Wapi Shida?

I have four given names and one nickname – TB. You all know the Timothy name, but I will not divulge the other two. My surname is actually hyphenated – Tenwha-Bukumunhe, but as a kid, it used to take forever to write out, so I ditched the Tenwha part and stayed with Bukumunhe.

Timothy 'TB' Tenwha-Bukumunhe

However today, trying to get documentation – say bank account, driver’s license, SIM card, Tin number is fraught with the question: “Which is your surname, because on your passport is says Tenwha-Bukumunhe, but on your driver’s license, its Bukumunhe.” That is then followed by a lengthy explanation as given in the opening ramble.

However, all that is beside the point. Some years ago I found myself on a ‘sojourn’ at the National Leadership Institute in Kyankwanzi – not because I desired to go there, but because somebody out there, had identified Henry Mukasa, my then colleague at New Vision and I, worthy of benefiting from being indoctrinated with the NRM ideology.

As all who have been to Kyankwanzi will attest, during your stay, you are kitted out in army fatigues and arranged into something resembling an ‘army brigade’ along with a commander to lead the brigade.

For some strange reason, I was designated to be the commander of this brigade over a number of boys from Lumumba Hall who, saw their stint in Kyankwanzi as a stepping stone to getting into the Internal Security Organization, the army and more importantly, The Presidential Guard Brigade. Plus they were also fluent in Swahili, unlike mine which, was limited to three essential words; pombe (beer), mwanamke (woman), chakula (food). Beyond those words, I was a greenhorn at the language.

In the wee hours of a cold morning, and after less than a few hours’ sleep because the previous night, Henry, a few others and I, had absconded by slipping out of the confines of the institute near the Quarter Guard to go drink pombe, we took to the parade ground and assembled ourselves the way we had been taught since arrival.

On this morning, Real Army Commander was agitated and annoyed. He kept barking out orders in Swahili, was not happy with the way we had presented ourselves and certainly not happy that some people were missing.

And just like that, I saw him forcibly striding over to me, his staff stick flapping about like he wanted to strike me and there he was – in my face, baying over and over again: “Wapi shida?” Hmm Shida, she must be Moslem and my mind battled to try and remember who she was, but for the life of me, I just couldn’t reminisce.

And still, Real Army Commander was snarling down my throat like I knew Shida was and was deliberately not telling him. When he eventually paused but not after slavering more than a mouthful of malusu in my face, I tuned to the brigade and in a very crisp and booming voice that seemed to reverberate round the entire institute, I asked: “For Christ’s sake, has anybody seen Shida?”. Silence. I asked again except this time, I dropped ‘for Christ’s sake’ incase I offend some mulokole and roared: “Has anybody seen or knows where Shida is?”

There was laughter from Real Army Commander which, I didn’t take lightly and took him on. “What is so funny?” Still chortling, he asked how good my Swahili was. Then came the most excruciating moment of my life when he explained: “shida, is Swahili for trouble. I was merely asking where the trouble was.” Short of peeing in my fatigues, I was mortified especially as for the rest of the sojourn, I was nicknamed shida. 

     

Boutros Boutros Ghali

On a parting note, does anybody know why former UN chief, Boutros Boutros Ghali and Cameroonian footballers, Alberto Fujimori Fujimori and Eric Djemba Djemba have two same names?

Pictures: Telegraph.co.uk, Google Maps