled episodes from carrying a 20-liter jerrycan filled with water on his head, throwing dice on a Ludo board with scores of ‘supporters, sitting in the dust as he literally 'wails' about the deplorable state of the roads in this constituency, and making promise after promise about how these will be things of the past when he is in Parliament.
The man has cleaned roadside drains, traversed the kilns to converse with brick-layers, bought bananas from village duukas, hawked cheap socks and hankies on a panty-peg hung from his neck, and eaten katogo k’a muwogo in tonninyira—— all in his dark-colored velvet coats which he sometimes wraps around his lean waist.
Muwada must have a lot of balls (pun intended) because he has one on every occasion- as he jigs away on top of his Noah, sorts green grams on a kadeeya, or sweeps a dusty school yard with the students. The man has even promised to eat a rat!
And his small army of faithful bakuyeges kneel as he kneels, they clap along as makes his pleas, and carry his posters on his door-to-door campaigns.
He sometimes forgets himself and gives the camera a sly side eye. A real drama king this one.
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Then there is Sowedi Kayongo Male, the doctor from Wattuba parish. He describes himself as a health worker. I thought people loved to throw that “Doctor” title around. Hmmm… I may be wrong. I did not witness his nomination, but the picture in the New Vision newspapers shows him decked out in a pristine white tuxedo.
The media has largely ignored him, preferring to take their television cameras and tape recorders to those they brand the 'front-runners'- the Bobis, Sitendas, Kantintis and Muwadas of this world.
In his only interview so far, he told the TV reporter that coverage in the media was hard.
The under-dog, the little-known candidate admits a funding problem, but is quick to add that though he may not be as popular as those front-runners, he will surely give them a run for their money.
He is also tired of sitting in the passenger seat, and wants to be the driver.
By the way, he is not moved by large gatherings. And he says that he’s not fazed by the other contestants because, “Everybody had their cards on Hillary Clinton. And see what happened!”
The Hajji also hates the commercialization of politics.
In this TV interview, it is very obvious that he got out the best suit after the tuxedo, gathered his small crowd of campaign agents- I can identify one as the sumbusa seller’s son (who now wears trousers)- and they walk around the village as they greet and shake people’s hands and tell them to vote Kayongo.
His campaign agent acknowledges that they may not be in the media but they are on the ground. That “we have the mathematics well-calculated and well- motivated and other contestants have misread the barometer.” Good PCM student this one.
Sowedi then proceeds to announce that he is giving out free treatment at his Iqra medical center in Wattuba.
The camera pans across an empty room where the bakuyege are gathered at his feet as he sits on the only chair present.
(Kayongo was my son’s doctor 20 years ago, treating him for all sorts of ailments and allowing to give his poor grandmother treatment on banja.)
But—— he knows he is sweeping the vote by 80%.
The only woman in the race was a non-starter and I wonder why she even declared her interest in the first place. Ms. Babirye Kamoome of the Democratic Party, that party that couldn't even field its own candidate in the presidential election, and went with Amama Mbabazi who collected a paltry 130,000 votes countrywide, decided that it would be better for Kamoome to opt out and let them put their ‘behinds' (as they are wont to do) behind a stronger candidate to defeat Na Ra Ma, the Paaate.
So, what sort of representative am I looking for?
What sort of MP do I want?
What do I want from my MP?
One who makes empty promises of paying my children’s school fees once he is in the august House; one who will go to Parliament and only warm the seat; one who loves to entertain; one who only thinks about his stomach; one who knows that the road to my home has pot-holes as deep as a pit-latrine; one who only comes to me when he wants my vote; one who has connections with high people but who I cannot guarantee will connect me to them, or that one who will tear open a rat and munch on its entrails?
This kneeling, pleading, bending over backwards- is it because they are SOOOO dying to serve me, or is it about the air-conditioned guzzlers and fully-funded perdiemed trips abroad.
A wide choice for the 68,000 voters of Kasangati, Wattuba, Gayaza, Kiteezi, Nangabo, Katadde, Wampewo, Bulamu, Masooli and Kabubbu to choose from the chest-thumpers, the power-hungry, the braggarts and the commoners.
So, my candidate of choice is ………
(Oh, I forgot that I am one of those disenfranchised (Oh, how I love saying that word!) Ugandans. And something else that I know from the two long nights I spent at the Gombolola headquarters in Nangabo in May, is that many Kyadondo Eastians are not registered for the national ID.)
Thursday, 8 June 2017
#disguisedunemployment
As I went through the security check (they even checked my short
natural hair!!) at the gate, a group of about 10 people carrying an
already set up tent approached.
Of course four would have sufficed, one for each pole, but the others came along anyway, with just their fingers holding on to the flaps.
Away from the 10, was an eleventh person, in a suit, issuing directives on how to carry the tent, how to walk with the tent, and finally, when they put the tent down --- how to put the tent down.
It reminded me of these people who stand around a ‘dignitary’ when s/he is planting a tree.
There is someone to hold the hoe.
Someone is armed with the watering can.
Someone else hovers near the empty jerrican.
Two people to pour the water into the jerrican.
Another pair of eyes to ensure that the water goes INTO the jerrican.
A different individual to hand over the hoe to the 'dignitary'.
Yet another overseeing the whole exercise.
And others standing by wearing set smiles, just waiting to clap as the hoe digs into the soil, to clap again as the plant is carried to the soil, and to applaud when the plant is firmly in the ground.
And someone else who takes the hoe when the planting is done, and hands it over to another person to take away.
And then they stretch their legs at the end of the day, and tell their spouses … “Today I did my share in building the nation…”
Of course four would have sufficed, one for each pole, but the others came along anyway, with just their fingers holding on to the flaps.
Away from the 10, was an eleventh person, in a suit, issuing directives on how to carry the tent, how to walk with the tent, and finally, when they put the tent down --- how to put the tent down.
It reminded me of these people who stand around a ‘dignitary’ when s/he is planting a tree.
There is someone to hold the hoe.
Someone is armed with the watering can.
Someone else hovers near the empty jerrican.
Two people to pour the water into the jerrican.
Another pair of eyes to ensure that the water goes INTO the jerrican.
A different individual to hand over the hoe to the 'dignitary'.
Yet another overseeing the whole exercise.
And others standing by wearing set smiles, just waiting to clap as the hoe digs into the soil, to clap again as the plant is carried to the soil, and to applaud when the plant is firmly in the ground.
And someone else who takes the hoe when the planting is done, and hands it over to another person to take away.
And then they stretch their legs at the end of the day, and tell their spouses … “Today I did my share in building the nation…”
Tuesday, 6 June 2017
#thenewhire
Ma Lihanna’s new maid starts all her sentences with “You”. “You gendi betthe" (You go and bathe), “You stop shoutingi”, “You oni the TV” (You switch on the TV), and things like that. And she has done another murder on Lihanna’s name because it is now a mix between Riona, Leona, and Fiona.
She must have been around for a couple of weeks now. Ma Lihanna mentioned to me three weeks ago that she was bringing a new girl after a temporary lull. (There was an unfortunate incident, a VERY unfortunate incident, involving the last maid, hence my short-term silence on the goings-on in this residence).
The new maid has a baby voice. I hope I can do the audio just so you know how she sounds. To be honest, whenever I tried out that voice last evening, I doubled up, because mine came out sounding so funny. She’s a nice sort, it seems and even when the kids really s-t-r-e-t-c-h her patience, she shouts only a little bit. Last Monday, she was playing a Catholic service on her phone radio in their backyard, and praying along to the Mirembe Marias.
But she couldn't pray along last evening, because her wards- Lihanna and her younger sister- were in rowdy mode. Full of beans, jumping beans. I think they had beans for lunch at school, but really bad beans, because they were so unruly. I could them yelling from the high command center that is my bedroom.
Someone had thrown her schoolbag by the door and was shouting “No! No!” to all requests to pick it up. In between there were some howls- it must have been Lihanna because the voice sounded bigger. Then when it was time to “Gendi betthe” (Go and bathe), someone started protesting that she wanted to use the shower and the maid was saying, “No, you use the bensin!” and then more yowling.
Of course the mother in me leaped to my feet, I was about to walk round to their house and tell them to “do as you are told and go to bed!” but I held back and let Maid take charge. After all, she's being paid.
Suppertime. “You harryap and finish yuwa food!” (Hurry up and finish your food!) That elicited a choir of cries.
I think they must have gone to bed at about 10pm or thereabouts because their shouts were still audible when Agataliiko Nfuufu started. Then I zoned out to watch the funny stories, with the head of the Abasamize falling headlong into an open grave when shots rang out as they fought over one of their dead members.
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