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!

Saying Goodbye Mali dadi Style

A few weeks ago, I find myself watching UBC news and the lead story has something to do with President Museveni flying out to South Africa for the Tripartite Summit.
What perturbs is that there was an entourage to see him off led by the Commissioner of Prisons, Robert Byabashaija and Minister Syida Bumba amongst others. They waved to him as he walked up the stairs to his jet and when it was airborne, they were still waving!

To Byabashaija and Ms. Bumba, you wasted your time for once the plane was airborne, President Museveni would have been unable to see you and I highly doubt he had his face pressed to the window and looking to see if he could see you, so that he could return your waves!

However, wait a minute, is the Uganda of today not a far cry from the pre-1986 Uganda? I also thought those things of seeing people off had died out? Well, whenever I fly out, they just drop me off - no fanfare, no hullabaloo.

When I was growing up and whenever somebody was flying out, going to the airport was a treat. Into the car we would all clamber with the front seat reserved for whomever it was that was flying out. And when I say we would all clamber into the car, ‘we’ involved grandparents, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, hanger on’s, people who happened to be visiting at the time and if there was space, House-ee would also squeeze herself in.

I am flying out and headed to Jo’burg for work and when I’m dropped off at the airport, it is a full house. Driver on seeing the crowd milling outside the departure terminal has the foresight to tell me that it looks like it will be a full flight - something that I am not too keen on. As I puff on my last Sporti cigarette across the road from the departure terminal, like diarrhoea, I see him being everywhere. Young Man is walking inside the terminal with a commanding swagger. He’s now back outside and he is talking to just about everybody there is to talk to and they are also desperately trying to talk to him though he brushes some of them off.

Perhaps he is a celebrity, but getting a closer look at him, his face does not register as one that I have seen in Have You Heard. In the meantime, he has started to sneer at me. No, tell a lie. He is looking at me with utter contempt.

I am back at the entrance to the departure terminal but I am not able to get in because Young Man’s people are blocking the entrance and my polite ‘excuse me’s’ are not washing with them. To make matters worse, his people have also taken on his utter contempt look as they cast their eyes at me.

I think it has something to do with what I am wearing – beach slippers, a faded pair of army shorts and a T-shirt that is due for retirement as a floor rag. He on the other hand, is dressed to the nines in a new suit with the makers label still sewn to the sleeve and was, probably bought the previous day. His shoes too, are new and he has a cowboy style belt with a buckle so big and dazzling with mali dadi flashing lights that if he came up behind you, you would think it was a police patrol pick up.
It was a struggle to get past his people. Once on the plane and in my seat, I am hope that the person who will sit to me is of sane mind and has flown before.

To my horror, my neighbour turns out to be Young Man. Standing my ground I give him an un-amused look. He returns my un-amused look by rolling his eyes. As we taxi to the runway, he tells me, “I see you don’t have any friends.” Asking how he came to that conclusion, he boasts of the three coasters mini buses full of family and friends that escorted him from his home in Najja to see him off. I keep mum.
He then asks if I am not embarrassed by flying out in beach slippers, shorts and a t-shirt yet, he has thrown on a new wardrobe. I give him a ‘what the f**k is your problem’ look.

When the drinks cart comes round, Stewardess deposits a four pack of Castle beer on my table. Young Man next to me who I find out is a first time flyer declines when offered a drink and dinner. In fact, he declines everything.

As I dine and the Castle beer quenches my thirst, I can see Young Man drooling at my chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce and watching enviously every time I pop open a Castle or Stewardess brings another four pack.

As we come in to land in Jo’burg, I lean over and whisper to him. “You must be hungry and thirsty? You know the food and drink are complimentary don’t you?” Alas, Young Man thought dinner and beer were for buying!

With that, he calls Stewardess and asks for dinner. “Sir, I am sorry. I can’t serve you because we are about to land,” she tells him.

His desperate face looks at me and under my breath I say, “Oli stupidi” (you are stupid). I also give him the same utter contempt look that he gave me at the airport when he saw nobody had come to see me off. For extra measure, I also swing him a ‘you villager – tumbavu!’ look because he also thought he was all IT in his new shoes, cowboy style belt with a buckle so big and dazzling with mali dadi flashing lights.

Who Is Charlie?

Two of the most famous people called Charlie, that easily spring to mind are the late actor, Charlie Chaplin and the comic book character, Charlie Brown. Other Charlie’s in relation to Uganda that pop up, are Charlie Case formerly of Just Kicking and 7, Cooper Road and the leggy Charlie (can’t remember her surname) who used to work in the visa section at the British High Commission when it was still on Parliamentary Avenue.

Apart from Charlie being a unisex name, it’s part of the phonetic alphabet – ‘C’ for Charlie. And that is all I knew about the name Charlie until I found myself in Nakivubo Stadium for the CBS show, E’kitoobero.

Nakivubo Stadium used to be our flagship stadium until Mandela Stadium was completed in the late 1990s. But for all its worth, since Nakivubo Stadium was completed in the 50s, the people who run the stadium have done an excellent job of letting it go to the dogs. The infamous Kirussia Stand has never been completed since work started on it in the 70s, the VIP block shows no signs of being a VIP block, the toilets are a joke and the electrical system is a huge fireball waiting to happen.

If you have not been for E’kitoobero or Kiggunda, these shows attract a crowd that is seemingly not of sane mind, for the things they get up to, defy normal rationale thinking. For example, why would women swoon into the stadium wearing blouses that can barely contain their mammary glands and why would they turn up in micro skirts?
From 6:00am when the gates opened up until 7:00pm, the crowd was well behaved. There was no fighting, the police cell by the main gate had yet to host any thieves and the police stood by - very idle and bored.

The crowd of course, had ideas. They were waiting for sunset and the start of the nocturnal activities. And indeed, the moment the dark that the Sunday night ushered in, the crowd was no longer well behaved.

The groping started – some of it consensual though the majority of it was not. Mammary glands were pinched, flicked and squeezed. Thighs were not exempt either. As long as there was exposed flesh, the men fuelled on cheap local brew were out to fill their lust.

It was 4:30am and I am standing by the control tower in the middle of the pitch. Looking into the crowd, I see him making his move, which has no fineness or tact to it – not that it mattered because the poor damsel was far too blazed to notice.
He started off by rubbing his groin into her butt, then trying to kiss her before landing his hands on her mammary glands. Damsel was in two minds. She ‘wanted it’ and rather interestingly enough, she was pushing him away but yet at the same time leading him on.

Fifteen minutes later I am on my way to the toilets – not the toilets themselves for as I mentioned earlier, they are in a bad state, but to the wall where everybody chose to pee.

Suddenly, he is in front of me. He was half dragging, half lifting the much blazed Damsel through the crowd. I ignore them to watch the police swoop in and arrest a would-be pickpocket before continuing my journey to the toilet wall. Behind the infamous Kirussia stand and heading to the wall, I spot them again. When he sees me approach, he stops and shouts out in Luganda, “Charlie, what is your problem?”
Obviously I ignore him and keep on walking towards them and the wall behind them. And the more I walk towards him, the more he shouts out, “Charlie, Charlie, what is your problem? Why can’t you go and find your own?” I figure Charlie must be his friend who is following behind me and look back.

But Charlie is not behind me. In fact, there is nobody within shouting distance – not that his shouts would have been heard over the booming music.

When he sees I am still heading towards him, he lets Damsel drop to dew strewn grass and comes up to confront me. I am taken by surprise and go into defence mode as I expect a melee to break out.

But he doesn’t want to fight. He wants to talk and throwing his arms about in despair, in Luganda, he says: “Charlie, there are many women about. I am sure you can find your own. Now you are following me and want to take mine? If you want her, take her. She is yours. Banange Charlie, toli (you are not) serious!”

Obviously he has me mistaken for somebody else. I tell him I am not Charlie, but Timothy. He is insistent. “Naye Charlie, please leave me alone. She is mine.” I too, am insistent that I am not Charlie and I figure he must be on crack. After all, why would he be calling me Charlie? I let him be and continue to the wall where I have a pee.

Hours later, I see him headed towards me shouting, “Charlie, Charlie!” and in the most aggressive manner. Rather than wait for him to attack me, I flee and seek refuge amongst the policemen who demand to know why I want to stand amongst them. They throw me out of their circle.

Frightened, on my own and about to start wailing for my mum, I am relieved when I see he has not followed me. Rather, he is talking to some chap and they are bonding and calling each other Charlie.

Backstage, I ask one of the stage crew who tells me that in Luganda, Charlie means, “friend, buddy, pal.” So much for my wailing for Mum for the whole of Nakivubo to hear!

Namuwongo's Flying Toilets

It was not only the long weekend, but also paradise weekend for the hoodlums, pickpockets and rapists.

That Friday was a public holiday – something to do with a number of people who were burnt alive by an irate former King of Buganda. I am not sure why he felt the need to roast them, but for what he did, people trek from as far away as Rwanda and Kenya. It’s an annual pilgrim simply because they want to see the site where the burning took place. That is sick and really, how morbid can the people who go there get?

With total confusion at Numugongo, it was bliss for Hoodlum, Pickpocket and Rapist. They live for this day when they take advantage of the innocent. Even better for them, the following day at Namboole Stadium was the match – Cranes vs. Guinea Bissau and wrapping it up, on Sunday at Nakivubo Stadium was CBS’ Ekitoobero. To say Hoodlum, Pickpocket and Rapist had a blast of a weekend would be an understatement. So how do I fit into all this I hear you cry?

Well the Thursday night was launch night for the new Tusker Larger bottle. More embarrassingly for me, I learned about the launch on the day itself. With no invitation card, I fired off a salvo of e-mails to the people who matter at UBL. Sedated with apologises, I was assured my card is on the way. It lands an hour later and with that, there was a need to take the rest of the day off. I go home for a long nap. I reckon that by the time I get to Silver Springs hotel at 7:00pm and ready to do some responsible drinking, I will be fresh.

A good day starts to turn sour the moment I hit Namuwongo. There is a mother-of-all-mothers-of a traffic jam that, nobody is going anywhere soon. As I sit idle in the jam, the minutes meanwhile tick away. I left home at 5:30pm and all off a sudden, its 7:15pm and ouch, I am still stuck in the jam!

Then there is some movement though frustratingly slow but at the Namuwongo railway junction, it is gridlock and my car also decides that it has had enough and simply will not start once the traffic starts moving again.

I am not worried for just in front of me, there are two cars that have also broken down. Assessing my problem, it appears that it has something to do with the battery – it’s gone flat. The owner of the car nearest to me has jump leads and he offers to help. However, when he gets his car going, he simply drives off. Should I have reported him to the police for breach of contract?

The railway crossing in Namuwongo is not the best place to break down at night. One, it is so dark, the stench of sewage is unbearable and three, you have to contend with ‘flying toilets’. The driver of the other car is willing to help but does not really want to because, it means dismantling his battery from its bed and he does not want to do that. As some form of condolence, he says, “things are tight” and off he drives into the night.

Some say he is weird. Others say he is not from this planet. While there is a mystery behind what to call him – some call him Mzee, Papi, MOD, or the Horseman. Those who really know him, they call him Anus and he is fortunate that Anus, is pronounced Arnu. However many insist on pronouncing it as Anus. I have placed an SOS call to him and now all I can do is to sit back and wait.

I am back at the car when three young teen girls walk past. As they do, they hurl black plastic bags into an open manhole but they miss. One of them says, “We have missed” but her friend simply tugs her along and I really do not give that much thought to what they were trying to discard.

As I wait for Anus to show, I sit in the car, then get out and walk, then lean by a billboard then walk back to the car and as I do, I am stepping on something soft. I also feel it move and can hear the rustle of a plastic bag.

Back at the car, I sit and wait and as I do, the sewage smell is somewhat stronger. In fact, it is so strong that the smell appears to be emanating from the car. My phone has a torch and when I flick it on, the light hits my shoes and I see the problem. In the dark, it appears that I have trodden onto the flying toilets that Teenage Girls were discarding and split the bag open. Now I have all its contents smeared on the under soles of my shoes. This is the last thing I need! I do my best to wipe the s**t off in the wet grass.

Anus has turned up in his BMW. However when he pops open his hood, we can’t find the battery. The Germans are trying to confuse us. They hid the battery in the boot and not put it in the engine compartment, as is the norm on all other cars. It confirms my suspicions. Germans may not be ‘wired’ properly.

We eventually get my car going and by the time we get to Silver Springs, the party is still kicking. However, for some strange reason, everybody who is standing close to me has their nose up in the air and sniffing away. I too sniff the air and its unpleasant. It’s a pupu smell and though I know very well where it is coming from, I am not going down as the culprit. I look round for somebody to blame.

Affection

In Uganda when it comes to affection – especially public displays of affection, we were prudish, reserved and embarrassed at the thought. Affection if it is to happen, should be done late at night after the kids have gone to sleep and in the confines of the master bedroom with the doors firmly bolted.

In Europe, affection is all over the place – on the trains, the buses, the underground, the sidewalks and even in the cafes and nobody looks, stares or gawps. They just let the couple get on with whatever it is that they are doing.

And I have to point out that affection is not limited to us humans for it also filters down to the animal kingdom though, they have the most morbid way of doing it. In the dog world for example, they show affection by sniffing at each other’s genitalia. The dog will sniff the bitches’ genitalia and not from a distance I might add, but right up close with its nose right on the wee wee area. And if you thought that was bad enough, the puppies too do it – and to their cousins, their parents and even their grandparents!

If that sort of behaviour happened in the human world, it would be a case of society having run mad. Seeing that The Phado is into dog breeding, he should know the answer. I called him and this is what he had to say: “They do it to determine the sex and also to see if the bitch is ready for a bout of sawa ya malavuu.” Let us leave it at that for the time being.

Getting back, in the public displays of affection, there are men who show each other affection. While they are not gay, they just feel the need to show affection. They have to hold your hand while walking and some even feel the need to put their arms round each other’s waists.

The main culprits of this kind of affection are security guards, Asian’s, petrol pump attendants and waiters. You see them walking down the road blissfully unaware that what they are doing is being frowned upon.

I am at the ATM and through the corner of my left eye I spot him coming towards me. Moses is from the depths of Bushenyi and who is unable to talk to you without holding some part of you – be it your waist, hands or even gently caressing your thigh. And for the record, Moses is married though whenever I see him, I think he might swing both ways if you get my drift.

The ATM is taking its time spewing out my dime that, I contemplate leaving the card in the machine to be gobbled up while I make a run for it and as far away from Moses as possible.

As I stand there dithering, Moses is on me. “Mr. Tim” he shouts out. “Long time brother” and with that his hand has already grabbed mine and is giving it a good squeeze. The ATM at this point has splattered out my dime and as we walk, he wants me to go into Nakumatt and talk as he shops. I try to tell him that I have a tight schedule and can’t afford the time but he up’s his offer with lunch at Javas. I accept. Am I that cheap?

Moses is the master. With one hand pushing the shopping cart, the other has a firm grip of my hand. By the time we get to the bakery, his arm is draped round my waist. And to my horror, in the bakery are a group of fine young ladies who give me suggestive looks until they spot Mosses’ arm round my waist. The suggestive looks quickly disappear and replaced by ones of disgust.

I try to reach out to them, to tell them that it is not what it looks like but they are on the move. An elderly woman with her teenage granddaughter also gives me a quizzical look as she covers Teenage Granddaughter’s eyes. It’s only when we get to the checkout counter that Moses gives me a breather and relents on my waist.
With the shopping in his car, we head to Java and rather than sitting across the table from me, Moses sits right next to me almost as if we are cajoled twins and with his hand on my thigh. Obviously, I try to move. Then I wriggle. Then I just get up and go to the washrooms. When I get back I pull out my chair to create some space between us but like the children’s game – musical chairs, Moses moves his chair along with mine and the hand is once again on my thigh.

I know what you are thinking here. Why didn’t I swing him a left or why didn’t I tell him that his hand is offending me? Yes I could have done all that but Moses is of my father’s generation and even if I had swung him a left or told him off, he wouldn’t have seen the fault with what he did because in Bushenyi where he grew up, men holding men by the waist is the norm. It is acceptable.

I did eventually tell him off because as I sliced through my medium rare steak, his hand had encroached further up my thigh and into my groin area, an area that is strictly reserved for female hands. As we left and said our goodbyes in the car park, Moses this time was rubbing my fingers as if he was a masseuse for all shoppers to see.

In the meantime, whoever you are who keeps on sending me suggestive messages with homosexual undertones, from 07**905 764, just because you may have seen Moses with his hand draped round my waist, I am NOT gay and I DO NOT find your txt messages entertaining or flattering so please stop it.

The Football Match

My knowledge of Ugandan football is very bleak that when there is talk of The Cranes, I can only name one player – Dennis Obua and the coach, Bobby Williamson. Like many, I know much more about the English Premier League, The Spanish La Liga and The German Bundesliga. If I were to hazard a guess as to why, I think, it is because they play a better football than our home grown teams plus the marketing people of DStv’s Supersport, have done a good job of ramming foreign football down our throats and more importantly, ‘society’ I feel has not yet accepted that we – the white collar workers that is, should be seen sitting in the Kirussia Stand at Nakivubo Stadium supporting say URA against KCC. Therefore, for the time being, local football will remain a blue-collar sport.

Enter MTN. MTN has done a good job of marketing Ugandan football especially the national team – The Cranes. In fact, they have a done a better job than the local football governing body FUFA and it is because of MTN that I have been able to attend some matches – the first when The Cranes played Liberia at Nakivubo and the second, when they played South Africa, at Mandela Stadium.

I harbour fond memories of both games especially the Liberia match because then, I was working with WBS television which, granted me leave to meet and interview the legendary George Weah, roam the entire pitch and as well as being able to stand in the centre circle as the toss was being done.

Now how many of you have done that and yes, do you think I am so bragging? I so am! But the bragging is justified because as I flaunted myself across the entire length of the pitch and as I flossed with George, out in the stands there were was shouting. Amongst the inaudible shouting, there were also faces of envy. In my own small world, I basked in the glory and strode through the pitch with such panache that Johnny Walker of the Johnny Walker whisky fame who began walking from Kilmarnock, Scotland where the whisky is brewed, to wherever he was walking to would have been envious.

With hindsight, I should not have walked towards the infamous Kirussia Stand but then, I didn’t know that Kirussia was an infamous stand where all the hooligans and lumpens converge and I only went there because in my own small world, that’s where my supposed fans were sitting. I say supposed fans because they were making the most noise.

It’s only when I got up close to them and their shouts became audible that I figured they were not fans nor were they calling me over to ask me about George.

Instead, a middle-aged man who had a face like the inside of a pit latrine called me over and when I got to him, he spat out: “Tumbavu!” While I so clearly heard what he had shouted out, I knew it was not directed at me for, I had done nothing wrong to warrant abuse. Leaning my head towards him, I said: “Pardon?”

The conversation that followed and in Luganda, went along these lines.

Face Like Inside of Pit Latrine: “Eh, chaps look at this tumbavu. Now he is saying pardoni (that is how pardon is pronounced in Luganda). Gwe who do you think you are?”

TB: “The last time I enquired about myself, I was Timothy Bukumunhe, just returned from a very long sojourn in London and now working for WBS. And you sir, if you don’t mind me asking, who might you be?”

Face Like Inside of Pit Latrine: “Eh, eh! It is speaking English like a muzungu. Let me assure you that I know English. You mani (man?) You are there showing off that you know Weah, even us, we know him.”

TB: “Splendid, then that make two of us. Tell me, where did you meet him?”
Face Like Inside of Pit Latrine: (Asking his friends) “Oba splendid mean whati (what?). “Gwe you justi (just?) go away with your WBS cameras. We paid our money to come here to watch Weah play football and not to see you walking all over the pitch like you own the stadium. Do you think that Wava and his WBS cameras own Nakivubo? Tumbavu, oli stupidi (stupid?).

With that, the best part of Kirussia Stand goes into an overdrive and starts hurling out the most vulgar of insult words. Startled, I stand there for a while trying to figure out how to direct my retort when my phone rings.

It’s a friendly voice – that of OPP who now lives in the Diaspora saying. “TB are you on crack? What are you doing at the Kirussia Stand? Get out of there before they lynch you.” With that, I gave them the finger followed by “tumbavu and f**k off”!
That move made them mad. In an instance, they were trying to break down the crowd safety fence and baying for my blood as I sauntered towards the VIP section.

Though I had gotten away with it, it was years later when The Cranes hosted Bafana Bafana at Namboole did events eventually catch up with me. As I walked into the stadium, two men came up to me asking how WBS was and I replied telling them that it is fine though I am no longer there. The two men then whispered to each other before one of them lunged forward and slapped me clean on the cheek. He then looked at me, then said: “For George Weah, Nakivubo Stadium – tumbavu and f**K off!” and calmly walked off. It took me a while but I eventually remembered who he was. It was Face Like Inside of Pit Latrine. Yesterday I was not at the Cranes match at Namboole lest he was there ready to slap me yet again.

Drugs On Campus

I am not Hollywood trying to glamorise. Rather, I am on the level and trying to warn about some of the pitfalls of higher education abroad. They say that a three-year stint at university is not all about books, but a period of self-discovery, mayhem and falling foul of the law.

The bizarre and sometimes morbid antics that happen at universities like Oxford, Cambridge, Warwick, Yale and Princeton, have been documented that, a recent headline in The Daily Mail, a British tabloid read: ‘Oxford Students in 12-hour nude drunken binge.’ In New York’s Daily Post it went along the lines of, ‘Drunk Princeton couple caught having sex on dorm roof in broad daylight’ while a Daily Telegraph Editorial harped on the drug and beer fuelled students that universities are churning out.

Usually when students go on the prowl, it is termed a ‘period of temporary insanity’. They do not think about the consequences that may happen later on in life. Former American President, Bill Clinton, was lucky that his admission to smoking cannabis while at Oxford did not scupper his presidential ambitions – probably because he was adamant that he did not inhale. “Yeah right!” so Snoop Dogg said. “Who is Snoop?” I hear parents ask. Ask you teenage kids.

This October, when the new academic year begins, a number of Ugandans’ will end up in British universities such as Leeds, Warwick, Canterbury and the LSE, which have strong ties with Uganda.

If you go, this is what I have to tell you. Brace yourself for three years of heavy drinking, no-strings attached sex, drug experimentation and oh, attending the odd lecture. Trust me, I know.

Gary Nesbitt lived on the same floor as I and he always kept to himself. On the few occasions he allowed into his room, I thought he was a chemistry major for on his desk was always a Bunsen burner flaming away, test tubes on the boil, rubber tubes and other contraption’s.

But the more I looked at the elaborate set up, it didn’t look like something you would find in a chemistry lab, but rather something I had seen in a drug movie – was it The Godfather Part II, The Goodfella’s or was it Scarface? Perhaps I saw it in The Sopranos? Anyway, Gary’s set up had all the hallmarks of a drug-manufacturing lab written over it.

Er, my concentration is starting to wain. At the table across from me at Miki's Lounge where I am typing this Cowardly Tale, there is a young woman who is sitting so badly with her legs wide open for us to see her wares. Pote, Spidey, remember the way the pregnant lady sat as we ate pork at Zanzi?

It’s been a struggle getting my concentration back and I am somewhat scarred and blinded but trudging on, as the term went on, our finances began to dwindle that, that by the last week of term, we were broke – if not down to our last £30 (sh76,000) and yet, there a ball was coming up. We had to be at the ball and while getting in was not an issue, beer money was.

As we pondered over our options, Stacy muted an idea. She had heard from a friend of a friend of friend that Gary could supply some not so legal pills to do the trick. All we had to do was pop two cheap £1.50 pills with our beer and we would get drunk.
We did just that. A package containing blue and black capsules was delivered on the day of the ball along with strict instructions - one capsule for spirits, two for beers and the rest would be history. However, we didn’t just want to get drunk. We wanted to get plastered, blazed, wasted, comatosed – the works! So rather than popping two capsules as Gary had recommended, Dale and I popped four each.

The ball was a blur for I can’t recall much. What I do remember was at one point I thought I was in bed and having a dream about how Dale and I had run up to the window in my room, smashed through it and plummeted two floors down into the overnight snow where we were found by campus police who then called for the ambulance.

When I awoke, all sore and with stitches in left arm, realisation set in that it was no dream. We were in the recovery ward along with two police officers who wanted statements from us. In the UK, anything involving drugs, booze and jumping out of second floor windows is seen as a suicide attempt and by law, the hospital is obliged to call in the police.

“No we were not trying to commit suicide. All we were trying to do was a re-enactment of the ending of the movie, Thelma and Louise where they drive their car off a cliff. ” Policemen didn’t buy the story and neither did Nurse. I had my doubts but on reflection, that is what happened.

In the end, we were obliged to attend a six-week ‘psychiatric evaluation’. Every Thursday when I went to see Psychiatrist, he would say, “TB, how are you feeling today?” I would reply, “Fine doctor, fine” to which he would respond, “Tell me about jumping out of the window. What was troubling you?” Very irritated, I would tell him that it was a silly Thelma and Louise stunt gone wrong to which, he would ask who Thelma and Louise were.

Psychologist drove me nuts that after three weeks, I stupidly told him that the sessions were ‘making me feel suicidal’ and that was it. Psychologist took me seriously and short of putting me on suicide watch, I earned myself another five weeks with him wanting to know if it was Thelma and Louise who had sold us the pills. (Duh!)

tbukumunhe@googlemail.com