The Case of The Hairy Female Presenter

The light from the bar was ample enough. I could see everybody who was important enough to be seen like the barman. In the seats across the bar were a group of people, and trying to be polite and also to score some bonus points with Barman who doubles up as the owner of the bar, I strode over to say hello to his guests.

I knew what I was doing. The hellos would be over before the minute was up and that would be that. With arm outstretched I clasped the hand of First Guest and Second Guest and shook them. When it came to Third Guest, my “hello” was so loud that even the deafest person could have heard it.

But something was going wrong here. Tell a lie, it had already gone horribly wrong! Third Guest who I thought was a man was not a man but a lady! How on earth could I have missed that? Her bosom was not exactly small that they even stood out with an invisible banner that read: “Get a hold of these 34DD’s.” She even had long hair so how could I have missed that feminism about her? Well I did.

Is there a Plan B when one is in this situation? Well I had no Plan B. I just stood there. My bladder which had been emptied only moments ago was suddenly on the verge of a major breakdown while my bowel had every intention of giving way and messing up my underwear. And with a major catastrophe looming, I still stood there lost for words.

Did I have a Plan C? I did. I hoped that the heavens would strike me down with a bolt of lightning. I thought I should either say sorry or just walk away and pretend nothing happened. To be honest, I can’t remember what I did and how I got out of the predicament. I just remember sitting at a table a few minutes later muttering: “Idiot, idiot” for a while.

A while back, Capital FM had a segment on The Morning Show, where listeners called in and vented their anger. Calling in, I unleashed my wrath on women who wear low cut blouses and yet have more hair on their chests than the average Nakivubo kanyama. That afternoon with more than a deal of misfortune, I had a meeting at the station. Before the meeting started, I chatted to Female Presenter who was not particularly amused by my morning rant.

“Eh, Timo” she said, “that rant of yours this morning was below the belt. Some women unfortunately have hair in the wrong places. It is not their fault.” But I was not listening to her even when it was plainly obvious by the look on her face that, she was trying to tell me something very close to heart. Given the chance to rebut, I had this to say:

TB: “But Female Presenter, listen here, if you chicks have hairy chests, why don’t you cover up or do something to get rid of it?”

Female Presenter: “Timo have you ever seen me wearing a low cut blouse?”

TB: “I can’t recall – why?”

Female Presenter: “I don’t wear them because I have a hair between by breasts.”
TB: (To himself) “Eek! And I thought she was hot babe, but hair between boobs? Not cool.”

Whatever sexy thoughts I had of Female Presenter evaporated in seconds and despite her eyes looking for sympathy that not even the late Mother Theresa or Princess Diana could muster, there was only one way out of the quagmire – to be struck down by a bolt of lightning.

Thou Shall Not...

I once had the misfortune of being invited out by a well known hotelier and his cronies for lunch after Friday prayers. I say misfortune for by the time we were done with lunch, the dining hall looked liked it had just played host to all the kids who go Teletubbies pre-school in Bugolobi! There was food scattered all over the floor – and get this, all the way down to the washrooms dare I say.

But for Hotelier, he did not see it as a big deal for after all, he owned the hotel, and because he owned the hotel, he surely must know what constitutes good table manners.

But what Hotelier did not know, is that by the time you go out to lunch or dinner, you have to take into account the setting that you are in. When we had the Friday lunch, Hotelier and Cronies displayed table manners that are more suited to an open air eating joint in the middle of the Taxi Park or Owino market. This is what they did.

Thou shall not spit bones onto the floor:

Regardless of what you are eating you do not spit your bones out onto the floor. These people were so uncouth that they splattered the floor with fish bones. Bones if anything are supposed to be discarded onto a side plate or to one side of your plate.

Thou shall not fight with the bone:

Some people like to wrestle with the bone. While there is nothing wrong with that, you have to take into account the situation that you are in. Fighting with the bone in the Owini restaurant or at Zanzi is perfectly acceptable. However no matter how appetizing the bone may look to bite on, doing it in a hotel is not on. In this case one man fought with the bone and in the process not only managed to soil half of his face, he also solid his shirt and trousers.

Thou shall not use your hands:

While using your hands is not taboo, again you have to take into account the situation that you are in. In this case the use of hands was not acceptable because the setting deemed it so. A knife and a fork were a must use but because some of the people found it easier to use their hands, that is what they did.

Thou shall ask if you don’t know:

At some point – perhaps before the start of the meal or at the end of it, Waiter shall place a small bowl which contains some water and a slice of lemon. Cronies, this is not an appetizer or a desert.

Thou shall not pick up the bowl drink its contents and then bite into the lemon as Crony did!

I should have told Crony that what he was doing was wrong, but because he had this air of having been to Dubai a couple of times, he was thus well travelled, so I let him be to make a mockery of himself.

But they did not just stop at displaying bad Table manners. They went a step further and starting cavorting with the female staff. And Hotelier had no problem with that because he even sent for out the ample and plump waitresses.

When they turned up, it was all about butt slapping, groping and asking for their cellphone numbers and dates. And because Hotelier was on the same table as Cronies, what would Ample or Plump Waitress say or do but to give into Cronies demands and say ‘yes’.

Uganda's Ministers Are just Farcical!

The Farcicals are at it again. I call them The Farcicals because often they are ridiculous, silly, nonsensical and incompetent. And The Farcical’s that I refer to, are Members of Parliament and some cabinet ministers. Read on.

Sunday Vision (January 31 2010) ran a story under the headline: ‘Ministers humiliated’ and the story ran along this text – “...the agricultural minister Hope Mwesigye and the state minister for tourism and trade, Serapio Rukundo were humiliated when they were not recognised at the burial of the LC4 councillor, Agnes Rwaheru in Kabale Municipality a few weeks ago.”

Am I on the wrong page here? Have I lost the plot? Can the real slim shady please stand up and tell me exactly where it says that ministers should be recognised at funerals? Minsters and MPs love being recognised. They relish in it and given the chance, if they attended a nursery school end-of-year party, they would most likely want the 3-year-old head-of-class to pick up the microphone and recognise them. If not, when they get home, they probably ask their wives to recognise them at the front door and most probably when they climb into bed as well!

When a minister or cabinet minister turns up at a funeral, they are no different from the other mourners – say the villager with jiggers, the herdsman or the local drunkard and therefore don’t need to be recognised. If an exception is to be made, I would think it would be if the minister or MP is representing the government.

What is even more embarrassing is that when contacted after the funeral, Rukundo had this to say: “..it was unfortunate that the mourners humiliated us” adding that he attended the burial as “a resident.” If he was a resident, then why did he want to be recognised? Surely as a resident everybody already knew who he was. Had all the other residents been recognised apart from him and that is why he threw his toys out of the pram?

This whole recognition hullaballoo is further pushed forward by Mc-ees who at functions continually persist in giving MPs and cabinet ministers undue attention. Take this example: While attending a wedding a few years ago, MC-ee tailored the reception to suit an MP who shall remain nameless. There was so much attention heaped on MP that one had to ask, whose function it was – MPs or the couple who had just gotten married. After being recognised on more than one occasion and right up to the point of the cake cutting, MP did not see it fit to tell Mc-ee that he (MP) was just a mere guest and that he (Mc-ee) should concentrate his attention on the bride and groom.

Rather, MP lapped up all the attention, and worse, after the speeches were done by both sides he had the audacity to ask Mc-ee for the microphone so that he too could give a speech even though he knew he was not scheduled to speak. Speeches were strictly reserved for the parents of the bride and groom. And his speech? A rambling utterance about his campaign strategy for the 2011 elections!

Rukondo, Mwesigye and any other MP or cabinet minister who revels in the recognition thing, should note that come 2011 and the election the results are out, many of them will no longer be recognised by we, the electorate and by state House. If anything, they should take the recognition chill pill as soon as possible and be easy and laid back like we unrecognised wanainchi are.

Women Still Want YOUR Wallet, Not You!

I was of the opinion that today’s woman had outgrown the ‘detoothing’ scam that their older sisters used to do fifteen or so years ago. I really thought they had because evidence of ‘sisters doing it for themselves’ is all around us.

I thought people like Justice Sebutinde, Allen Kagina of the URA and finance minister Syda Bbumba had inspired today’s generation of Young Woman that they need not rely on men for airtime, saloon money, Smirnoff Black Ice money or even ice cream money. But it so seems that whatever inspiration Sebutinde, Kagina and Bbumba may have to pass onto Young Woman today, it is all wasted. Today’s Young Woman is no different from Older Sister for the agenda is still the same – Detooth!

Two weeks ago, we called in on a wine shop-come bar that is below a pub somewhere in the Buziga neighbourhood. Young Ladies who run the shop have the: ‘I am in vac and going to campus’ attitude ‘and I am only working in this shop to pass time.’ And while they had some beauty about them, they flossed their bodies especially their butts – wriggling them about like jelly that is about to be served to kindergarten kids.

Anyway, we had a couple of drinks in the shop and because we did not pamper to their egos or swoon after their jelly like butts, we got more than our fair share of beef from them. The following day as we had a bite to eat in the cafe above the wine shop-come bar, one of them walked in and just to pacify her, we offered her a drink on our bill.

‘Thank-you’ was not forthcoming. Rather, it was a sneer of, ‘I really don’t want a drink from you but I am so broke I will take it.’ And she didn’t take it straight away. Rather she disappeared back down to her shop and returned ten minutes later with Male Friend.

As we watched them at the counter, there was something going on that did not look right. Waiter reached out for a tray, and on it, went four Smirnoff Black Ice’s, three Tuskers, one Club, a Bell and a glass of Amarula. Okay so we thought, apart from one Black Ice, all the rest of the drinks are on her. And down the drinks went to the pub below. When Waiter returned, he presented the bill and it was not a bill that bore a solitary Smirnoff Black Ice. Rather it was for the entire order and the conversation that ensued went along these lines.

WAITER: “This is the bill.”

TB: “Bill for what?”

WAITER: “That lady told me you had bought her a drink?”

TB: “Yes, one drink and not the whole f*****g bar!”

WAITER: “But she told me to put them on the bill.”

I had to laugh to myself for a while. The rest of the table looked at me, their faces all with contortions that read: “Eh, at least it is not me who has been detoothed!”

At this point my laughter had turned into anger and in a rage, off I went downstairs to confront Young Lady. Getting there, it was a sight to behold. All I saw was her laughing with Young Boy Wearing Vest and Uncombed Hair as she sat on the laps of Jeans Hanging off His Butt.

Uncombed Hair even had the nerve to shout out: “What’s up bro?” while, Young Lady smirked and planted kisses all over Jeans Hanging off His Butt who was drinking my Club, my Bell, my Amarula and my Tusker!

Is English An Issue In Uganda?

Nourdin is educated. Born to an Irish mother and a Ugandan father, his
parents gave him the best education their money could buy. And
obviously because of his education level, the women Nourdin aspires to
go out with, have to be in his same educational bracket. But while he
may have seen suitable suitors – in terms of dress and appearance,
somewhere down the line things do not work out. Out on a date with a
girl who had taken his fancy, everything went according to plan until
at the end of the very successful date, things went south. In his
words this is what happened.

Nourdin: “It is getting late and I think we should call it a night. I
had a good evening and I hope to do it again sometime soon.”

Date: “Thank you for the moment.”

Nourdin: (To himself): “What, what on earth? What is the moment –
which moment - paying the bill?”

By “thank you for the moment”, Date was talking about the evening out,
but rather than saying: “Thank you for the evening”, she and thinking
that she had uttered the best words her English could throw out, came
up with “thank you for the moment.” That was it for Nourdin. He threw
her out.

And then there was Timo who was out having lunch with a vivacious
would-be-emcee. Like Nourdin’s night out on the town with Date, Timo
thought Vivacious Would-Be-Emcee would be the ideal person for an up
coming conference. While lunch went well, Timo was a trifle worried
that Vivacious Would-Be-Emcee was uptight and spoke with an accent
that he thought was an American accent.

Dealing with the American accent was the least of his worries. He
would simply tell her to drop it. But with her being uptight, he
thought he would tell her a few jokes to calm her nerves. And while
the jokes worked, at the end of the evening, her true English – minus
American accent came out. This is what happened.

Timo: “Do you think you can handle the job?”

Vivacious Would-Be-Emcee: (now with a stronger northern accent than
that of Odonga Otto, MP) “I think I can, but can I tell you
something?”
Timo: “Why yes, go ahead.”

Vivacious Would-Be-Emcee: “You know Timo, you are full of comedy!”

Timo: (To himself) “Full of comedy? What does that mean?”

Obviously Vivacious Would-Be-Emcee did not get the job.

On the other hand, Pius had dated third year Najjemba for a while.
Unlike his previous girlfriends who he usually got into bed after less
than four bottles of Smirnoff Black Ice in Club Silk, he took it slow
with Third Year Najjemba. Pius was so smitten with her that he did not
notice the flaws in her English were more than just minor flaws.

After six months of dating, Third Year Najjemba thought that time was
right for their relationship to be consummated and with that, a happy
Pius whisked her off to some resort in the middle of a game reserve.
Candle lit dinner done with, they retreated to the room and
consummated their love. Once finished, they lay there in each others
arms when she said it.

Third Year Najjemba: “I rav you.”

Pius: “What does that mean?”

Third Year Najjemba: “You know, I rav you?!”

Pius (now unsure of what she means) “Okay”

Back in Kampala, Pius and after being told by his friends, realized
that he was so smitten about Third Year Najjemba’s beauty that he
overlooked her English. When she said ‘I rav you’, she meant “I love
you.”

For Nourdin, Timo and Pius, while they learnt that there are many
beautiful women out there, sometimes beauty is not enough. They need
more than just beauty.

We Need A Drink 24/7!

Just how many ministers do we have for early this week yet another minister we had never heard of, crept out of the wood works brandishing what I can only call a bizarre idea – That all bars will close by 10:00pm once the amended Enguli (liquor) Act is passed into law.

The utterance came from the State minister for industry and technology, Simon Lokodo, who got just about everything wrong except that there is indeed a need for a law that regulates what times bars can sell drinks.

One thing about Ugandans that Lokodo may not have observed from his air-conditioned chauffeured driven car (perhaps because since being in cabinet he has lost touch with reality), is that we take a very dim view of anybody who tries to sabotage or interfere with what we do after office hours.

After office hours is our time, our time to let our hair down and go have a beer. We like to drink our beers in places that we find conducive and not in places that are stipulated by government. We like to let our hair down and unwind all the weeks stress by partying till the wee hours of the morning.

There are many people out there who don’t like drinking in hotels as has been suggested by Lokodo. Further Lokodo has to understand that many more people drink their beer in kafunda’s and most times those kafunda’s happen to be in their neighbourhoods.

Before he made his utterance, Lokodo should have consulted me and I would have taken him out on a night on the town to show him how beer prices vary between those of hotels and in the kafunda and why people prefer bufunda’s. The bufunda’s also employ a vast army of men and women whose educational standards don’t enable them to get jobs in hotel or better places.

Lokodo did you know that a beer in Serena, Speke Resort Munyonyo, Sheraton costs around sh6,000 in comparison to bufundas who sell theirs at not sh2,500 for local beers? Maybe your ministerial salary affords you the luxury of drinking beer at sh6,000 but sh6,000 for a beer is a tight call.

Further, half the people who work downtown have probably never stepped into a hotel and can’t afford a drink of sh6,000. The sh6,000 they would pay for a beer in a hotel would probably last them an entire weeks of drinking in local bar is local bar where he is buying local brew at no more that sh100 a pop.

Lokodo cities Bebe Cool’s recent incident when he was shot and injured by a police officer at Centenary Park, for he said: “Drinking in open places for long hours has been causing violence in the city. This will be solved.” Hello, is somebody on crack cocaine here? Should somebody be making a trip to that government institution in Butabika to have themselves checked out for any lose connections?

Dude, there are many bufunda’s that operate in the city and for long hours at that, and not a single fight has broken out. Dude when did you last go to a kafunda?

In fact when Lokodo talks of violence, it is not us the wanainchi who fight. Rather it his fellow cabinet ministers who after getting drunk start pulling out their pistols and wanting to assure us of their importance. Then they don’t want to observe the regulations of the bar because they are ‘important people’; they even fight when their bodyguards try to put them into their cars to be driven home – or, is to the next kafunda? Lokodo should get his cabinet members into line before he starts branding us irresponsible.

Then up-country there is that man who has spent the whole day toiling for peanuts on a farm that is probably owned by somebody in government. When the day comes to a close and after hours of abuse by the owner of the farm as to how useless he is, he gets to his bar at 7:30pm and there is Lokodo telling him he only has half-an-hour of drinking time left! Obviously I can imagine what is going to happen next. He is going to walk back to his shamba get the panga out and start doing some chopping.

If Lokodo wants to introduce a drinking bill, he first has to define what the difference is between a bar and a kafunda. For example, is a shop that sells groceries but has a bench by the doors where customers can wait for their shopping a bar of a kafunda?

But while I do welcome a drinking law, like everything that is proposed by some minister, it is bound to fail because they will have now way of enforcing it. If I recall, 15 or so years ago, Kampala City Council tried to do the same thing. Nothing happened.

But good luck to you Mr. Lokodo in passing the bill and if you are reading this and you are up for it, the beers are on me tonight seeing it is a Friday. I will also take you to places where you can see your fellow ministers and legislators who are going to pass the bill being a nuisance and pulling out their pistols. But we shall of course use your car seeing you have a driver – you know there are police breathalyzer roadblocks these days.

What Time Do Bars close and Open Round The World

United States: 2am (with the exception of a few places like Vegas, NYC, Miami, etc.)
Mexico: Never
Canada: 2am
Brazil: Never
Argentina: Never
United Kingdom: 11pm (pubs), 5am (clubs)
Australia: 5am
Italy: Never
Russia: Never
Belgium: Never
Dominican Republic: 2am
Norway: 3am
Vietnam: Midnight
India: 2am
China: Never
Afghanistan: Midnight
Iraq: No bars
Chile: Never
Thailand: Never

I Am An Ambassador!

A few years ago I interviewed a former diplomat on radio and throughout the interview, the diplomat though retired, insisted I refer to him as Mr. Ambassador. I was later to find out that once somebody has been served the nation at Ambassadorial level, the title “Mr. Ambassador” is theirs for life.

Getting back, in my wildest dreams I never thought I would be an Ambassador. After all, how can I compete on the international foreign policy level when there are people like Minister Sam Kutesa and Ambassador James Mugume still in the picture?
But the calling came – not from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but from a BAT, a company that allegedly manufactures products harmful to one’s health.

When the calling came, BAT was all over my back. They not only wined and dined me they also sought out the services of one of Uganda’s top designers – Paula Butagira, to give me that Ambassadorial look.

And so the big day came when my Ambassadorial skills were put to the test at the launch of Dunhill in Speke Resort Munyonyo. To say I did more than just a sterling job is a gross understatement. I did more than that. I went over and above the call of my Ambassadorial duties.

Two weeks ago I got a call from William Kakaire who peddles BAT products for a living. BAT so he told me, is about to re-launch the Dunhill range and I am invited to the event. Of course I had to be invited to the event! And perhaps William did not know I was a brand Ambassador, but unlike the diplomat I interviewed on radio, I did not berate the young lad for not calling me Mr. Ambassador. Rather, I just let it slide.

So to the event I arrived – minus invitation card, but being an Ambassador, who will stop me for am I not the same level as the Chairman of the Board and the CEO? At the entrance when the 20k-a-night hostess asked me for my invitation card, I smirked at her for not instantly recognizing me, and the conversation that ensued went along these lines.

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “I am Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe.”

20k –A-Night Hostess: “What-ee?”

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “I am Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe.”

20k-A-Night Hostess: “But they told me everybody must show an invitation card.”

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “But 20k-A-Night Hostess, I am not an everybody! I am a brand Ambassador, but never mind, let me make a few calls.”

One call later and I was in but, where was all the pampering I got when Dunhill was being launched in Munyonyo for all the BAT employees just walked past me like I did not exist. Worse, I had to stoop so low in that I had to rub shoulders with ‘everybody’s’ at the bar to get a drink then scratch around looking for somewhere to sit. Not cool!

Throughout the event, I was not recognized or even called upon to say a word or two. Not even the CEO or the CFO saw it fit to come and say hello to me which got me thinking. Had I been recalled as brand Ambassador but nobody bothered to tell me. Do they have a new Ambassador who does the job better?

But to the people at BAT, my Ambassadorial services are much sought after by other companies. A simple apology plus a kaveera of Ambassadorial ‘fringe benefits’ would go a long way to soothing my ego otherwise, I might have to take up that offer Philip Karugaba’s TEAN offered me and you don’t want that do you?

I Am An Ambassador!

A few years ago I interviewed a former diplomat on radio and throughout the interview, the diplomat though retired, insisted I refer to him as Mr. Ambassador. I was later to find out that once somebody has been served the nation at Ambassadorial level, the title “Mr. Ambassador” is theirs for life.

Getting back, in my wildest dreams I never thought I would be an Ambassador. After all, how can I compete on the international foreign policy level when there are people like Minister Sam Kutesa and Ambassador James Mugume still in the picture?
But the calling came – not from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but from a BAT, a company that allegedly manufactures products harmful to one’s health.

When the calling came, BAT was all over my back. They not only wined and dined me they also sought out the services of one of Uganda’s top designers – Paula Butagira, to give me that Ambassadorial look.

And so the big day came when my Ambassadorial skills were put to the test at the launch of Dunhill in Speke Resort Munyonyo. To say I did more than just a sterling job is a gross understatement. I did more than that. I went over and above the call of my Ambassadorial duties.

Two weeks ago I got a call from William Kakaire who peddles BAT products for a living. BAT so he told me, is about to re-launch the Dunhill range and I am invited to the event. Of course I had to be invited to the event! And perhaps William did not know I was a brand Ambassador, but unlike the diplomat I interviewed on radio, I did not berate the young lad for not calling me Mr. Ambassador. Rather, I just let it slide.

So to the event I arrived – minus invitation card, but being an Ambassador, who will stop me for am I not the same level as the Chairman of the Board and the CEO? At the entrance when the 20k-a-night hostess asked me for my invitation card, I smirked at her for not instantly recognizing me, and the conversation that ensued went along these lines.

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “I am Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe.”

20k –A-Night Hostess: “What-ee?”

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “I am Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe.”

20k-A-Night Hostess: “But they told me everybody must show an invitation card.”

Ambassador Timothy Bukumunhe: “But 20k-A-Night Hostess, I am not an everybody! I am a brand Ambassador, but never mind, let me make a few calls.”

One call later and I was in but, where was all the pampering I got when Dunhill was being launched in Munyonyo for all the BAT employees just walked past me like I did not exist. Worse, I had to stoop so low in that I had to rub shoulders with ‘everybody’s’ at the bar to get a drink then scratch around looking for somewhere to sit. Not cool!

Throughout the event, I was not recognized or even called upon to say a word or two. Not even the CEO or the CFO saw it fit to come and say hello to me which got me thinking. Had I been recalled as brand Ambassador but nobody bothered to tell me. Do they have a new Ambassador who does the job better?

But to the people at BAT, my Ambassadorial services are much sought after by other companies. A simple apology plus a kaveera of Ambassadorial ‘fringe benefits’ would go a long way to soothing my ego otherwise, I might have to take up that offer Philip Karugaba’s TEAN offered me and you don’t want that do you?

Was I Abused at School?

The catholic establishment, right down to the Pope have issues. For splashed all over the news is story upon story of child sex abuse scandals melted out by catholic priests, bishops and all. Worse still are the stories that the Vatican went out of their way to keep the scandals under wraps.

Society deems the church as the pillar of strength, a source of guidance where people go to find inner strength, redemption and solitude. Even in war, as refugees, we take sanctuary in the confines of the church walls for in those confines, god will protect us.

When children look up at their peers, they have faith in them. They have faith in the headmaster, class teacher, housemaster right down to the priest of the church that they go to. If a child came back and told his parents that his housemaster or priest had touched him, nine out of ten times that child would have got a hiding – well at least in my days when I was still a lad and all this abuse stuff was very much under the carpet.

When I was at boarding school, (I can’t tell you which one though) strange things happened but because we had never heard of the word ‘abuse’ in relation to a sexual form, we didn’t think much about it. Our English housemaster was just like any other housemaster. He put us into line, made sure we had clean shoes, had laid our beds and more importantly to him, he made sure we had had a shower at the end of the day.

Alas, English Housemaster wouldn’t just take our word that we had all had showers. At 7:30pm, an hour before we were supposed to be in bed, we all had to line up at the foot of our beds for the ‘shower inspection’. English Housemaster would then walk down the aisle looking at each of us and if he suspected that you had not taken a shower, he would stop and beckon you to come forward. With an air of innocence about him, he would then thrust his hand down our pyjamas and feel our bottoms. If it was a cold bottom, it meant you had had a shower. A hot bottom meant you had not.

Okay so here we are in 1978 and just starting our teens when all this was going on. None of us then had heard of the word, paedophile. None us even suspected that out there, there are men who prey on young boys. So when English Housemaster was feeling our bottoms, we saw nothing wrong with it. He was our English Housemaster for Christ’s sake! Our parents had met him and he had come all the way from England to work in Kenya so what wrong could he do?

Asking some of the boys who were in that school when English Housemaster was there if they felt they had been abused, none of them was wiser for an answer. But today, if that incident happened, it would be all over the papers. It would be abuse and back then in 1978, it was still abuse.

The respect I was brought up to have for the church and men of the cloth dwindles by the day. How can anybody look at this man standing at the pulpit preaching the word of god then when you read the Monday papers the following day, you find out that he is into young boys?
Perhaps as a word of caution to parents, when your son tells you the most outlandish story that his housemaster or priest did this or that, do not berate the lad for not respecting his peers but investigate the matter.