So Joseph Kabuleta had decided to retire from writing his sports column in the back pages of Sunday Vision and at such a tender age. Why? Did he ask for a pay rise and Vision sports editor, Fred Kaweesi said “no?” Did his nemesis, football guru, Lawrence Mulindwa storm his house with iron bar goons? Or did he simply fizzle, burn out – something that happens to the best of writers?
Kabuleta was no doubt a talented writer who did a lot to expose the seemingly endless rot, corruption and greed within sports in Uganda and especially football. Whilst I am sure many of us will miss his ramblings, there is one person who must have thrown a mega bash. No need to guess who, but just in case you never used to read Kabuleta’s works, it is Lawrence Mulindwa.
That said, I think I am beginning to lose my touch. Last Sunday I flattered a number of women and today I am all over Kabuleta? Eek!
There is something about men and guns. Or is it anybody who has a gun? Guns make people feel big, superior and in-charge. An illiterate and disabled ten-year-old boy with an AK-47 is as intimidating as a forty-year old with an AK-47.
Back before the millennium, I used to hang-out with Watembezi who used to live down the road from my folks. Since I was new in town, he would take me places – like Blue Note in Kansanga which, used to kick. One night and seeing I didn’t have a ride, I waited till he had had his fill of ale to hitch a ride home with and it was a long wait – till 3:00am. To say I was relieved when he said it was time to go would have been an understatement. And into his Pajero I clambered for the ride home. However, there was a ‘but’, in fact, two of them.
The first ‘but’ is that we turned into the Kibuli Road and headed down past Greenhill School and back then, the stretch of road just past Total petrol station was not tarmacked.
The second ‘but’ is that Watembezi slowed his ride and pulled out a pistol. The closest I had previously come to seeing a pistol was in a James Bond movie and in a holster that was wrapped round the waist of a cop in London. Watembezi’s pistol looked big and larger than life. And he didn’t stop there. He also cocked it and the conversation that followed went along these lines.
Watembezi: “Tim, you have to be careful. There are car thieves everywhere and this road is dangerous.”
TB: “Are you in the security services?”
Watembezi: “Getting a gun in Uganda is almost as easy as buying a beer!”
With that, and with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his a cocked pistol, he drove while peering out of the window looking for perpetrators. There were none – unless they had seen the muzzle of the pistol sticking out of the window and decided it was not worth being shot at and scarpered away.
In Kampala Casino, he put it away and we took a table at the far end, on the stage where the band, Misty Jazz, does its gig every Thursday. Slightly worse for wear and wanting to sleep, Watembezi was not in control and it was evident when his pistol fell out and clattered towards the floor.
Waitress saw it and an element of fear gripped her. She obviously told other Waitresses for they gave us plenty of space. If they were scared, I was terrified for we still had to drive home and that trip was one I don’t want remember and I think I should end that chapter.
A few years ago I was at The National Leadership School in Kyankwanzi. Not that I volunteered to go but somebody out there perhaps saw it fit that I could do with a bout discipline, cold baths in the morning and a couple of days devoid of pampering.
The real interest with Kyankwanzi comes when the AK-47 is laid out in front of you and you have to disassemble it, clean it and then put it back together. It took the best part of an afternoon to get to grips with that process followed by a lecture from Instructor on the power of the gun as well as a pep talk on the impending visit to the shooting range the following day.
For once, there was excitement especially from the unruly and riotous boys from Makerere University’s Lumumba Hall. I don’t know what they were expecting to get out of the trip to the shooting range but with Rambo, Chuck Norris, Steven Segal and Jean-Claude van Damme being mentioned, it was all about they being movie actors who play with toy guns and fire blanks while they, Unruly and Riotous Boys were going to be doing the real thing - real AK-47s and real bullets that can do anything from maiming to taking life away.
And the following day after a less than hearty breakfast, we were at the range. Instructor gave us another brief – not just once but three times just to make sure the message stuck. And then he pulled out his pistol and assured. He assured that should any of us disobey instructions, stand up or point the AK in an unauthorised direction, he would not hesitate to put a bullet into our heads.
The firing mode that Instructor decided upon was ‘single fire’ as in when you squeeze the trigger, it will release one bullet at a time. The first group went and followed Instructors instructions to the letter and so did the next three groups. By now our ears had gotten used to the sound of shooting at a close range which, made me wonder why I used to get scared whenever I heard a bullet go off.
With that thought, I practically beat myself for cowering, for letting Soldier in gum boots intimidate me at a road block simply because he was carrying an AK-47. I thought back even further to an altercation I had with Police Woman who was guarding the American Embassy when it still on Parliament Avenue. She had me practically doing susu in my pants because pointing her AK at me, she assured me that: “I can kill and I have killed before” and then called for Military Police back-up who frog marched me to CPS.
I was now bold. I understood the doctrine of the AK-47. I was on the same brain level as that of Mikhail Kalashnikov, the man who had invented the world’s most popular killing machine. And the mere sound of a bullet was no longer going to scare me!
Just when I thought I had all the confidence and that the balls I had were no longer soft and mushy but were as hard as golf balls and that a kick from a woman’s stiletto would have no impact, one chap forgot what Instructor had told him.
“Before you start firing, make sure you have selected the single fire mode.” Chap on the other hand had selected rapid fire, that when he squeezed the trigger, a multitude of bullets ringed out. It was terrifying! I felt like I was in the middle of Bagdad, Iraq when Norman Schwarzkopf and Colin Powell launched the first Desert Storm Gulf War.
I was accustomed to single fire shots and not rapid fire. Obviously I didn’t hang around. I fled and for the people who have been to Kyankwanzi will know it is a fair distance between the firing range to the Quarter Guard (almost the distance between Speke Hotel and Garden City). The ‘golf balls’ of balls that I thought I had, had turned all soft and mushy that a kick from a stiletto would have me withering on the floor in agony.
I still respect guns and to be honest, I am absolutely terrified of the people who carry them, for when it comes to shooting to kill, Chap with a PhD will shoot and kill you in the same manner as Chap who is a nursery school dropout.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
The BAT Stakeholders Meeting
A couple of weeks ago, the world celebrated International Women’s Day with a public holiday. I have always been miffed at the thought of Women’s Day. Should we take it that out of the 365 days that a year has, somebody decided as a ‘by-the-way’ to toss the women just one day that they can call their own and leave the rest to us - the men?
I grew up in a female household, and as far as I can recall everyday was Women’s Day for my mother and sisters - Julie, Susan, Linda, Helen and Brenda. And seeing that I started off this cowardly tale on a feminine theme, there is a need to re-emphasize that cry with a belated Women’s Day message to every woman in Uganda especially Mrs. Muze, Aunt Ketts, Diana Mulira, Camille Aliker, Diane Kakaire (congratulations on the new addition to you family), Gaana, Natal, Patricia, my mum and of course, my editor Esther Namungoji that in my eyes, EVERYDAY IS ALWAYS WOMEN’S DAY! Did that not sound like one of those Oscar Award acceptance speeches?
So I once again, I hit Julie’s Joint in Soya and if you had read my cowardly tale a few weeks ago, I was venting my wrath on a bar lady called Sarah. I thought that there might have been some improvement since my last visit but alas and the most appropriate words to use would be: “S**t is tight for Sarah!” With my order placed, she shouted out to her colleague, “omwami ayagala ka-Club-uu (the mister wants a Club beer).” She used to say ‘Club-uu’ rather than simply saying Club, the way it is supposed to be pronounced. But now she has gone and added the word ‘ka’ as a prefix. Why would she go and do that?
Stakeholders meetings, workshops and capacity building meetings – they mean nothing to me. I have never been to any of them nor had l an idea of what goes on in them until I got an invitation from the tobacco industry, to attend a stakeholders meeting. Surely there must have been some mistake. I am not a shareholder nor do I have acres of land where tobacco grows freely. The invitation was followed up with both an e-mail and telephone call from somebody at BAT called Solomon Mutiya. With that, the invitation couldn’t have been a mistake so I duly took myself to Protea Hotel early one morning for the meeting and it was most obvious as soon as I walked into the meeting room that I must have walked into the wrong room.
With a Sporti simmering in my hand and not a single ashtray in sight, I made a hasty retreat back to the notice board which, confirmed that I was in the right place. But, where were the smokers or the ashtrays?
The meeting was something to do with ‘those people’ from parliament and who would rather I refer to them as Hon. Members of Parliament (ha, what a joke!) and who have a notion of trying to introduce an anti-tobacco control bill. “What?!!” That is exactly what I screamed out and the scream was quickly followed by my sparking up another Sporti.
Since the anti-tobacco lobby began to gather steam, we smokers, have become an endangered species. My human rights as a smoker are being trampled on just like a person who is confined to a wheel chair. His human rights are being trampled on if somebody constructs a building that has no wheelchair access and like the organisers of the Vagina Monologues said when the government clamped down on them, their human rights to free speech were violated.
With the agenda set, I sharpened my knives. It was bound to be a stormy meeting and there was a need to be focused, alert and to conjure up some swear words apart from my favoured tumbavu that I could unleash should one of those chaps from parliament get out of line.
Before I go on, there is a need to express my disappointment at many of my smoker colleagues. I expected a mass turn out at Protea but, I was all alone, a solitary coward thrown out there to defend the rights of every smoker in Uganda. I should have cowered at the thought, but I surprised myself. My chest puffed out and my arms suddenly had more muscle than Rambo. I was ready. And when the microphone went round in which we had to introduce ourselves, whilst everybody simply whimpered out their name and sat down, I boldly lashed out my name that it reverberated round the room. Not content, I followed it up with a definitive ‘smoke-on-that’ statement: “And I am a smoker!” With that, I cast my eyes round the room whilst slithering and spitting out my tongue like that of a King Cobra ready for the kill and I saw them – the chaps and the lady from parliament and do you know what they were doing? They were all cowering just like that judge that Jim Muhwezi said was cowering under his bed while he (Jim), was fighting for the liberation of Uganda. Okay so MP’s have balls, but I had the real deal - mayinja’s, down my pants! They were on my turf and they knew it too.
I really didn’t pay much attention in the meeting for I had more pressing thoughts. Would they be serving us lunch? Would they be a cocktail later that evening?
With the thought of a beef luwombo for lunch, a rather articulate Julie Owino who jazzed (spoke) with a full, full axe-so (accent) and who was giving us vibe (the gist) on the state of the tobacco industry, the alarm bells began to ring.
Can you imagine Smoker’s, parliament wants to make it illegal for us to buy ‘separates’ amongst other things?! So I have not done the required research, but dare I say a good proportion of smokers cannot afford to buy a whole pack of cigarettes thus, they buy what we call separates – one or two sticks for example. If the sale of separates is stopped, the ramifications will be very costly.
But I am not against some form of tobacco control and I am mindful of non-smokers, but there are some people who have the nerve like, Ruth Ondoru, who claimed to be an MP from Maracha District and who incredibly, had no idea what was in the bill, Young Lady who accosted me in Silk Oxygen which is the smoking section of the club and ‘Pastor’ whom I once gave a lift in my car. Let’s start with ‘Pastor’. Can you imagine, when I lit up, he had the nerve to tell me off and in MY ride that he would prefer it if I did not smoke?! Is there any need to guess what happened next? Just in case you can’t figure it out, the ride screeched to a halt outside the gates of Electoral Commission on Jinja Road, the central locking system disabled itself and I reached across, opened the door for him and barked at him to be on his way in a taxi or by boda!
Young Lady in Club Silk had the nerve to complain that the smoke was irritating her. Blowing smoke into her face, I sneered at her that there was the option of her going to Silk Lounge which operates a smoke free environment. With that, she walked off in a huff while saying I was being inconsiderate. Really?!
If parliament takes it upon themselves to impose draconian controls on us smokers, we are not going to take it lying down – at least I am not and nor would BAT board chairman, James Mulwana for it would mean he would be out of a job. We smokers reserve the right to smoke because it is a basic human right. By the way, the lunch did happen but it was no beef luwumbo luncheon as I had hoped.
I grew up in a female household, and as far as I can recall everyday was Women’s Day for my mother and sisters - Julie, Susan, Linda, Helen and Brenda. And seeing that I started off this cowardly tale on a feminine theme, there is a need to re-emphasize that cry with a belated Women’s Day message to every woman in Uganda especially Mrs. Muze, Aunt Ketts, Diana Mulira, Camille Aliker, Diane Kakaire (congratulations on the new addition to you family), Gaana, Natal, Patricia, my mum and of course, my editor Esther Namungoji that in my eyes, EVERYDAY IS ALWAYS WOMEN’S DAY! Did that not sound like one of those Oscar Award acceptance speeches?
So I once again, I hit Julie’s Joint in Soya and if you had read my cowardly tale a few weeks ago, I was venting my wrath on a bar lady called Sarah. I thought that there might have been some improvement since my last visit but alas and the most appropriate words to use would be: “S**t is tight for Sarah!” With my order placed, she shouted out to her colleague, “omwami ayagala ka-Club-uu (the mister wants a Club beer).” She used to say ‘Club-uu’ rather than simply saying Club, the way it is supposed to be pronounced. But now she has gone and added the word ‘ka’ as a prefix. Why would she go and do that?
Stakeholders meetings, workshops and capacity building meetings – they mean nothing to me. I have never been to any of them nor had l an idea of what goes on in them until I got an invitation from the tobacco industry, to attend a stakeholders meeting. Surely there must have been some mistake. I am not a shareholder nor do I have acres of land where tobacco grows freely. The invitation was followed up with both an e-mail and telephone call from somebody at BAT called Solomon Mutiya. With that, the invitation couldn’t have been a mistake so I duly took myself to Protea Hotel early one morning for the meeting and it was most obvious as soon as I walked into the meeting room that I must have walked into the wrong room.
With a Sporti simmering in my hand and not a single ashtray in sight, I made a hasty retreat back to the notice board which, confirmed that I was in the right place. But, where were the smokers or the ashtrays?
The meeting was something to do with ‘those people’ from parliament and who would rather I refer to them as Hon. Members of Parliament (ha, what a joke!) and who have a notion of trying to introduce an anti-tobacco control bill. “What?!!” That is exactly what I screamed out and the scream was quickly followed by my sparking up another Sporti.
Since the anti-tobacco lobby began to gather steam, we smokers, have become an endangered species. My human rights as a smoker are being trampled on just like a person who is confined to a wheel chair. His human rights are being trampled on if somebody constructs a building that has no wheelchair access and like the organisers of the Vagina Monologues said when the government clamped down on them, their human rights to free speech were violated.
With the agenda set, I sharpened my knives. It was bound to be a stormy meeting and there was a need to be focused, alert and to conjure up some swear words apart from my favoured tumbavu that I could unleash should one of those chaps from parliament get out of line.
Before I go on, there is a need to express my disappointment at many of my smoker colleagues. I expected a mass turn out at Protea but, I was all alone, a solitary coward thrown out there to defend the rights of every smoker in Uganda. I should have cowered at the thought, but I surprised myself. My chest puffed out and my arms suddenly had more muscle than Rambo. I was ready. And when the microphone went round in which we had to introduce ourselves, whilst everybody simply whimpered out their name and sat down, I boldly lashed out my name that it reverberated round the room. Not content, I followed it up with a definitive ‘smoke-on-that’ statement: “And I am a smoker!” With that, I cast my eyes round the room whilst slithering and spitting out my tongue like that of a King Cobra ready for the kill and I saw them – the chaps and the lady from parliament and do you know what they were doing? They were all cowering just like that judge that Jim Muhwezi said was cowering under his bed while he (Jim), was fighting for the liberation of Uganda. Okay so MP’s have balls, but I had the real deal - mayinja’s, down my pants! They were on my turf and they knew it too.
I really didn’t pay much attention in the meeting for I had more pressing thoughts. Would they be serving us lunch? Would they be a cocktail later that evening?
With the thought of a beef luwombo for lunch, a rather articulate Julie Owino who jazzed (spoke) with a full, full axe-so (accent) and who was giving us vibe (the gist) on the state of the tobacco industry, the alarm bells began to ring.
Can you imagine Smoker’s, parliament wants to make it illegal for us to buy ‘separates’ amongst other things?! So I have not done the required research, but dare I say a good proportion of smokers cannot afford to buy a whole pack of cigarettes thus, they buy what we call separates – one or two sticks for example. If the sale of separates is stopped, the ramifications will be very costly.
But I am not against some form of tobacco control and I am mindful of non-smokers, but there are some people who have the nerve like, Ruth Ondoru, who claimed to be an MP from Maracha District and who incredibly, had no idea what was in the bill, Young Lady who accosted me in Silk Oxygen which is the smoking section of the club and ‘Pastor’ whom I once gave a lift in my car. Let’s start with ‘Pastor’. Can you imagine, when I lit up, he had the nerve to tell me off and in MY ride that he would prefer it if I did not smoke?! Is there any need to guess what happened next? Just in case you can’t figure it out, the ride screeched to a halt outside the gates of Electoral Commission on Jinja Road, the central locking system disabled itself and I reached across, opened the door for him and barked at him to be on his way in a taxi or by boda!
Young Lady in Club Silk had the nerve to complain that the smoke was irritating her. Blowing smoke into her face, I sneered at her that there was the option of her going to Silk Lounge which operates a smoke free environment. With that, she walked off in a huff while saying I was being inconsiderate. Really?!
If parliament takes it upon themselves to impose draconian controls on us smokers, we are not going to take it lying down – at least I am not and nor would BAT board chairman, James Mulwana for it would mean he would be out of a job. We smokers reserve the right to smoke because it is a basic human right. By the way, the lunch did happen but it was no beef luwumbo luncheon as I had hoped.
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Al-Shabab Melee
I have a bone to pick with the Swagettes. Back then, we knew then as the ‘Small Brown Things’ – the bu-girls fresh out of campus and who would strut into Nandos or Steers, buy one Coke and like a miracle, make it last for two hours.
If not, when you asked them if they were hungry, they would say ‘no’ but as soon as your food is presented, they and without shame would start picking at your chips. Worse, everything that you did for them, they would twist it round and make it look like they were doing you a favour! If you picked them up from the depths of Naalya and took them to Club Silk, they were doing you a favour. If you dropped them home, still, they were doing you a favour.
Today, the ‘small brown things’, have been replaced by the Swagettes. Swagette is more aloof than Small Brown Thing. Their preferred footwear is sandals and when they walk, well, they don’t walk but merely drag their feet like it is too much for them to lift up their feet and put one foot in front of the other and walk the proper way. They also swing their arms lazily like they are a burden to them. Plus they are always chewing gum. Hmm chaps, it seems that Swagettes have a case of bad breath.
Enough of them I say. I am not a chap who has beef with other races, tribes or religions. Okay so I lie. While I have no issues with Muslims, I have a touch of beef with the local Imam near my house who wakes me up in the wee hours of Friday mornings when he is calling people to prayers. I also have issues with the Chinese. Why would they invent the chopstick when it is so much easier to use a fork and you can get more in your mouth? What do they do when they have to slice into a succulent steak? They didn’t think about that did they now? And is it the Karamajong who think it is hip and funky for women to knock their front teeth out and all in the name of beauty? Have I not justified myself as to why I would have beef with the people I have mentioned? You feel me now don’t you?
So there is that road almost opposite Pride Theatre that links Old Kampala to the Lubiri ring road – are you with me? It goes into a valley on which either side of the road are car mechanics or garages. Further up the road past the intersection is a mosque on the right hand side and some meters ahead is the Lubiri ring road. The busiest section of that road is between Pride Theatre and the first intersection. Mechanics run all over the place with spare parts. If not, they are busy doing a hasty spray job on the roadside. In that mix, there is the chap with a wheel barrow peddling pineapple, the ladies ferrying lunch while, getting their boobs and butts groped. Basically, it is a katogo – total disorder!
That section of town also has a large Somali community and while they are visible most days, it is Friday before and after prayers that they really show their numbers.
Why I was in that neck of the wood and on a Friday, I really can’t recall. Okay, so I lie again. I can remember. I thought it would be a shortcut of sorts to get to my meeting with Client.
But let’s put a bookmark there for a while and talk about the Somali’s. I have never been to Somalia – or is it Somaliland now and I don’t intend to go there in a hurry. And I also don’t know anybody who comes from Somalia save for a chap called Leeban Omar who once used to work with me at WBS. The little knowledge that I have about Somalia, I pick up from Sky News, BBC, UPDF’s Paddy Ankunda whom I believe is still based there and a chap called Joshua Kato who has a very safe desk job at The New Vision but has since taken leave of his senses to travel there and report on what is going on. Hmm, who does he think he is? Does he think he is the male version of CNN’s Christiane Amanpour? He however, is a gutsy lad and I commend him for his bravery for going to Somalia especially when it is ruled by all sorts of bandits, Islamic militant factions from Al-Shabab, Al Qaeda and God knows who else.
I am at the intersection which is chaotic. Every time I inched the car forward, Wheel Barrow Pusher popped out of nowhere. If not, it was kids or Chap carrying more sigiri’s on his back than he could manage. It was next to impossible to cross the intersection.
I had to be bold and I was. I screeched the car into the intersection. Just when I thought I had made it, there was a thud, a loud thud. But it was not a thud of metal against metal or car against car. It was car against human, and the thud was followed by a squeal. When I looked up, there were two Somali men looking at me, and the picture on their faces said it all. They were irked! The shouting followed. “Look where you are going!” they screamed. “Can you even drive?” the younger of the two added.
That was it! TB was no longer the coward. I unleashed a string of expletives that even I found rather disgusting and too hot to handle. And I didn’t just stop there. I went on with more expletives and I am sure, some of them, I just made up. Sensing I had cornered them and I had them reeling back, there was a need to execute the killer blow – the coup de grace, the beheading.
The coup the grace or the beheading spewed out and lingered in the air for what seemed an eternity. It was not “f**k you” or “tumbavu”, my favourite Luganda swear word. I yelled out: “You bloody Al-Shabab’s why don’t you just go back to Somalia and blow yourselves up!”
I was still smirking with a sense of self-satisfaction when suddenly Older Somali was by door. Before I had time to react, two swift punches came flying in through the open window. The first caught me on my nose, the second on my chin. Then he stepped back and waited for my reaction.
Of course I was not going to take the two punches lying down. I squirmed in the car seat, I wanted to do susu, I wanted my mummy, and I wanted to be at home!
By now Crowd had gathered and there was more confusion. They wanted a melee and in all the shouting that was going on, it was difficult to know whose side they were on.
Meanwhile, Older Somali still stood there with a clenched fist, waiting, waiting and waiting. I had had enough. I inched the car forward and while I once again did shout out ‘Al-Shabab’ and adding in ‘Bin Laden’ and ‘Al-Qaeda’, my voice was so timid, so low that even I barely heard what I had said.
Twenty minutes later while sitting in reception waiting for my meeting with Client and nursing a fat lip, Receptionist was itching to know what had happened. And she made it her business to call all extensions. I could lip read what she was saying: “Eh people, TB is in reception. I think he has been fighting.” To Receptionist I say: “If you are reading this cowardly tale, no, I was not fighting. Rather, I was involved in an altercation and there was no need for you to go telling the entire office so they could all come a gawp at me!”
If not, when you asked them if they were hungry, they would say ‘no’ but as soon as your food is presented, they and without shame would start picking at your chips. Worse, everything that you did for them, they would twist it round and make it look like they were doing you a favour! If you picked them up from the depths of Naalya and took them to Club Silk, they were doing you a favour. If you dropped them home, still, they were doing you a favour.
Today, the ‘small brown things’, have been replaced by the Swagettes. Swagette is more aloof than Small Brown Thing. Their preferred footwear is sandals and when they walk, well, they don’t walk but merely drag their feet like it is too much for them to lift up their feet and put one foot in front of the other and walk the proper way. They also swing their arms lazily like they are a burden to them. Plus they are always chewing gum. Hmm chaps, it seems that Swagettes have a case of bad breath.
Enough of them I say. I am not a chap who has beef with other races, tribes or religions. Okay so I lie. While I have no issues with Muslims, I have a touch of beef with the local Imam near my house who wakes me up in the wee hours of Friday mornings when he is calling people to prayers. I also have issues with the Chinese. Why would they invent the chopstick when it is so much easier to use a fork and you can get more in your mouth? What do they do when they have to slice into a succulent steak? They didn’t think about that did they now? And is it the Karamajong who think it is hip and funky for women to knock their front teeth out and all in the name of beauty? Have I not justified myself as to why I would have beef with the people I have mentioned? You feel me now don’t you?
So there is that road almost opposite Pride Theatre that links Old Kampala to the Lubiri ring road – are you with me? It goes into a valley on which either side of the road are car mechanics or garages. Further up the road past the intersection is a mosque on the right hand side and some meters ahead is the Lubiri ring road. The busiest section of that road is between Pride Theatre and the first intersection. Mechanics run all over the place with spare parts. If not, they are busy doing a hasty spray job on the roadside. In that mix, there is the chap with a wheel barrow peddling pineapple, the ladies ferrying lunch while, getting their boobs and butts groped. Basically, it is a katogo – total disorder!
That section of town also has a large Somali community and while they are visible most days, it is Friday before and after prayers that they really show their numbers.
Why I was in that neck of the wood and on a Friday, I really can’t recall. Okay, so I lie again. I can remember. I thought it would be a shortcut of sorts to get to my meeting with Client.
But let’s put a bookmark there for a while and talk about the Somali’s. I have never been to Somalia – or is it Somaliland now and I don’t intend to go there in a hurry. And I also don’t know anybody who comes from Somalia save for a chap called Leeban Omar who once used to work with me at WBS. The little knowledge that I have about Somalia, I pick up from Sky News, BBC, UPDF’s Paddy Ankunda whom I believe is still based there and a chap called Joshua Kato who has a very safe desk job at The New Vision but has since taken leave of his senses to travel there and report on what is going on. Hmm, who does he think he is? Does he think he is the male version of CNN’s Christiane Amanpour? He however, is a gutsy lad and I commend him for his bravery for going to Somalia especially when it is ruled by all sorts of bandits, Islamic militant factions from Al-Shabab, Al Qaeda and God knows who else.
I am at the intersection which is chaotic. Every time I inched the car forward, Wheel Barrow Pusher popped out of nowhere. If not, it was kids or Chap carrying more sigiri’s on his back than he could manage. It was next to impossible to cross the intersection.
I had to be bold and I was. I screeched the car into the intersection. Just when I thought I had made it, there was a thud, a loud thud. But it was not a thud of metal against metal or car against car. It was car against human, and the thud was followed by a squeal. When I looked up, there were two Somali men looking at me, and the picture on their faces said it all. They were irked! The shouting followed. “Look where you are going!” they screamed. “Can you even drive?” the younger of the two added.
That was it! TB was no longer the coward. I unleashed a string of expletives that even I found rather disgusting and too hot to handle. And I didn’t just stop there. I went on with more expletives and I am sure, some of them, I just made up. Sensing I had cornered them and I had them reeling back, there was a need to execute the killer blow – the coup de grace, the beheading.
The coup the grace or the beheading spewed out and lingered in the air for what seemed an eternity. It was not “f**k you” or “tumbavu”, my favourite Luganda swear word. I yelled out: “You bloody Al-Shabab’s why don’t you just go back to Somalia and blow yourselves up!”
I was still smirking with a sense of self-satisfaction when suddenly Older Somali was by door. Before I had time to react, two swift punches came flying in through the open window. The first caught me on my nose, the second on my chin. Then he stepped back and waited for my reaction.
Of course I was not going to take the two punches lying down. I squirmed in the car seat, I wanted to do susu, I wanted my mummy, and I wanted to be at home!
By now Crowd had gathered and there was more confusion. They wanted a melee and in all the shouting that was going on, it was difficult to know whose side they were on.
Meanwhile, Older Somali still stood there with a clenched fist, waiting, waiting and waiting. I had had enough. I inched the car forward and while I once again did shout out ‘Al-Shabab’ and adding in ‘Bin Laden’ and ‘Al-Qaeda’, my voice was so timid, so low that even I barely heard what I had said.
Twenty minutes later while sitting in reception waiting for my meeting with Client and nursing a fat lip, Receptionist was itching to know what had happened. And she made it her business to call all extensions. I could lip read what she was saying: “Eh people, TB is in reception. I think he has been fighting.” To Receptionist I say: “If you are reading this cowardly tale, no, I was not fighting. Rather, I was involved in an altercation and there was no need for you to go telling the entire office so they could all come a gawp at me!”
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Dr. John
To Muzee, Phado, Willo and the rest, they simply call him Dr. while others call him Dr. John. Now which one should we go with? Let me give him some respect and use the latter. Dr. John works in Kamuli and according to what he tells us, he specializes in pregnant mothers (I hope it is not some morbid fetish) and child infancy. But there is something mildly disturbing about that. We all know that Kamuli is the jigger capital of Uganda. Secondly, none of us have been to Kamuli to watch Dr. John at work plus he never seems to talk about pregnant mothers and child infancy but jiggers which, leads us to believe, could he be the chief jigger remover who has been sent by the Ministry of Health to sort out Kamuli?
But in all fairness, Dr. John should have inherited part of his late father’s legacy – but he didn’t. That legacy was the ability to run for John’s father back in 1972, did Uganda proud when he came back from the Olympics with a bling of a gold medal draped round his neck. What he did inherit (and we don’t know where from) was the ability to use his hands – not just to be a doctor, but to mix, as in mix music – video’s, music or otherwise.
DJ Shiru who ply’s his trade out of Club Silk is supposed to be the best there is at mixing, but watching Dr. John do his thing in Monot a couple of weeks ago, I am sure Shiru, would have stepped back and admired the abilities of Dr. John for he was simply dope!
When I say ‘dope’, I don’t mean dope as in contraband drugs but dope as in hip. Dope is a word favoured by the Swagg Generation and should any parent wish to more about the Swagg Generation, I am hardly the coward to ask. Try Ernest Bazanye on the second to last page of this, your favourite Sunday magazine (that sounds like the most biased plug for a magazine considering I am a contributor)!
Why Dr. John chose to do a bout of video mixing that Friday night remains a mystery. I thought he had learnt his lesson when he last played music in Miki’s Pub. You see the people – Willo, Paulo, Phado, Muzee and the rest are a very complicated bunch when it comes to music. They will push Dr. John to go and play in a DJ booth that is cut off from the crowd. And as he does he thing, they in the meantime sit back and quaff beers while making small talk with the PYT’s. And every time Dr. John tries to leave the booth to rejoin them at the table, they send him back. “Go mix some more” so they tell him. And with that Dr. John heads back to the booth.
When it is time to go, nobody bothers to tell him. They just stand up, get into their rides and head off to the next location. Just like that. And unknown to Dr. John, he is playing music for an empty table.
In Monot, I found that there were some unexpected fringe benefits to be derived by standing next to Dr. John as he did his thing. With every successful mix that he pulled off, a cheer went up. And with each cheer, Dr. John put all his worth into pulling off yet another successful mix. However, the unexpected fringe benefits I was talking about were not the cheers but rather the beers that were showered upon him by those who appreciated what he was doing. The beers were being delivered to the DJ booth in two’s, sometimes three’s.
Now this is the point where DJ’s don’t exactly like their jobs. When they are doing the mix, they concentrate, they think four songs ahead – almost like a chess player and they are cut off from everything except trying to please the crowd. Another thing, they don’t like having any form of liquid (beers, soda’s) near the decks or the PC incase of spillage.
As the beers were being lined up, Dr. John obviously had no time for them which got me thinking. I really need not have been a student of Harvard Business School to figure this one out but, why would I break into my 20k note to buy beer at 4k yet, there is an endless supply waiting and all through Dr. John’s hard work?
I slipped the 20k note back into my back pocket (there was really no use of walking round with a wallet and all for a solitary 20k was there?) and started quaffing on Dr. John’s beers. I even had the nerve to ask Waitress to exchange them for colder ones, and bring me a barstool so I would be comfortable as I did the quaffing that had to be done.
When Dr. John showed signs of slowing down, I would leap off my barstool, rush up to him and give him ‘moral support’. I would tell him things like, he is better than DJ Shiru and that, Elvis Wava is a tight of mine and I can arrange for him to play in Club Silk on a Saturday night. Those were the words Dr. John wanted to hear. His ego swelled. His chest puffed out like that of the resident rooster – ready to make that first crow at 5:30am as well as trying to assure the local Imam that his crow carries further than the Imam’s ramblings from the mosque’s loud speakers as he calls people to prayer.
Encouraged, he carried on with the mix. Encouraged, I went back to my barstool, whistled for Waitress who seemingly had pulled out the coldest ever Club beer that Monot had. I swirled it round my mouth for a while then let it trickle down my throat while giving a thumbs up to Dr. John. This is it. This is bliss. But there was some thinking to do. How do I convince Dr. John to return to Monot the following night to do yet more mixing? I mean why can’t I keep my 20k for a rainy day?
Anyway, as time wore on, Monot began to empty. Outside on the terrace where Muzee, Phado, Willo and the rest usually sit, it was an empty table save for the remnants of a bottle of Johnny Walker – Black, and a near to the brim glass of Moonberg – which obviously was Muzee’s drink.
If Dr. John found out that he had been abandoned by his friends that, would be it. He would call it a night, pack up his mixer and all then sit down to drink the beers he had been given. But I was not yet done. I managed to squeeze a further 40 minutes out of him in which three beers were delivered.
As I had my fill, it was time to go – well time to sneak out. There was no need to say bye to Dr. John because people these days don’t say good bye. Willo will leave half a glass of Guinness and a cigarette burning to give the impression that he is still around. Paulo heads off in the direction of the toilets then scarpers through the back door. Muloodi, we simply don’t know how he does it. One minute he is there and the next he is gone. Muzee pretends his phone has rang then walks out to a ‘quiet’ place to take the call - the quiet place being his car that is roaring away. I just walked out – just like that.
The following evening when we saw Dr. John, he was semi vexed. He said he thought that the previous night the crowd had been buying him beers but bleak. At that, I sank into my seat and kept mum. And he went on: “Then I packed up my stuff ready to come and re-join kimeeza but it was empty. All I found was Isaiah (his driver) waiting to take me home.”
And with much regret, Dr. John did not play music that night which necessitated me breaking into the 20k note. What was his problem? All we wanted him to do was some video mixing. Was that too much to ask from him? If his late father still had the energy to do a victory lap after scooping the gold medal, what was another day of mixing to Dr. John?
But in all fairness, Dr. John should have inherited part of his late father’s legacy – but he didn’t. That legacy was the ability to run for John’s father back in 1972, did Uganda proud when he came back from the Olympics with a bling of a gold medal draped round his neck. What he did inherit (and we don’t know where from) was the ability to use his hands – not just to be a doctor, but to mix, as in mix music – video’s, music or otherwise.
DJ Shiru who ply’s his trade out of Club Silk is supposed to be the best there is at mixing, but watching Dr. John do his thing in Monot a couple of weeks ago, I am sure Shiru, would have stepped back and admired the abilities of Dr. John for he was simply dope!
When I say ‘dope’, I don’t mean dope as in contraband drugs but dope as in hip. Dope is a word favoured by the Swagg Generation and should any parent wish to more about the Swagg Generation, I am hardly the coward to ask. Try Ernest Bazanye on the second to last page of this, your favourite Sunday magazine (that sounds like the most biased plug for a magazine considering I am a contributor)!
Why Dr. John chose to do a bout of video mixing that Friday night remains a mystery. I thought he had learnt his lesson when he last played music in Miki’s Pub. You see the people – Willo, Paulo, Phado, Muzee and the rest are a very complicated bunch when it comes to music. They will push Dr. John to go and play in a DJ booth that is cut off from the crowd. And as he does he thing, they in the meantime sit back and quaff beers while making small talk with the PYT’s. And every time Dr. John tries to leave the booth to rejoin them at the table, they send him back. “Go mix some more” so they tell him. And with that Dr. John heads back to the booth.
When it is time to go, nobody bothers to tell him. They just stand up, get into their rides and head off to the next location. Just like that. And unknown to Dr. John, he is playing music for an empty table.
In Monot, I found that there were some unexpected fringe benefits to be derived by standing next to Dr. John as he did his thing. With every successful mix that he pulled off, a cheer went up. And with each cheer, Dr. John put all his worth into pulling off yet another successful mix. However, the unexpected fringe benefits I was talking about were not the cheers but rather the beers that were showered upon him by those who appreciated what he was doing. The beers were being delivered to the DJ booth in two’s, sometimes three’s.
Now this is the point where DJ’s don’t exactly like their jobs. When they are doing the mix, they concentrate, they think four songs ahead – almost like a chess player and they are cut off from everything except trying to please the crowd. Another thing, they don’t like having any form of liquid (beers, soda’s) near the decks or the PC incase of spillage.
As the beers were being lined up, Dr. John obviously had no time for them which got me thinking. I really need not have been a student of Harvard Business School to figure this one out but, why would I break into my 20k note to buy beer at 4k yet, there is an endless supply waiting and all through Dr. John’s hard work?
I slipped the 20k note back into my back pocket (there was really no use of walking round with a wallet and all for a solitary 20k was there?) and started quaffing on Dr. John’s beers. I even had the nerve to ask Waitress to exchange them for colder ones, and bring me a barstool so I would be comfortable as I did the quaffing that had to be done.
When Dr. John showed signs of slowing down, I would leap off my barstool, rush up to him and give him ‘moral support’. I would tell him things like, he is better than DJ Shiru and that, Elvis Wava is a tight of mine and I can arrange for him to play in Club Silk on a Saturday night. Those were the words Dr. John wanted to hear. His ego swelled. His chest puffed out like that of the resident rooster – ready to make that first crow at 5:30am as well as trying to assure the local Imam that his crow carries further than the Imam’s ramblings from the mosque’s loud speakers as he calls people to prayer.
Encouraged, he carried on with the mix. Encouraged, I went back to my barstool, whistled for Waitress who seemingly had pulled out the coldest ever Club beer that Monot had. I swirled it round my mouth for a while then let it trickle down my throat while giving a thumbs up to Dr. John. This is it. This is bliss. But there was some thinking to do. How do I convince Dr. John to return to Monot the following night to do yet more mixing? I mean why can’t I keep my 20k for a rainy day?
Anyway, as time wore on, Monot began to empty. Outside on the terrace where Muzee, Phado, Willo and the rest usually sit, it was an empty table save for the remnants of a bottle of Johnny Walker – Black, and a near to the brim glass of Moonberg – which obviously was Muzee’s drink.
If Dr. John found out that he had been abandoned by his friends that, would be it. He would call it a night, pack up his mixer and all then sit down to drink the beers he had been given. But I was not yet done. I managed to squeeze a further 40 minutes out of him in which three beers were delivered.
As I had my fill, it was time to go – well time to sneak out. There was no need to say bye to Dr. John because people these days don’t say good bye. Willo will leave half a glass of Guinness and a cigarette burning to give the impression that he is still around. Paulo heads off in the direction of the toilets then scarpers through the back door. Muloodi, we simply don’t know how he does it. One minute he is there and the next he is gone. Muzee pretends his phone has rang then walks out to a ‘quiet’ place to take the call - the quiet place being his car that is roaring away. I just walked out – just like that.
The following evening when we saw Dr. John, he was semi vexed. He said he thought that the previous night the crowd had been buying him beers but bleak. At that, I sank into my seat and kept mum. And he went on: “Then I packed up my stuff ready to come and re-join kimeeza but it was empty. All I found was Isaiah (his driver) waiting to take me home.”
And with much regret, Dr. John did not play music that night which necessitated me breaking into the 20k note. What was his problem? All we wanted him to do was some video mixing. Was that too much to ask from him? If his late father still had the energy to do a victory lap after scooping the gold medal, what was another day of mixing to Dr. John?
Friday, February 24, 2012
Going AWOL
I’ve got a bone to pick with that Ernest Bazanye fellow of the Bad Idea fame and who peddles his ramblings on the second last page of this, your favourite Sunday Magazine.
You see Baz, as they call him in the small confines of Sunday Vision, wafted into a dream that I was having after a night of clubbing in Silk Lounge. How he got into the dream remains a mystery and thankfully in the dream, it had nothing to do with what a certain pastor of a Rubaga based miracle centre church is alleged to have sexually done to a number of men – or where they young boys?
In the dream the prolific writer that he is, Baz wrote about me kissing some lady. There is nothing wrong with that, except that, he wrote it in Luganda and the Luganda translation of kissing is not entirely the best. He wrote: “nabalaybe nga beekomba” and further down in the article he added: “yamusunye omumwa”.Charles Sendi who is my resident Luganda translator tells me that putting those words into English would translate as follows. ‘I saw them licking each other’ and ‘he pinched her on the mouth’. Eek, Baz and all along I thought we were friends?!
Enough of Baz. I have known Ronald Safari since he started work at Serena Hotel in the food and beverage department and Sean Christian while he was head chef at Emin Pasha. I put Safari, Christian in the same league as Godfrey Gyagenda of Kampala Sheraton Hotel and Akilesh Malik of Speke Resort Munyonyo. Undoubtedly they are the best in their field. They know what they are doing and when it comes to execution, as long as they are there to tend to your needs, nothing goes wrong.
As most of you well know, I like my food. I like rich foods and I will seek out the best culinary chefs that Uganda has to offer and sample their kitchen delights. And I will also seek out the best food and beverage managers, the ones who I know will pamper the living daylights out of me. And it was in Boda Boda on a Thursday night that I settled in for the BBQ night – and by that, I mean a 7 hour affair in which Safari and Christian did their thing. Yalabi, talk about slavering, that was me throughout the night at the food. I wonder if Gyagenda will go one step better when I am next at the Sheraton – and I guess I would have to pick a day when presidential advisor John Nagenda is not dining there for when he is, the hotel practically comes to a stop and revolves round him.
But it got me thinking about both Safari and Christian. They left their previous employments at the end of January and ended up in Boda Boda but how exactly did they leave their last jobs? Okay I know they were not fired but it is common practise among people who work in the food industry, the house help and a number of blue collar workers that when they get tired of the job that they are doing and are moving on, they don’t tell the employer.
In Soya where I tend to go for pork, the staff turnover is ballistic. Just as you start to get used to say Susan, Mabel or John, they are gone. When you enquire as to what happened to them, the answer is always: “Yagenda. Kirabika yakoowa” (they went. It looks like they were tired of the job.)
When House Help want to quit, they wait until you give them leave and once they are out of the gate, that’s the last you will ever hear of them. Godfrey Kivumbi who is the Creative Director at Silk Events knows a thing or two about staff who never come back for he says: “I hired a young chap as a graphics editor. He started work just before lunch and diligently worked the day out. When he was going home, he thanked me for giving him the job and even asked about his work schedule for the following day. And then he was off home and it was the last time I ever saw or heard of him. Was it too hard a task for him to tell me that I can’t hack the job?”
A few years ago I spent the night on the back of a police pick up. No, I was not arrested but was doing a story on them. It was to be a two night affair. The evening started off well. We raced all over town from CPS after a briefing down to Gayaza Road and the across town to Kireka to apprehend a number of thieves who I might add we actually caught red handed trying to steal a generator from the home of a Korean expatriate. Then there were the car accidents we had to deal with along with petty domestic squabbles. All that happened before midnight.
After midnight the night sort of settled and the cold came in. It was the real cold and when you are on the back of a pick-up and racing all over town, the cold gets to you. In fact it actually gnaws at you as it sends shivers down every opening that your jacket or jeans have not covered. And then the sleep hits you and as the sleep and cold are doing their thing, there is this struggle to stay on the back of the pick-up.
Matthias Mugisha who was my photographer was having a hard time. I was doing so baldy and it got to a point that I really hated Simon Kaheru who was then Deputy Editor at Sunday Vision for barking the assignment into me.
When morning hit, it was more than a relief and when we clambered off the pick-up back at CPS, we made small chat with Police as well as getting a brief about our next assignment later that night.
We listened intently except that I was not listening intently. There was no way that I was going back on the police pick-up. One night was enough. All I had to do was to tell them that but I didn’t. Rather and just like House Help, Waitress or Waiter who don’t tell their employers that they quitting the job, I too didn’t tell Police that I had had enough.
That evening and an hour before I was due to report for ‘duty’, I switched my phone off – again which is something that House Help, Waiter or Waitress do.
The following day when I switched it back on, a flood of messages filtered through including one from Katumba Wamala who then headed the police force. The message was simple enough. “Tim, if you were unable to make the second night, all you had to do was to tell us. We would have understood.” Whilst there is a need to apologise to affande Wamala for my going AWOL even though the incident happened almost seven years ago, can somebody please tell me why House Help, Waiter or Waitress leave their jobs without at least telling us that they are never coming back?
And to my friends Manzi, Paulo, Willo, Dorc, Muzee and all, they left Miki’s without saying a word and now they have left Monot without saying a word either so maybe the leaving without saying good bye is not just a Waitress, House Help or Waiter thing. It is also a white collar thing. Now that’s got me thinking, when M7 fled the jungles of Luweero for Sweden when it was all too apparent that the war was on the verge of being lost, did he tell the rest of his fighters that he was off and was not coming back? Affande’s Salim, Muhwezi, Kutesa and the rest of the group of 26, perhaps you enlighten me?
You see Baz, as they call him in the small confines of Sunday Vision, wafted into a dream that I was having after a night of clubbing in Silk Lounge. How he got into the dream remains a mystery and thankfully in the dream, it had nothing to do with what a certain pastor of a Rubaga based miracle centre church is alleged to have sexually done to a number of men – or where they young boys?
In the dream the prolific writer that he is, Baz wrote about me kissing some lady. There is nothing wrong with that, except that, he wrote it in Luganda and the Luganda translation of kissing is not entirely the best. He wrote: “nabalaybe nga beekomba” and further down in the article he added: “yamusunye omumwa”.Charles Sendi who is my resident Luganda translator tells me that putting those words into English would translate as follows. ‘I saw them licking each other’ and ‘he pinched her on the mouth’. Eek, Baz and all along I thought we were friends?!
Enough of Baz. I have known Ronald Safari since he started work at Serena Hotel in the food and beverage department and Sean Christian while he was head chef at Emin Pasha. I put Safari, Christian in the same league as Godfrey Gyagenda of Kampala Sheraton Hotel and Akilesh Malik of Speke Resort Munyonyo. Undoubtedly they are the best in their field. They know what they are doing and when it comes to execution, as long as they are there to tend to your needs, nothing goes wrong.
As most of you well know, I like my food. I like rich foods and I will seek out the best culinary chefs that Uganda has to offer and sample their kitchen delights. And I will also seek out the best food and beverage managers, the ones who I know will pamper the living daylights out of me. And it was in Boda Boda on a Thursday night that I settled in for the BBQ night – and by that, I mean a 7 hour affair in which Safari and Christian did their thing. Yalabi, talk about slavering, that was me throughout the night at the food. I wonder if Gyagenda will go one step better when I am next at the Sheraton – and I guess I would have to pick a day when presidential advisor John Nagenda is not dining there for when he is, the hotel practically comes to a stop and revolves round him.
But it got me thinking about both Safari and Christian. They left their previous employments at the end of January and ended up in Boda Boda but how exactly did they leave their last jobs? Okay I know they were not fired but it is common practise among people who work in the food industry, the house help and a number of blue collar workers that when they get tired of the job that they are doing and are moving on, they don’t tell the employer.
In Soya where I tend to go for pork, the staff turnover is ballistic. Just as you start to get used to say Susan, Mabel or John, they are gone. When you enquire as to what happened to them, the answer is always: “Yagenda. Kirabika yakoowa” (they went. It looks like they were tired of the job.)
When House Help want to quit, they wait until you give them leave and once they are out of the gate, that’s the last you will ever hear of them. Godfrey Kivumbi who is the Creative Director at Silk Events knows a thing or two about staff who never come back for he says: “I hired a young chap as a graphics editor. He started work just before lunch and diligently worked the day out. When he was going home, he thanked me for giving him the job and even asked about his work schedule for the following day. And then he was off home and it was the last time I ever saw or heard of him. Was it too hard a task for him to tell me that I can’t hack the job?”
A few years ago I spent the night on the back of a police pick up. No, I was not arrested but was doing a story on them. It was to be a two night affair. The evening started off well. We raced all over town from CPS after a briefing down to Gayaza Road and the across town to Kireka to apprehend a number of thieves who I might add we actually caught red handed trying to steal a generator from the home of a Korean expatriate. Then there were the car accidents we had to deal with along with petty domestic squabbles. All that happened before midnight.
After midnight the night sort of settled and the cold came in. It was the real cold and when you are on the back of a pick-up and racing all over town, the cold gets to you. In fact it actually gnaws at you as it sends shivers down every opening that your jacket or jeans have not covered. And then the sleep hits you and as the sleep and cold are doing their thing, there is this struggle to stay on the back of the pick-up.
Matthias Mugisha who was my photographer was having a hard time. I was doing so baldy and it got to a point that I really hated Simon Kaheru who was then Deputy Editor at Sunday Vision for barking the assignment into me.
When morning hit, it was more than a relief and when we clambered off the pick-up back at CPS, we made small chat with Police as well as getting a brief about our next assignment later that night.
We listened intently except that I was not listening intently. There was no way that I was going back on the police pick-up. One night was enough. All I had to do was to tell them that but I didn’t. Rather and just like House Help, Waitress or Waiter who don’t tell their employers that they quitting the job, I too didn’t tell Police that I had had enough.
That evening and an hour before I was due to report for ‘duty’, I switched my phone off – again which is something that House Help, Waiter or Waitress do.
The following day when I switched it back on, a flood of messages filtered through including one from Katumba Wamala who then headed the police force. The message was simple enough. “Tim, if you were unable to make the second night, all you had to do was to tell us. We would have understood.” Whilst there is a need to apologise to affande Wamala for my going AWOL even though the incident happened almost seven years ago, can somebody please tell me why House Help, Waiter or Waitress leave their jobs without at least telling us that they are never coming back?
And to my friends Manzi, Paulo, Willo, Dorc, Muzee and all, they left Miki’s without saying a word and now they have left Monot without saying a word either so maybe the leaving without saying good bye is not just a Waitress, House Help or Waiter thing. It is also a white collar thing. Now that’s got me thinking, when M7 fled the jungles of Luweero for Sweden when it was all too apparent that the war was on the verge of being lost, did he tell the rest of his fighters that he was off and was not coming back? Affande’s Salim, Muhwezi, Kutesa and the rest of the group of 26, perhaps you enlighten me?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Sarah - The Waitress
It is one of those questions we all ask ourselves. How do we know when we have been stood up? Is it after five minutes or an hour perhaps? Early this year, I bumped into Lillian Barenzi and seeing it was at Shell Bugolobi, it was hardly the place to catch up – well unless you have a thing for inhaling fuel fumes to give you a high.
So we agreed to meet the following evening to paint the town red. Numbers were exchanged – well she took my number and that was that. The following day I was dressed and ready by 8:30pm and in full battle fatigues with a red beret just in case she decided to wear hers and intimidate the life out me. 8:30pm came and went and so did 9:00pm along with load shedding. Then it was 10:00pm, 11:00pm, 1:00am and somewhere in between 2:00am and 3:00am I fell asleep. It was only when Umeme switched the power back on at 6:15am and as I wiped away more than just a drool of malusu that had slithered out of the corner of my mouth and down the back of my neck and onto the sofa that it finally dawned on me. Barenzi had stood me up. Hmm, I must have been really patient.
Now let’s get into the succulent pork chops of today’s cowardly tales. Anybody who lives in Bunga and beyond will no doubt have heard of a place called Soya. Soya is the hub of Bunga, where all the supermarkets are, the bars and of course the place to eat pork. And there is a man called Nadduli who I am told practically owns Bunga, and there is a very lovely lady called Madame Nampeera who owns a beer outlet and there is the equally vivacious Julie who owns a bar called Julie’s. And let’s not forget Kityo, the master of roasting pork – though I don’t know how he manages to pull it off bearing in mind the number of tot packs of Royal Vodka that he sucks on daily.
While the bars in Soya pull in a big crowd every evening, one thing they have not done is to work on their toilets and their staff. I would dare say that if anybody wants to see the worst toilets past Kansanga, you will find them in Soya. The one toilet block is a mess. Since it was built, it has never been cleaned. The stench of susu is unbelievable. Worse still, the toilets are universal – the act as both a urinal and showers too! Thankfully, Madame Nampeera has her own and very clean toilets for her customers.
I know Julie is going to be more than a trifle upset at this, but a good number of us are fed up with one of her staff. To save her blushes let me change her name and call her – hmm, let’s see – Ah, I think Sarah will do. I don’t know how she does it, but Sarah has the ability to walk in slow motion. Forget about Michael Jackson when he used to do the ‘Moonwalk’. Sarah is in a class of her own. Her slow motion walk is so good that when she sets off from the bar to serve you, you can actually rush into town, have a haircut, pop into Nakumatt for a spot of shopping, drop it off at home and be back at your table before Sarah arrives to take your order.
Okay so the first time she set off from the bar to serve me in slow motion, I actually got up went to the bar, got served there and was back in my seat before she arrived. When she eventually got to me, she had this scowl about her face that I practically leapt out of my seat and sought refuge under the table. It was like she has come to hiss, to vent out her anger on me as well as throwing in a few slaps here and there. The conversation went along these lines.
Sarah: (Nothing came out of her mouth. Not even hello.)
TB: “May I have a Club please?”
Sarah: “Club?” and said with a puzzled look.
TB: “Yes a Club beer.”
Sarah: (Silence and still with a puzzled look and now a scowl on her face.)
TB: “Is there a problem?”
Sarah: “Club?”
At this point I was at a loss for words until a Good Samaritan on the adjoining table stepped in and offered his services.
Good Samaritan: “TB you are saying it all wrong. You have to say the word Club in Luganda and not English.”
TB: “Eh, this is a first for me. How do you say Club beer in Luganda?”
Good Samaritan: (And practically barking at her) “Gwe Sarah, genda oleete Club-uu.”
At that, the puzzled look from Sarah’s face melted away and she turned on her heels to once again slow motion her way back to the bar and back. With hindsight I should have ordered two beers to save time but I didn’t.
Two weeks later and on another visit, Sarah was still in her element. She still had the slow motion thing about her and the scowl about her face so I took it upon myself to throw at her some words of encouragement and to be nice to her and to tell her that if she wrote down the orders, she would be able to make one trip to and from the bar instead of the current five that she does.
You see, her first trip is to take your order. The second trip is to come back and ask you what you ordered because she’s forgotten. The third trip is to bring you your beer, the fourth to bring the glass and the fifth to bring the opener.
When I told her about writing things down, the scowl turned menacing and if I were to guess what she would have spewed out of her mouth had she decided to do it, it would have been along these lines: “Oli stupid-ee! Do you know how to even work in a bar? You just sit there and drink beer and now you want to tell me how to do my job? Stupid-ee!”
Thank god she didn’t spew out the words. Later on, I had a polite word with her boss Julie and kindly asked to find a way of telling her never to serve me. I don’t know if my message was passed on, but judging by the looks I now get, it might have but in a more rounded form.
That form so I suspect, was along the lines of ‘pull up your socks because customers are complaining about you.’
Has there been any change in Sarah? Bleak. Because as they say just because you go to school and onto university and have been scoring straight A’s, it does not mean you will be successful. And like they say, there are some people who fall out of the safety net and our Sarah is one of them. She is beyond redemption and dare I say that if anybody took her to London, New York or Tokyo, the pace at which people walk would simply give her a heart attack.
But then again, I think she is comfortable in her own little world and indeed there are many people who are not bothered that she never smiles but scowl’s, that it takes forever to get a word out of her and that it will be an eternity before you get served.
And in saying that, maybe the problem lies with me. Maybe I am being too difficult? Maybe I have not taken the time to try and understand her and most probably she dislikes the hell out me? Hmm, that is a real possibility.
While Sarah slow mowed her way to get my Club-uu beer, a txt message from Phado fell in which brought a smile to my face. He has been blessed with a baby boy. Congratulations Phado! Ops, I think Sarah has misinterpreted my smile for she is smiling at me. I think I better get out of here. See you all next Sunday.
So we agreed to meet the following evening to paint the town red. Numbers were exchanged – well she took my number and that was that. The following day I was dressed and ready by 8:30pm and in full battle fatigues with a red beret just in case she decided to wear hers and intimidate the life out me. 8:30pm came and went and so did 9:00pm along with load shedding. Then it was 10:00pm, 11:00pm, 1:00am and somewhere in between 2:00am and 3:00am I fell asleep. It was only when Umeme switched the power back on at 6:15am and as I wiped away more than just a drool of malusu that had slithered out of the corner of my mouth and down the back of my neck and onto the sofa that it finally dawned on me. Barenzi had stood me up. Hmm, I must have been really patient.
Now let’s get into the succulent pork chops of today’s cowardly tales. Anybody who lives in Bunga and beyond will no doubt have heard of a place called Soya. Soya is the hub of Bunga, where all the supermarkets are, the bars and of course the place to eat pork. And there is a man called Nadduli who I am told practically owns Bunga, and there is a very lovely lady called Madame Nampeera who owns a beer outlet and there is the equally vivacious Julie who owns a bar called Julie’s. And let’s not forget Kityo, the master of roasting pork – though I don’t know how he manages to pull it off bearing in mind the number of tot packs of Royal Vodka that he sucks on daily.
While the bars in Soya pull in a big crowd every evening, one thing they have not done is to work on their toilets and their staff. I would dare say that if anybody wants to see the worst toilets past Kansanga, you will find them in Soya. The one toilet block is a mess. Since it was built, it has never been cleaned. The stench of susu is unbelievable. Worse still, the toilets are universal – the act as both a urinal and showers too! Thankfully, Madame Nampeera has her own and very clean toilets for her customers.
I know Julie is going to be more than a trifle upset at this, but a good number of us are fed up with one of her staff. To save her blushes let me change her name and call her – hmm, let’s see – Ah, I think Sarah will do. I don’t know how she does it, but Sarah has the ability to walk in slow motion. Forget about Michael Jackson when he used to do the ‘Moonwalk’. Sarah is in a class of her own. Her slow motion walk is so good that when she sets off from the bar to serve you, you can actually rush into town, have a haircut, pop into Nakumatt for a spot of shopping, drop it off at home and be back at your table before Sarah arrives to take your order.
Okay so the first time she set off from the bar to serve me in slow motion, I actually got up went to the bar, got served there and was back in my seat before she arrived. When she eventually got to me, she had this scowl about her face that I practically leapt out of my seat and sought refuge under the table. It was like she has come to hiss, to vent out her anger on me as well as throwing in a few slaps here and there. The conversation went along these lines.
Sarah: (Nothing came out of her mouth. Not even hello.)
TB: “May I have a Club please?”
Sarah: “Club?” and said with a puzzled look.
TB: “Yes a Club beer.”
Sarah: (Silence and still with a puzzled look and now a scowl on her face.)
TB: “Is there a problem?”
Sarah: “Club?”
At this point I was at a loss for words until a Good Samaritan on the adjoining table stepped in and offered his services.
Good Samaritan: “TB you are saying it all wrong. You have to say the word Club in Luganda and not English.”
TB: “Eh, this is a first for me. How do you say Club beer in Luganda?”
Good Samaritan: (And practically barking at her) “Gwe Sarah, genda oleete Club-uu.”
At that, the puzzled look from Sarah’s face melted away and she turned on her heels to once again slow motion her way back to the bar and back. With hindsight I should have ordered two beers to save time but I didn’t.
Two weeks later and on another visit, Sarah was still in her element. She still had the slow motion thing about her and the scowl about her face so I took it upon myself to throw at her some words of encouragement and to be nice to her and to tell her that if she wrote down the orders, she would be able to make one trip to and from the bar instead of the current five that she does.
You see, her first trip is to take your order. The second trip is to come back and ask you what you ordered because she’s forgotten. The third trip is to bring you your beer, the fourth to bring the glass and the fifth to bring the opener.
When I told her about writing things down, the scowl turned menacing and if I were to guess what she would have spewed out of her mouth had she decided to do it, it would have been along these lines: “Oli stupid-ee! Do you know how to even work in a bar? You just sit there and drink beer and now you want to tell me how to do my job? Stupid-ee!”
Thank god she didn’t spew out the words. Later on, I had a polite word with her boss Julie and kindly asked to find a way of telling her never to serve me. I don’t know if my message was passed on, but judging by the looks I now get, it might have but in a more rounded form.
That form so I suspect, was along the lines of ‘pull up your socks because customers are complaining about you.’
Has there been any change in Sarah? Bleak. Because as they say just because you go to school and onto university and have been scoring straight A’s, it does not mean you will be successful. And like they say, there are some people who fall out of the safety net and our Sarah is one of them. She is beyond redemption and dare I say that if anybody took her to London, New York or Tokyo, the pace at which people walk would simply give her a heart attack.
But then again, I think she is comfortable in her own little world and indeed there are many people who are not bothered that she never smiles but scowl’s, that it takes forever to get a word out of her and that it will be an eternity before you get served.
And in saying that, maybe the problem lies with me. Maybe I am being too difficult? Maybe I have not taken the time to try and understand her and most probably she dislikes the hell out me? Hmm, that is a real possibility.
While Sarah slow mowed her way to get my Club-uu beer, a txt message from Phado fell in which brought a smile to my face. He has been blessed with a baby boy. Congratulations Phado! Ops, I think Sarah has misinterpreted my smile for she is smiling at me. I think I better get out of here. See you all next Sunday.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
It's All About Culture
I am not trying to be rude here and on a Sunday at that, but the bitch lay on the carpet without a care in the world. It was a Corgi – I think and she was the pride and joy of its English master. I thought the sound of a Club beer being popped would rouse it but bleak. Instead another Corgi that was not a bitch came bundling out of nowhere and went straight to the bitch and started sniffing and licking at her in her genital region.
But really, don’t dogs have any shame or self control? Couldn’t they have gone to the kennels and done their thing there? Anyway once Male Corgi was done with sorting out Bitch Corgi, it comes over to me and attempts to lick me all over. I would have kicked the daylights out it but English Master was sitting in the living room across from me so that was a no go. So I simply stood up and went to vent my disgust at his pitiful garden.
Since 1986 when Museveni finally claimed the presidency after a six year battle, Uganda has seen a large influx of expatriates – South Africans, Indians, Pakistani’s, English, Americans, Congolese and a large number of West Africans. And each of these races has imported their own way of life, culture and ideals with them.
When it comes to the English, they are perhaps the most eccentric but they don’t come any more English than a gentleman called Craddock Williams. You could say that Williams is the quintessential Englishman abroad. He walks the walk, he talks the talk and better still, wherever you see him, he is always wearing his white Panama hat. So English he is, I am surprised that he was not cast in the movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice or Four weddings and A Funeral. Plus I have never been to his house so I don’t know if he has dogs and allows his dogs to do ‘bad manners’ in his living room when his guest is trying to quaff down a Club Beer. More on the English later.
I met Dominic at Speke Resort Munyonyo in October last year. I didn’t really mean to meet him or want to meet him, but I was propping up the bar and trying to watch the football match when he came and plonked himself next to me. Being males we of course looked at each other and did the sizing up thing. I was aghast that his neck and fingers were covered in bling and his choice of footwear? White shoes with silky white socks! Who still wears silky socks? They were an 80s thing - not so?
Half way into the first half of the match and Dominic is joined by a friend who had obviously vazed himself up in a bid to out dress Dominic. Perhaps it was for a reason and they were going the Clown Awards later that evening? Anyway, once Dominic and Friend started talking it was all over. The commentary from the match was drowned out, the waiters couldn’t hear themselves speak while the diners craned their necks to see what was going on.
But I bore the brunt of it all because I was sitting next to them. Okay so I was no longer watching the match but trying to listen to their conversation – a conversation I couldn’t understand because of their thick Nigerian accents. To cut a long story short, I was lured into their conversation and by the end of the match we were friends – as if. Well they felt that they were friends with me.
Some weeks after that fateful meeting, Dominic phones me up and invites me to a small gathering at his house on Salama Road: “Yes, just a small gathering to meet my brother who has just flown in from back home.” Heck why not, so I went.
A small gathering? Ha, going by the number of cars parked on the side of the road it was no small gathering. And one thing all the rides had in common, were the shiny bling wheel rims! But there was something wrong. At the gate to the crib, a small crowd had gathered. Kids, men and women from the neighbourhood were trying to peer through the cracks in the wall to get a look of what was going on. Voices were raised and it was all too obvious that an argument was taking place and an argument which, would be concluded with a melee going down.
This I had to see. But once inside the compound, there was no argument that I could see nor was there a melee about to break out. If anything, they were just talking, much like the way Dominic and Friend spoke when they were at Munyonyo except that this time, there were close to a hundred people all talking at the same time and all talking at an incredibly loud decibel that would no doubt attract the attention of the noise control people from NEMA.
But speaking at such as loud decibel is a Nigerian thing. It is part of their contribution, their import into Uganda. And when I asked Dominic in a whisper why one of his friends had so much bling in his mouth, he whispered back except that it was no whisper. Well he may have thought he was whispering, but his answer was loud enough for everybody to hear.
Then there are the Asians. I don’t know what part of India that they come from, but their contribution is in spitting. I have known Pradeep for close to ten years. He is a likeable fellow who taught me how to eat chillies but he and his cronies can spit. It is not just the one spit. It is spit after spit. In fact they spit more times in the space of half an hour than Manchester United’s Sir Alex Ferguson or his entire squad would spit on the pitch in the course of a 90 minute football match.
So I find myself at Pradeep’s (and of course Pradeep is not his real name) house for the Diwali celebrations but I am not too sure if it is the Diwali celebrations or it is a spitting contest that I am attending because people are spitting all over the place.
There is that stuff that Indian’s like to chew specially after meals. It’s not tobacco, but whatever it is, it turns their teeth red. And after they have chewed it for a while, they spit it out.
Anyway, getting back, we are kicking the ball about when it flies over my head and onto the balcony. Rather than using my feet, I pick it up and for some strange reason, the ball is moist. In fact not moist but wet and slimy yet the grass is dry. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. So many people had spat in the garden and hence the slime on the ball. And it also answered a question about the Premier League and why footballers always wipe down the ball with their shirts just before a throw-in. It is because they have spat all over the pitch and turned it into a slime bowl.
Going back to English Master I was talking about at the start of this cowardly tale, most Ugandan’s don’t allow their bitches or dogs into their homes save for the ‘liberated’ Ugandans who have been living abroad. And no Ugandan – well at least the ones who I know and have dogs and bitches would tolerate the kind of behaviour that was displayed by English Master’s bitch and dog.
But while some cultures have enriched us Ugandan’s, I highly doubt that I will be going back to English Master’s house in a hurry – well as long as he still has his dogs, nor will I be going to Dominic’s house because I can’t deal with being ‘shouted’ at all in the name of a conversation and neither will I be going back to Pradeep’s house to watch a spitting contest and picking up a ball covered in slime.
So for the time being, let me deal with my own Ugandan culture of, men tugging at their crotches, men walking around with toothpicks in their mouths, men staring and sporting a long finger nail on their small finger and men saying: “Okay please and well done!”
But really, don’t dogs have any shame or self control? Couldn’t they have gone to the kennels and done their thing there? Anyway once Male Corgi was done with sorting out Bitch Corgi, it comes over to me and attempts to lick me all over. I would have kicked the daylights out it but English Master was sitting in the living room across from me so that was a no go. So I simply stood up and went to vent my disgust at his pitiful garden.
Since 1986 when Museveni finally claimed the presidency after a six year battle, Uganda has seen a large influx of expatriates – South Africans, Indians, Pakistani’s, English, Americans, Congolese and a large number of West Africans. And each of these races has imported their own way of life, culture and ideals with them.
When it comes to the English, they are perhaps the most eccentric but they don’t come any more English than a gentleman called Craddock Williams. You could say that Williams is the quintessential Englishman abroad. He walks the walk, he talks the talk and better still, wherever you see him, he is always wearing his white Panama hat. So English he is, I am surprised that he was not cast in the movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice or Four weddings and A Funeral. Plus I have never been to his house so I don’t know if he has dogs and allows his dogs to do ‘bad manners’ in his living room when his guest is trying to quaff down a Club Beer. More on the English later.
I met Dominic at Speke Resort Munyonyo in October last year. I didn’t really mean to meet him or want to meet him, but I was propping up the bar and trying to watch the football match when he came and plonked himself next to me. Being males we of course looked at each other and did the sizing up thing. I was aghast that his neck and fingers were covered in bling and his choice of footwear? White shoes with silky white socks! Who still wears silky socks? They were an 80s thing - not so?
Half way into the first half of the match and Dominic is joined by a friend who had obviously vazed himself up in a bid to out dress Dominic. Perhaps it was for a reason and they were going the Clown Awards later that evening? Anyway, once Dominic and Friend started talking it was all over. The commentary from the match was drowned out, the waiters couldn’t hear themselves speak while the diners craned their necks to see what was going on.
But I bore the brunt of it all because I was sitting next to them. Okay so I was no longer watching the match but trying to listen to their conversation – a conversation I couldn’t understand because of their thick Nigerian accents. To cut a long story short, I was lured into their conversation and by the end of the match we were friends – as if. Well they felt that they were friends with me.
Some weeks after that fateful meeting, Dominic phones me up and invites me to a small gathering at his house on Salama Road: “Yes, just a small gathering to meet my brother who has just flown in from back home.” Heck why not, so I went.
A small gathering? Ha, going by the number of cars parked on the side of the road it was no small gathering. And one thing all the rides had in common, were the shiny bling wheel rims! But there was something wrong. At the gate to the crib, a small crowd had gathered. Kids, men and women from the neighbourhood were trying to peer through the cracks in the wall to get a look of what was going on. Voices were raised and it was all too obvious that an argument was taking place and an argument which, would be concluded with a melee going down.
This I had to see. But once inside the compound, there was no argument that I could see nor was there a melee about to break out. If anything, they were just talking, much like the way Dominic and Friend spoke when they were at Munyonyo except that this time, there were close to a hundred people all talking at the same time and all talking at an incredibly loud decibel that would no doubt attract the attention of the noise control people from NEMA.
But speaking at such as loud decibel is a Nigerian thing. It is part of their contribution, their import into Uganda. And when I asked Dominic in a whisper why one of his friends had so much bling in his mouth, he whispered back except that it was no whisper. Well he may have thought he was whispering, but his answer was loud enough for everybody to hear.
Then there are the Asians. I don’t know what part of India that they come from, but their contribution is in spitting. I have known Pradeep for close to ten years. He is a likeable fellow who taught me how to eat chillies but he and his cronies can spit. It is not just the one spit. It is spit after spit. In fact they spit more times in the space of half an hour than Manchester United’s Sir Alex Ferguson or his entire squad would spit on the pitch in the course of a 90 minute football match.
So I find myself at Pradeep’s (and of course Pradeep is not his real name) house for the Diwali celebrations but I am not too sure if it is the Diwali celebrations or it is a spitting contest that I am attending because people are spitting all over the place.
There is that stuff that Indian’s like to chew specially after meals. It’s not tobacco, but whatever it is, it turns their teeth red. And after they have chewed it for a while, they spit it out.
Anyway, getting back, we are kicking the ball about when it flies over my head and onto the balcony. Rather than using my feet, I pick it up and for some strange reason, the ball is moist. In fact not moist but wet and slimy yet the grass is dry. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. So many people had spat in the garden and hence the slime on the ball. And it also answered a question about the Premier League and why footballers always wipe down the ball with their shirts just before a throw-in. It is because they have spat all over the pitch and turned it into a slime bowl.
Going back to English Master I was talking about at the start of this cowardly tale, most Ugandan’s don’t allow their bitches or dogs into their homes save for the ‘liberated’ Ugandans who have been living abroad. And no Ugandan – well at least the ones who I know and have dogs and bitches would tolerate the kind of behaviour that was displayed by English Master’s bitch and dog.
But while some cultures have enriched us Ugandan’s, I highly doubt that I will be going back to English Master’s house in a hurry – well as long as he still has his dogs, nor will I be going to Dominic’s house because I can’t deal with being ‘shouted’ at all in the name of a conversation and neither will I be going back to Pradeep’s house to watch a spitting contest and picking up a ball covered in slime.
So for the time being, let me deal with my own Ugandan culture of, men tugging at their crotches, men walking around with toothpicks in their mouths, men staring and sporting a long finger nail on their small finger and men saying: “Okay please and well done!”
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