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.