Force Majeure

There has been no honeymoon for barely days into her new assignment as Editor of this magazine, Esther has shown her wrath. In my column last week she had issues with a line that read: “She clenched her butt cheeks...” Hmm, I wonder where the ‘misdemeanour’ was but then again, she is the editor so I guess whatever she says goes. Never one to give up, I will try again today and see if I can get away with it.

Enough about Esther - let’s get into the meat of today’s Cowardly Tales. Force Majeure. Force Majeure according the dictionary on my lap top is a French term literally translated as ‘greater force’. This clause is included in contracts to remove liability for natural and unavoidable catastrophes that interrupt the expected course of events and restricts participants from fulfilling obligations.
This clause is meant to benefit both parties in a contract. Force Majeure would come into play, for example, when you buy a house. If the house is destroyed in a fire caused by a lightning strike, neither party remains obligated.

Force Majeure is not a normal run-of-the-mill word thrown about on a daily basis. It is a word favored by lawyers and insurance brokers. They like using it not only because it confuses the average layman they deal with but, they would rather not use the words ‘we won’t pay’ in a contract. ‘We won’t pay’ is too black and white and harsh. If you read that in a contract would you sign on the dotted line? I know I wouldn’t, so they use the word Force Majeure to pull the wool over our eyes. Clever people they are!

The human body also has to contend with Force Majeure for it will tell you that if drink un-boiled water and you end up with a stomach upset, neither party remains obligated. In this context the concerned parties are your stomach and the vendor who sold you the water.

It was a few years ago when WBS Television threw a mega anniversary party at Speke Resort Munyonyo. Seeing that I had at one point worked for WBS as a producer, I expected to be invited. I was though the invite came with something extra. Elvis Sekyanzi who was then the Executive Director of the station asked if I would give a speech. I was a trifle hesitant but nevertheless accepted.

What didn’t I know about WBS or its owner Gordon Wava? During my tenure at the station, my relationship with Gordon had its up’s and down’s. We were both big headed and we both felt the need to impress and ‘out do’ each other with our knowledge of television. But like they say, you can’t have two bulls in a kaaral and with Gordon being the bigger bull than I, is there any need to guess which bull had to take a hike? Me of course! Though I hiked, there was no bad blood spilt that to-date, I have a very strong and healthy relationship with him.

The day of the anniversary party, I woke up feeling good despite having quaffed more than I should have the previous night. I wasn’t ‘hanging’, my eyes were not blood shot and my stomach felt good. As the day wore on, I made adjustments to my speech, had a hearty lunch followed by a nap.

At the party, the guest list was impressive enough but while everybody was quaffing on champagne, an assortment of beers and spirits, I was on orange juice. I had to be because I wanted to have a clear and focused head as I delivered my keynote speech.

As I battled my nerves someone suggested I have two shots of Johnnie Walker black label. Now anyone who has been fortunate enough to have a drink with me knows I don’t do spirits. Period! It has to be a TML or Tusker Larger. With nerves that have to be soothed I figured, why not? I didn’t do just two shots but four.
And then deliverance time came. MC announced my name and when he did, I saw the 500 plus guests look in my direction. There was a ripple of applause as I majestically strode towards the podium.

I was almost there when I felt a grumble in my stomach. It was not a grumble of hunger or a quest for a TML. This grumble had all the hallmarks of a Force Majeure written over it. Either the four shots of Johnnie Walker had an adverse reaction with my stomach or the combination of a carton of orange juice and four shots of Johnnie Walker was something I should not have done.

In other words and without warning, a diarrhea attack was looming. I paused my stride to clench my butt cheeks and to see if they passed the ‘litmus test’. The answer was not at all encouraging.

By the time I got to the podium I had broken out into a sweat. I was no longer thinking about the speech but thinking why, why today of all times do I have to have a diarrhea attack? Why didn’t the attack come two days ago when I spent the entire day at home and with a toilet nearby?

And it got me thinking. Diarrhea is evil and sly. It carefully picks the most inappropriate time to attack. It will never attack when you are home. It waits for when you are sitting in a taxi, when you are in the check out queue at Uchumi or Nakumatt supermarkets. If not, it waits until you are on a bus heading up country. When the bus stops for a toilet and refreshment break, it won’t attack you then. It waits until the journey has resumed, like ten or fifteen minutes into the journey then it attacks!

Diarrhea like I said is evil! It’s a Force Majeure that is designed to embarrass you. At the podium and three lines into my speech I feel another surge, a much stronger surge that I re-tighten my butt cheeks.

Getting back into the speech, the third surge hits that I have to bite my lips and bang my fist onto the podium table. I start to wonder if I should abandon the speech. If I did, what would Gordon think? Would he think I snubbed him? And the rest of the guests, what would they think? It won’t look good so I force life and press on with the speech.

I don’t know how I got through the speech, but I can tell you I have never clenched my butt cheeks like that in my life. And as the applause rang out, while I wanted hang around and savor the accolades, it was to the toilet that I had to get. I even mapped out my route from the podium to the entrance of the ballroom.

When I left the podium, I walked gingerly with butt cheeks still clenched. I had almost made it to the door when I am ambushed by former Kampala City Mayor, Ssebbana Kizito. He’s latched onto my hand and won’t let go while he asks about my father. Five agonizing minutes are spent with him.

When he eventually let’s go, it’s all about running like hell to the toilet. If the bowels decide to open themselves up in the process then so be it. I will just keep on running all the way to the car park and into my car to drive myself home.
But I made it to the toilets. The noise that followed as I let rip was more like that of a Fuso truck trying to start up on a cold morning or was it like that of a grader? I really can’t remember.

What I do remember over the Fuso truck or was it grader like sounds, were what the men in the toilet area were saying. They were saying things like “whoever that is, he must be in a very bad way.” Another said, “It is a shame that people who get diarrhea do not clean up the toilets after themselves”.

Well I did clean up the toilet, but I had to sit in there for a good fifteen minutes after I was done because people were waiting to see who emerged from the cubicle.
When I eventually extracted myself from the cubicle without being noticed, back at my table I was asked if I knew who it was who had the diarrhea attack. Without hesitation, I pointed to an elderly man three tables away. “Bambi Jajja, he looks the type” somebody whispered. I had gotten away with it until today that is when I decided to come clean.