Thursday, August 4, 2011

The Tint on The Car

For reasons best known to the army commander, Aronda Nyakairima and his security detail, he is driven round in a 4x4 SUV with personalised number plates and its windows fully tinted. There is also a minister who is driven in a sleek blue Mercedes-Benz and whose government plate number ends with the letter H. The Mercedes is fully tinted just like the 4x4 of some army chap whose army number plate ends with 0131D

A good number of government officials, especially those involved in security, tinted cars are the way forward – their mali dadi. But why drive around in cars with full tint? Are they scared of being seen and pointed at as being sinister people? A cause for food for thought don’t you think?

In the Idi Amin era, the favoured car by his State Research Bureau was the Datsun with UVS number plates. During the Obote II days, his NSA didn’t have time to indulge in tinted cars. You were simply told to ‘panda gari’ (a pick up) and that was it.

Getting into the cowardly tale, I don’t think I am breaking any state secrets but in Uganda today, the car favoured by plain clothed security agents is the Toyota Premio with – if you guessed it, give yourself a pat on the back - fully tinted windows. If you doubt me, just ask Kalundi Robert Serumagga who was bundled into one albeit, in the boot.

Johnny works for Silk Events. And though the muscle about him is terrifyingly on the larger-than-large side and he could plummet into a coma anybody that dared take him on, he is a mild mannered person who rarely loses his cool.

His ride is a Premio, with full tint on all the windows. So dark is the tint that, it is next to impossible to see out of the windows. He even had to cut part of the tint so could peer out into his side mirrors.

I have borrowed Johnny’s car and I am headed to Portbell. Driving through Bugolobi, there is a jam at the MTN Switch junction. As we wait for the jam to start moving, three tinted Premio’s overtake and squeeze up in front of me. Normally with such a move, I view it as an invitation to a verbal melee and if need be, a physical one. But for some reason, I am feeling lethargic that I pass on stirring up both the verbal and physical melees.

As we start to move, there is a pick-up that is also trying to force its way through and now I am not feeling lethargic any more. I have been rubbed the wrong way by a driver who thinks he can just push in. Hmm, he is kidding! My window winds down and out pops my mudomo (mouth) that unleashes a volley of not-so-kind words at Pick-Up Driver.

Satisfied with the unleashed vulgar words, I however don’t get very far because there is a tapping on the roof of the car and it’s when I spot him. He is wearing shades, black trousers and he has a gun – an AK-47 to be precise. Obviously, I go into freeze mode as I try to retract the vulgar words that I had hurled at Pick-Up Driver.

But AK-47 Man is seemingly not bothered by my foul mouth. He is perturbed because he’s noticed I’m trying to turn right at the junction to head to Portbell and he is violently hitting the roof of the car and telling me to turn left – as in heading towards Nakawa. I am however insistent that I am turning right. My insistence is broken down when his colleague produces a pistol. The pistol convinces me that turning left as I have been instructed is the right move.

I follow the three Premio's on what I can only describe as a death defying speed past the catholic church – Lady of Africa where, I have flashbacks of a nervous OPP and Ojuts freaking out because they are about to walk down the aisle and down the back streets of Mbuya and into a guarded complex where, I have just enough time to flicker my eyes at the sign post at the entrance which reads, Nakawa Magistrates Court.

Have I been arrested or abducted? Have I offended the state or the person of the presidency? In a blazed state last Friday, did I mouth off abuse at President Museveni and was overheard by an agent from ISO? Had I leaked state secrets to Kigali or Kinshasa?

Inside the Nakawa Courts complex, the Premio’s squealed to a halt by the holding cells and no sooner had they stopped, the back doors flung open with armed men pilling out and taking positions round the cells and perimeter wall.

For a moment I felt I was in a Ugandan movie re-make of Mission Impossible II except, that the music in the background from Sanyu FM, was hardly appropriate or high octave. It was the lovey-dovey song, Jim by The Afrigo Band. You see my point?
Once Men With Guns were satisfied that all was well, that the complex had been contained, out came men who were handcuffed and with their legs in chains – almost like it is in a gulag in the depths of Siberia.

While all this was taking place, I tried to figure out how I came into the picture. Was Undercover Agent going to deal with me later? Had he really overheard me as I abused the person of the presidency last Friday? Will I be taken before the magistrate or merely driven to a safe house in cuffs and in the back of a tinted Premio?

And just like that, I became the centre of attraction – perhaps because I was not wielding some form of armament and I stood out. In Swahili, the conversation that ensued went along these lines.

Man With AK-47: “Who are you?”

TB: (and thinking my response was under my breath): “As if who are you?”

Man With AK-47: “What did you say? I ask you to identify yourself and you ask me who I am?! Do you know that this is a secure area? Why are you here? You, arrest that man!”

TB: “But affande, you are asking too many questions and you have not given me the time to think or answer them. I don’t know why I am here. Pick-Up Driver told me to follow you here.”

Man With AK-47: “Don’t you know this is a secure site?”

TB: “I do, but ask Pick-Up Driver why I am here.”

Man-in-Shades: “Affande, he came driving this car.”

Looking at my car – well not my car but Johnny’s and then back at me, Man With AK-47 walks towards me and says, “but don’t I know you? Ah, let me see. You are Bakumunhe not so?”

Here we go again. My surname has been mispronounced for the sixth time and it is barely 10:30am so there is a need to bookmark the story and make the necessary corrections.

Not that I have anything against the Rwandese or anybody who happens to be a westerner – say a Mukiga, Munyakole, or a Mutoro, my surname does not have the letter ‘A’ in it and therefore, it cannot be pronounced ‘Baku-mu-nhe’ as most of you are so fond of pronouncing it. Rather, it is pronounced ‘Buku-mu-nhe’ (silence on the ‘H’). Are we together? You got my drift?

Back to the story. I had thought of telling Man With AK-47 all that, but I figured it might not be a wise move because (A). He is holding an AK-47 and (B). He could put me ‘indani’(security speak meaning ‘locked up’).

The conversation resumes.

Man With AK-47: “There must be some mistake. I think my people thought you were one of us. But why are all your windows tinted? You want to hide from the police is that why?”

Man With AK-47 is throwing all sorts accusations at me and just because he has an AK-47, he thinks he can bully me?! Shia! Let me show him how hard I can be! However what I throw back at him is hardly macho talk. I merely quiver, tell him it’s not my car but Johnny’s and practically beg for forgiveness.

They then search the car, ask for ID which, I didn’t have and just before they let me go, they gave me some sublime warnings. With that, I was free to go. And as a reminder to Serumagga and anybody out there who has fallen out with the state, when a Premio with tinted windows turns up at your home or office, I suggest you grab your passport and make a run for it! By the way, I think the previous sentence might get me into trouble but, what the heck for by the time the security agents read this, I would have crossed Busia border and into Kenya!

Andrew's Wedding

Weddings and regardless where in the world they take place, are a cause for celebration. The same gusto that a wedding in Uganda has is the same gusto that a wedding in Papa New Guinea, America, Brazil and England for example have. It is a time to party, make merry, drink more than a beer too many and for the bride and groom, to sit at the high table while trying to work out just who on earth invited the couple who have heaped their dessert on the same plate as the main meal.

The first English wedding that went to was that of Andrew Norman, an old school friend. After university Andrew joined the police force and after graduating from police academy he thought it was about time he made an honest woman of Julie. While Julie was thrilled, I don’t think she was all amused at being proposed to in a pub but nevertheless, it didn’t bother me because it was Andrew and not I, who would have to face her tantrums years to come. And she had tantrums by the container full.
In the build up, there were no wedding, committee meetings or fundraisers to attend. All we had to do was to turn up. Not to say that as a policeman, Andrew was loaded. They way the wedding system works in England, is that the bride’s parents pay for the wedding.

Hang on. I have just read through what I have written thus far and it reads like I am giving a lecture rather than telling a cowardly tale but bear with me, I will get there soon enough.

In Uganda, kasiiki’s or appropriately putting it, stag or hen nights are usually held on a Thursday night – two days before the wedding on Saturday. But in England, they hold them on Friday, a mere day before the wedding and it is no fancy affair where Groom and Best Man turn up in Silk Lounge in matching shirts and trousers as happens here. There, it is a simple case of heading off to the local pub and getting blazed. And thus my lecture ends.

It was to The Prince of Wales pub that we headed for Andrew’s stag night and it wasn’t just about drinking. Two strippers had been hired to spice things up as well as to give Groom a chance of sowing his last ‘wild oats’.

I would have told you what Strippers did to Groom but for the sake of keeping the peace with Sidney, the editor of this magazine, who would have been so NOT amused had I explicitly laid everything bare, I have decided to keep mum.

With Strippers paid, they did a number of acts which most men would be more than okay with, but which women would have defined as being disgusting. For the finale, they let Groom sow his wild oats with them on the pool table.

Groom was not a chap who could hold his ale that by midnight he started to exhibit signs of passing out and he did shortly after 11:00pm.

But who would have thought that Groom passing out would signal the end of the party. Rather, we threw him into a cab and headed across London to King’s Cross Station. There, we got him a single ticket to Edinburgh in Scotland, relieved him of his wallet and money and in his drunken and passed out state, we bundled him onto the train.

Saturday morning. Wedding day. The first call from Bride came through just after 6:30am. She wanted to know if Groom was awake and sober. How would we know seeing Groom was on his way to Scotland? The second call came twenty minutes later and this time demanding to speak to him. Though feeble, excuses were made and as the morning wore on, Bride began to suspect something was amiss.

Meanwhile Groom had woken up on the outskirts of Edinburgh. His troubles like our troubles back in London were just starting. With no money or a credit card on him, he made a reverse charge phone call to his flat where we had spent the night. We bought him a return ticket in London which he picked at the train station in Edinburgh and was on the first train back to London.

Meanwhile emissaries had been sent by Bride to the flat to report on the state Groom. Having not seen him, they went back all alarmists! And that was it. Bride lost the plot and more than wailed on the phone as to how we were about to ruin her wedding day.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. To save time, one party was dispatched to Kings Cross Station with Grooms wedding attire and the other to the church to calm down Bride who apparently had a river of mascara running down her cheeks. If I was there, I would have lashed out at her and told her to get a grip, but luckily for her, I was at Kings Cross.

When the train pulled in, we had less than an hour to get Groom to church. He showered at the station and again to save time, we thought it best if he got dressed as we drove to church.

At church, though Bride’s limo had driven twice round the block, she was happier now that she had heard from Groom and Emissaries who had confirmed that that we were en-route to church. The river of mascara had also dried up much to my annoyance because I didn’t get to tell her to get a grip of herself.

In the van we too, were much more relaxed and settled with Groom busy musing over his train journey. However, when we got to church, it was not heaven that awaited us but rather an invitation into hell. We had everything for Groom – right down to the wedding rings but in our haste, I had forgotten to bring shoes. No, not my shoes, but those of Groom.

There was not much that could have been done for Bride, Her Father and Emissaries were adamant that they were not going to drive round the block again while we sorted out shoes. I don’t think they knew it Groom who didn’t have shoes. And so the service went ahead with Groom ever so smart in an off white winged collared shirt, silk cravat, grey waistcoat, pin-striped morning suit and – wait, wait for it, a pair of tattered white Nike sneakers!

At the reception, Bride broke with protocol to give a frosty speech. “Timothy, Damien...I hate all of you. I really hate you. I trusted you all and this is what you do to me? You get my dear Andrew drunk, dump him on a train and allow him to turn up for his wedding in Nike sneakers? I can see you sniggering but it’s not funny!”

To be fair to Bride, we were not just sniggering. We were having a raucous laugh and giving each other high fives under the table!

The true horror of the Nike sneakers was revealed when a few days later we watched the wedding video. Bride is all smiles as she walks down the aisle and as she stands by Groom who lifts up her veil, she spots Nike sneakers. Her face goes into a contortion that even the great escapist Houdini, could not muster and if you lip read what she was saying, it was along the lines of, “You f**k bas***d Andrew, what have you done? You have ruined my wedding! How could you do this to me? Really Andrew how could you?!”

In their wedding album, there are no full length photographs of Bride and Groom nor are they any photos of Damien, me or the rest of the boys. Like we cared!
I wonder what she would say if she found out the real reason as to why their honeymoon was postponed by a few weeks. You see, Groom picked up an STD from Strippers and as he convalesced, he hid Damien’s flat while telling Bride that he was away on another police training course.

Bride though has not forgotten nor has she forgiven me. While she and Groom will be celebrating twenty years of marriage this December, two weeks ago, Groom sent an e-mail in which he talks of a mega party to which I amongst others are not invited for as he put it “my hands are tied and you all know why”. “Not to worry” so Damien replied, “for we are organising our own bash in the pub to which she is not invited.” I wonder if I should ask him to include Strippers on the guest list. Hmm!

The Power of Communication

The most common and popular brand of communication on the market today, is of course, talking. Other forms of communication are e-mail, letters and SMS for example. Despite the popular brands, there are some people out there who want to use something different – to be unique in their own right. Amongst the other unconventional favoured brands of communication are, ‘psst’, ‘gwe, hand clapping and simply, whistling.

Those bands if I dare so are the worst. I sneer at them and at the people who use them. However, in some parts Kampala City – especially downtown, ‘psst’, ‘gwe’, hand clapping and whistling are the IN thing and without question or hesitation, people do respond when any of those applications are used. For example, in the old Bamboo Nest in Bugolobi, however polite you are when you hail a waitress and use words like ‘excuse me madam’ you are simply wasting time. I have tried it on a number of occasions and it simply does not attract their attention. However, try the brand of ‘psst’, ‘gwe’, hand clapping or whistling and out of every nook, the waitresses will come pouring out. Maybe their grey matter is not all that and is incapable of registering polite words so I thought to myself.

Taking the experiment to Kampala Road by Nandos, I tried it out on the Green Boat parking attendant. After having parked for two hours, getting Parking Attendant to come and tends to my needs was no easy task. Three cars away, I could see her slumped in a booth and staring at me. The fact that I was standing by the car with the door open and looking at her as she looked at me, I thought we had communicated by ‘brain blue tooth’– that it had registered as in, ‘man standing by a car with the door open and with parking tickets in hand, means he wants to pay and be on his way’. But she didn’t budge.

Before I could think of a plan ‘B’, the person parked behind me and who also wanted to pay and be on his way simply clapped his hands and that was it. Commotion! Four taxis stopped and asked if he was going to Luzira, Ntinda Stretcher, Mukono or Jinja. Parking Attendant was also on her way towards him as were three boda boda’s including one man who was across the street and a newspaper vendor.

When he turned up, Man Across The Street had a demanding look written about his face and wanting to ‘know’ who had called him while Newspaper Vendor was busy thrusting a rag of a tabloid into his face. Boda Boda Chaps looked despondent when it dawned on them that the hand clap was not meant for them while Parking Attendant was full of smiles. She shuffled her booty much like a Lake Victoria wave during low tide into the commotion and did the needful. Since then and whenever I am in town, however much it may itch, I will not look around or acknowledge ‘psst’, ‘gwe’, a hand clap or a whistle.

At the start of this month, I find myself on Kafumbe Mukasa Road. Kafumbe Mukasa Road? Where on earth is that I hear you cry. Kafumbe Mukasa Road (don’t ask me who Kafumbe Mukasa was or is for I don’t know) is a slip road that runs down the entire length of Nakivubo Stadium and I think into the slums of Kisenyi. Like I said, I think. And I got to know of this road through my annual pilgrims to Nakivubo for Simba FMs, Kiggunda.

Kafumbe Mukasa Road is next to impassable. It is in a dilapidated state, the pavements are swamped by anybody who is into metal works while, the wheelbarrow pushers, human traffic, bicycle and motorbike boda boda’s battle it out for whatever little road that is seemingly in a good shape.

I ended up on Kafumbe Mukasa road because I tried to be smart by taking a short cut through Owino Market and promptly got lost in the maze of alleyways. When I emerged on Kafumbe Mukasa Road, I had no idea where I was and wandered round in circles and all lost which, I think is the obvious thing that happens if you are wandering around in circles. Then I saw it – the gold coloured dome of the mosque at Old Kampala. So I figured that as long as I walked towards the dome all will be ok.
I started walking and every now and again I looked up just to make sure I could see the dome. And I could see it. I then get to an intersection that has a traffic jam.

As I wait to cross the road, without realisation, the sheer volume of human traffic pushed me off track that when I next looked up, I couldn’t see the dome. Scouring the skies and there it is behind me, so I backtrack occasionally stopping to ask for directions and the answer is always ‘mumaso awo’ (there in front).

With a sense of renewed energy, I trudge on and get all caught up in the mix of a bustling Kafumbe Mukasa Road on a Sunday. Up ahead there is another intersection looming and this time I make sure that I am not pushed off course. As I turn into the intersection, the ground is vibrating. There are two workmen whose pneumatic drills are making them dance round the hole they are trying to dig while a crowd watches. In this part of Kampala, Men With Pneumatic Drills will elicit more than a sizeable crowd. But I am above that for there is no way I can idle around to watch while holding onto my crotch for dear life with my mouth agape as the men who were watching were doing.

As I walk past them with a sneer of a look of my face, somebody shouts out ‘gwe’ which, is followed by two handclaps and a whistle all in quick succession. But hey, it’s me TB. And what has TB always done? Ignore, ignore, ignore. Four more louder hand claps ring out and in front of me, I see a man look up, get off his stool and heads towards the direction of the clapping, behind me.

As we are about to pass each other, he stops, grabs my arm and in Luganda, he tells me I am being called. My response is not that of ‘who is calling me’ and engaging in idle chit chat. I firmly tell him he has made a mistake. But he is insistent. I break my rule and look round. There is a man crouched near the hole that is being carved by Men With Pneumatic Drills and pointing in my direction as his other hand tugs at his crotch.

I am so sure I don’t know him for in my circle we don’t tug at our crotches in public. Walking off, the hand clap rings out yet again and I stop and look round. Eek, I am not supposed do that! Worse still, I find myself walking over to him. As I get to him, a man comes racing past and into the arms of the person who I thought was calling me.

Now I sort of look stupid just standing there and to get myself out the mess, I continue walking right past them over to watch Men With Pneumatic Drills at work and since it’s not something that I have done before, I am a loss as in, is there a law that says men must always be in a crouched position while playing with their crotches like the rest of the men are doing or can I just stand there and swirl a toothpick in my mouth? I opt for the latter except that I don’t have a toothpick and
I am also standing on the wrong side of the hole being carved out by Men with Pneumatic Drills, for moments later, there are screams as part of the road gives way.
“Gwe, what is wrong with you?” a man who appears to be the foreman shouts out in Luganda. “You leave the Kiggunda just to come and watch Men With Pneumatic Drills?! That is the problem about people not going to school. Now look at you stranded on the wrong side.”

It’s a while before they manage to get a plank and I cross back. And as I head off to Kiggunda, Men Holding Crotches mutter how I am the type of person who will stand in the middle of the pitch asking people how the artistes can be performing on the stage yet, at the same time they are also performing on the four big screens.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Idle In Namuwongo

I really don’t know if I should be proud of myself but, there is one thing that I have always wanted to do and that is to ‘pass time’. It has taken me sometime to understand the logic behind it and when some years ago I was invited to a friend’s house to pass time, while I turned down the invitation, I itched to know what was involved.

At a loss, I scratched around and eventually asked cousin Robert K, who is a communications manager and he told me that it had something to do with ‘not having anything to do’ – as in being idle.

Enter Dr. Ian Clark. Don’t get me wrong but I don’t think Dr. Clark is idle – not now anyway and seeing that he heads Makyinde Division there is plenty to keep him busy like trying to figure out how to deal with the daily melees from De Posh Bar In Kabalagala which spill out into the streets and the booming music that keeps the Muyenga neighbourhood awake for the best part of the night.

Dr. Clarke wrote a few Sundays ago about his run in with an idle traffic cop at the Nsambya lights. That said, anybody who lives in Muyenga will surely have noticed the two traffic policewomen who stand opposite The Ethiopian Village restaurant. If not, they stand somewhere between Zzimwe Construction and Shell petrol station on Kibuli Road. Traffic Policewomen have made it a mission of stopping me on a daily. It went from them ‘doing their job’ to what I thought was harassment and to what I would now class as being idle – or to use a different terminology, passing time. They really like to pass time with me especially Fat Traffic Policewoman. Skinny Traffic Police Woman on the other hand, is seemingly still learning the passing time ropes.

Getting back, when teenagers want to pass time, they head into town. I don’t know where in town it is that they go, but it is to town that they head. For the adult, passing time hotspots include Ndeeba, Bwaise and Arua Park for example.

But why go all the way to into town yet there is Namuwongo that is closer to home? In Namuwongo, if you want to be idle, one of the best places to perch yourself is by the Stanbic Bank ATM. Why the Stanbic bank ATM, that I don’t know and with hindsight, I should have called up the bank and asked them if they knew why, but with not airtime, I let it be. So I guess for the time being we will never know.

The opportune passing time moment came weeks after Dr. Clarke’s victory when an antique grader rumbled through in an attempt to restore some sanity to the Namuwongo roads that have gone to the dogs. And let’s face it; a grader rumbling through the streets of Kampala is nothing new. We have all seen them but to the men in Namuwongo – as a sad and pathetic bunch that they are, watching a grader at work brings more than a sparkle to their eyes – almost as if they are watching rocket science at work.

Standing outside the Stanbic ATM, (I can feel Stanbic management cringe at the thought of their ATM being a passing time hotspot) I watched the grader make its first sweep. When it came back for the second, two grown men were running alongside it and I guess when they saw me in character, as in passing time character, they joined me and the conversation that ensued in a mixture of bad Luganda (from me) and English (from Two Grown Men) went along these lines.

Two Grown Men: “Eh, this grader is not the one that they tend to use on this road. It must have come from a different division.”

TB: “Oba?”

Two Grown Men: “Naye that driver is too hard! Look at the way he reverses without looking back.”

TB: “I think that is really stupid of him. Do you know he could cause an accident?”
Two Grown Men (looking at me in disbelief): “Gwe, can you even drive a grader let alone a car?”

TB: “Shiya!”

There is a lull in the conversation and for obvious reasons. Whatever I have told them has irked them that they have shut me out of their conversation. We are soon joined by a hawker selling basins. Putting down his wares, he stares at the grader. Apart from that, he has his mouth ajar and I can see a ball of spit with the remains of whatever he had for breakfast beginning to form in the corner of his mouth.

The spittle is getting bigger that anytime it will have enough momentum to start rolling down his lower lip. I was right. It does. And like a slimy lizard that has just hatched, the ball of spit slimed its way over his lip but didn’t break off and fall to the ground for it was still being held by a thin thread of an umbilical cord of spit and like a yoyo, the ball of spit bobbed up and down while gathering the required momentum until it broke free. Splat! It’s hit the ground.

I don’t think Basin Hawker realised what had just happened because he didn’t even budge or wipe his lip. In its agape state, I could see the next ball of spit beginning to build up.

A sizeable crowd had by now built up and everybody has some to offer. Some people claim to know the driver, others have seen the grader in action during the construction of the Northern By-Pass, while others argue that is Erias Lukwago and not Dr. Clarke who ordered that the road be graded.

While all this is going on, I feel I am not doing it right – the passing time bit that is. Everybody else seems to have got it down to a T. If they are not dribbling malusu, they are showing how they can flip, swirl or roll a tooth pick in their mouths and then use it as an ear pick while others have their arms draped round each other almost like they are cajoled twins. If I want to be taken seriously as somebody passing time, I really have to get my act together.

Taking my cue from a young boy across the road, I squat and also take it a step further. And for the lack of a better way to say it, I firmly clasp my hand on my scrotum. Yes, I know it’s a yuck thing to do in public but in Namuwongo, it is the norm.

I have almost forgotten that my hand is firmly clasping my scrotum when my name rings out. “Bukumunhe, Bukumunhe, are things that bad that you have resorted to squatting by the roadside?” Looking up, it’s an elderly man in a Prado. The person in the passenger seat whom I take to be his wife, is leaning over with a sneer of a disgusted look on her face. She shakes her head as they drive off. Though I don’t know them, I am embarrassed but let it slide. The grader is now back and has a mechanical problem for the engine keeps on switching off.

I too have a mechanical problem in the scrotal area like a bad itch, so I do the need full and tug at them and at the wrong time. Graders mechanical problem has caused a traffic jam and right in front of me is a Nadia car with four young ladies in it and who are shrieking.

“It’s disgusting” I can hear one of them say. Another voice breaks out, “Look, look, that is TB! I swear it is TB!” I know I have seen one of them before but can’t exactly remember where until a few days ago when I walk into Game.

“Excuse me TB” she says. “I am a fan and sometime back I read an article you wrote where you said you abhor men who walk about town and are tugging at their crotches. It is a pity that you don’t practise what you write. I mean a whole TB squatting by the roadside and playing with his crotch while being idle? So not cool!”

Before I could retort, she was on her heels and walking off. Under my breath I say “I was not being idle! I was merely passing time and I had an untimely itch when you saw me. And seeing that I was in Namuwongo, I guess it was ok to do it because all men who live in Namuwongo do it.” Now that’s got me thinking. I wonder if Mr. Ras, the cartoonist still lives in Namuwongo? Hmm, food for thought!

It's Time To Declare War On The Scroungers!

The Oxford English Dictionary describes a scrounger as: “Someone who tries to get things especially money or food, by asking for them inst...