Visiting Sunday's

How times have changed. Back in the 70s and especially on a Sunday when the then national broadcaster – Uganda Television that is, used to broadcast nothing but endless reels of either a North Korean, Chinese or Russian propaganda movie – if not hour upon hour of an Idi Amin speech, going to visit would be the order of the day.
Just after lunch and once our parents had had a nap, word would filter through the household that a visit as on. In households all over Kampala, our mothers would go through our closets and decide what were going to wear. And once sorted, we would clamber into the family car to go and visit. Sometimes the people we had gone to visit were not in obviously because they too had gone to visit. But going to an empty house would not deter a parent. Quite simply, the car would be turned round and driven to the next house or the next until a household that had not gone to visit was found.

On a few occasions at the household of the people that had not gone visiting, we found the people from the empty houses whom we had earlier called on. Visitation Sunday’s were a blast because often we got to meet cousins and many school friends. However, when the NRM came to power in the 80s, it signalled the end of visitation Sundays. Sundays then became a family affair, a day not to be interrupted by visiting friends or relations. If you went to visit, there was a good chance that the gateman would tell you that: “They are not in” even though through the crack between the gate and the boundary wall you could see their car and hear the kids playing somewhere in the compound.

A few years ago I had travelled – somewhere to the South West of the county to cover an event for my newspaper. For reasons which will become obvious as you read on, I am not going to mention the town or who the people are – but there are clues for you to figure it out. Anyway when one tycoon who hails from that area learned I was going to be in his town, he offered me the use of his house – a sprawling mansion on top of a hill that has a panoramic view of the city below. To say I was pampered – I was for the duration of my four day stay there.

But seeing that it was the Easter break quite a few people had also travelled from Kampala to that town including Banker and Judge who also hail from that area. On Easter Sunday, an emissary dispatched from the house of Banker came to look for me with an invitation that went along these lines. “That you are invited to visit the house of Banker for Sunday dinner.” Banker inviting me to his house on a Sunday and for dinner? It was an honour that I duly accepted.

That Sunday afternoon I spent the day trawling the solitary main street that the town has to offer and which was full of bicycle boda boda’s looking for a decent shirt to wear and at the appointed time, I set off to visit Banker. When I got there the crowd was impressive enough. There was Judge, Airline Tycoon and Property Tycoons amongst other people.

As the men talked, discussed business and drank fine wine and whiskey, Banker’s Wife was busy in the kitchen organizing what I can only describe as being a grand feast when it was served. With a living room of men drooling malusu at the sight and smell of what Bankers Wife had conjured up for us to devour, there was a minor interruption or was it an irritation but an irritation that was justified. Yes, there was grace to be said and with that, Banker’s Wife stood up and asked us to do the needful. Leading from the front, she took her husband’s hand in one hand and Property Tycoons hand on the other. I too stood up as did everybody else and held hands too. With our heads bowed and eyes closed, Banker’s Wife started saying grace.
But hey, there was something amiss for there seemed to be an air of discontent as she started but I assumed that is how grace is said in that region. But the more the ‘voice of discontent’ went on, the more it began to dawn on me that the disgruntlement was getting out of hand.

Peering through a slither of an opening in my left eye, I looked round the living room and eek, there was somebody who had not stood up for grace! Fully opening my eyes to see who it was, it was none other than Judge! Judge was rooted to his seat with more than a scowl on his face and a glass of whisky in one hand.

As his issues became audible, he had this to say: “Banker’s Wife, you think we drove all the way from Kampala to come for prayers? If you want to pray, you just go and pray alone. We want to have a relaxed evening drinking whiskey so stop bothering us.” And with that, he stood up and smashed his whiskey glass into a million particles on the floor.

Banker’s Wife did not bat an eyelid and simply carried on with grace. Later and as we served ourselves, in the queue behind me I heard a growl that was followed by the now all too familiar disgruntled voice telling me: “Eh, you can’t wait until I have served myself?” It was Judge. Then looking at Bankers Wife he added: “Banker’s Wife, this young boy, I don’t understand him” followed by yet another growl. With that I put down my plate and fled to the back of the queue.