Proudly Ugandan!

The people who live in Bunga and beyond will surely have seen this. Assuming your driving from town, the authorities have put up a zebra crossing on Ggaba Road just past Shell Bunga – which is a good thing.

However, it is plainly obvious that Authority really didn’t think about it for while the school children and anybody who uses the zebra crossing is able to cross the road without getting knocked down, the downside of it is when you get to the other side of the crossing, you walk straight into the road coming down from Montessori School and St. Augustine’s University. Authority so I figure, feels it is much safer to get knocked down by slow moving traffic coming down from Montessori and St. Augustine’s than the speeding trucks that hurtle down Ggaba Road.

So I am tempted to think that as Ugandan’s, we have a strong desire not to get anything right. It is in our system and perhaps part of our hereditary right.

Authority also decided to tarmac the road from Kansanga that goes down past Didi’s World, into the valley past Kansanga Miracle Centre and up the hill past Rainbow International School.

Authority duly closed off the road and deployed heavy duty graders that created a dust bowl. He then brought in heavy duty trucks with stones which, another heavy duty truck fitted with a heavy roller compacted down. That done, the tarmac was laid.

Assessing Authority’s work, it was well below par. From Kansanga to the entrance into Didi’s World, he laid smooth tarmac. In the Valley where Kansanga Miracle Centre is, he didn’t bother doing a thing. It still remains a murram patch. Across the valley past Rainbow International School and beyond, it’s a rough tarmac. And Authority reckons the work has been satisfactorily completed?!

But it’s not just Authority who has issues. A special hire taxi driver will never tell you he does not know how to get to your chosen destination. Well before you are through telling him where you want to go, he is already in his seat, the car is fired up and get this, his only thought is the petrol station round the corner.

Once he has put in gas – which he won’t pay for but you will, it is then that he will start asking for directions. And when you remind him that before you had set off, he had said he knew where the place was and now he doesn’t.

Whether he knew, knows or didn’t, he is not bothered because you have already paid for the gas. He is content. And he is smirking because he has pulled one over you.     

When a friend contracted a painter to paint his company name down the door of his 4x4, Painter during the interview assured how he has done it many times before. He even had a brochure of the work he had done.

And so we watched Painter at work. He got off to a sizzling start but as the work progressed, it was obvious the words would not fit into the door. By the time it dawned on him, the damage was done.

But he didn’t give up. He stepped back and thought of a plan B. And his plan B? He simply reduced the font so it came out looking like something like this: Timothy Bukumunhe. And guess what, like Authority and Special Hire Driver, Painter felt he had done a grand job and expected to be paid as well!

Learning How To Write

When I was growing up, colouring and writing was an issue. Like most kids, when I was presented with a box of crayons along with a colouring book, the colouring book was tossed aside in favour of the walls, floor, dads briefcase, his white shirts and anything that could possibly be coloured and plastered with some form of ‘art work’.


I am sure Mr. Bukumunhe, my dad that is, must have wondered what went wrong. “Why won’t the boy colour in the colouring book and not on the walls or my briefcase” he must have asked on a number of occasions.

But it happens. I was not the first kid to do it nor will I be the last though today, some kids whose parents did not give them crayons or colouring books have decided to pick up stones and do their colouring and writing on cars as happened to mine last week. They wrote their names using stones or a metal object into the paint work of my car. Not content with just their names, the also drew circles, lines and a house!

Ivan and I think it is Shem, you little f***ers, the day I lay my hands on you, I am going to goof you because my ride now requires a complete re-spray.

Getting back, in my teens I liked to write. My writing was neat and readable too. I also experimented with pens and found that Bic didn’t do it for me. It had to be a fountain pen and as I type, the few people that I know who are seriously into pens are NSSF MD Richard Byarugaba, lawyer Peter Mulira and his son Oscar Mulira. We live in a world of pens such as Parker, Mont Blanc, Sheaffer and Waterman for example.

We sneer at people who use Bic, Nice House of Plastic or any pen bought from Nakumatt, Uchumi or the kafunda shop. We are more than a class above you all. We are the elite and we rightfully belong to an elitist sect.

But since the advent of the computer and being in the media, I no longer write. Rather, I type. My laptop has replaced my Parker as my writing tool. I spend more time typing than I do writing that Parker Pen wonders why I bothered buying him or not allowing anybody to use him but me.

The most Parker Pen does, is to write out my name or to sign my name – period.

I had started keeping a dairy – a written dairy at that which necessitated the need to write more than just my name. And that was the beginning of my woes. Minus the letters that appear in my first and last name, I had difficulty remembering how to write out the rest of the letters of the alphabet. I had problems with the letters ‘G, Z, Q, Z and X’. I remembered how to write them out in capital letters but in small letters, bleak. There was the need to ask Ghana who naturally gave me a: “Dad, you mean to tell me you can’t write out the letter Q in small letters?!” look.

Suffice to say that I have thrown out the whole idea of a written dairy in favour of an electronic one.

But pause for thought. The only adults that are still able to write are those in the police force. They can write out ream after ream of statements and in joined up hand writing too. It’s the only thing about the police that impresses me.

Real Men Eat Meat and Don't Wear Counterfeit After Shave!

Last week I did the unthinkable. I did something that any self-deserving African man should not be seen to be doing for it is solely the preserve of the Europeans and Americans. I had a vegetarian meal for lunch!

I can literally picture men as far as Kabale and Koboko wanting to jump onto the first bus to Kampala to come and give me a lecture while the Karamajong as I write, are busy arming themselves with an array of spears ready to stab me the moment they see me.

And I wouldn’t stop them if they did, for it was wrong of me. It was a heinous and self-centered act to do. I should have said: “To hell with the medical experts telling us that red meat is not good for us. What do they know? They are merely alarmists and people who have no idea how good meat is for us.” There is also a chance that they have never eaten ‘a young cat’ (if you get my drift) or gorged on fatty slabs of pork in Wandegeya or Ntinda. And with that I should have tossed my veggie meal aside and asked Waiter to bring me a carcass with a nice chunk of fat on it.

But I didn’t and I paid the price. I got a bout of daios and a serious stomach ache.

Eating a vegetarian meal was about as exciting as eating a wet sock that had been heated up in the microwave. There is no joy in it and quite frankly, I do have to sympathize with people who don’t eat meat.

There are also people who don’t partake in milk, cheese or any dairy products. What is wrong with them? I have a good mind to rant at them for the rest of this coloum but I will leave it here and as a reminder to all Ugandan men, real men eat carcasses and the young cat as well!

The counterfeit market is a billion dollar industry. In the Far East, you can buy just about anything from a fake Rolex watch, to Nike trainers to a Nokia phone. The people who engage in this activity take their profession so seriously that most times the customer is unaware that they have bought counterfeit goods.

The first time I can recall buying counterfeit goods was a number of years ago when I bought a watch from a hawker in Ntinda. As I looked at the watch, I could have sworn it read Casio and duly dipped into my wallet and bought it. However, when I got home, it no longer read Casio but Gasio. And two days later the inevitable happened. It stopped working.

It does appear that some people in the industry are lax and it is quite obvious that their counterfeit goods are counterfeit. Last week I was in a store in Munyonyo and above the counter they had an array of perfumes and after shaves. One after shave in particular stood out – Hugo Boss. But there was something amiss. Hugo Boss for a mere 25k? This of course warranted further inspection. When Shop Attendant handed me the box it was plainly obvious what the problem was. It did not read Hugo Boss but Hogu Boos!

I dread to think what it smelt like – probably like a cat’s stale urine. And furthermore, who on earth would buy it and wear it to work? Ah, let me think… men who don’t eat meat or the young cat at that.        

Mulalu or Psychotic Disorders?

When tragedy decides to rear its ugly head, we are often caught off guard. Sometimes it will let slip and provide for ample time for the soon-to-be-suffering family to prepare, to adjust to what is about to happen.

In my opinion, most times there is no warning. As I sit here typing out this column, unbeknown to me, there is a chance that the wires that make me tick are on the verge of a meltdown.

People would then say: “He has lost his marbles, wires have snapped, he has gone doo la li, he has lost the plot” and so on. Yes, those are the words we use today though Google tells me that the social or rather the clinically acceptable way to describe such a person is to say:   organic brain syndromes, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and other psychotic disorders.

The painter Vincent Van Goth lost the plot that he cut off his own ear, while the ilk of Joseph Stalin and Pol Pot – well, we all know what they did. But they were people I had never met, so it’s never bothered me.

Closer to home, Friend called. He was in a spot of bother. His sister had ‘lost the plot’ and there was a need to take her for a stint in Butabika. To be honest, nothing could have prepared me for what I was to see over the next couple of weeks.

When we got to Sisters abode, she had barricaded herself in the house. The compound was no longer a neatly trimmed compound but seemingly part of the Amazon rain forest that had migrated to Uganda.

To get her out of the house, we had to break the door down and when we got in, it resembled a scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie. Maggots were slithering all over the kitchen and fridge. Dog poop was everywhere. The dining room table and all it held looked like a tsunami had ripped through them.

As the gravity of the situation soaked in, Sister on the other hand, could not see what the fuss was all about. In her opinion, she was okay. Her wires were firmly welded on so what was with all the talk about Butabika. But she had to go.

Getting her there was not easy and the following day when we checked in on her, there were two tales – hers and the doctors. She of course was ‘okay’. Doctor on the other hand had a different story. Yes she has lost the plot and yes, she needs to be with them for a while, for she is a danger not only to herself but to the public too.

Sister was fortunate to be in a private ward. Those in kayola ward are usually dumped there, abandoned and disowned by their families and at a time when they most need family support.

While Sister got the support she needed, there was a need to reflect because tomorrow it could happen to any of us and for sure as hell, I would not like to be abandoned to the dogs by my family in Butabika.

However, Butabika is not all doom and gloom. I applaud the administrative staff, for it is far cleaner, more organized and a better run hospital than Mulago and many of the private hospitals.

Next time we see a mad man or woman, let’s not shout out mulalu or throw stones at them for they are still human. What has happened to them is unfortunate and remember, tomorrow it easily could be one of us.            

Jajja In The Golf, Dracula and Gifted By Nature

I was involved in a car accident last week. It was nothing major – no ambulance or police required. While I was shopping in Shell Bugolobi, a Golf with all the trimmings – bling rims, low profile tyres and tinted windows reversed into to my ride which necessitated a new headlamp and indicator.


A Golf with all the trimmings = A young chap who spent his first salary in the bond putting a down payment on it.

Obviously I was vexed and didn’t wait for him to get out of the Golf. I took the battle to him, yanked the door open with a furore that surprised me and as my favoured word – tumbavu (fool) that is, was about to splatter all over the dashboard, there was an urgent need to take it back into my mouth.

At the wheel, there was no 25-Year-Old but a Jajja and a female Jajja at that. Had I been a doctor, I would have classed her as a geriatric but seeing am not one, I have to make do calling her Jajja because it is not polite to call old folk geriatrics.

Jajja so I found out, normally drives a Jajja car, a Nadia but, 25-Year-Old-Son had taken it for servicing and offered her his Golf to get round. She also told me that it has a mind of its own and when I pressed her on it, she said: “A little pressure to the accelerator and it shoots off.”

Okay Jajja, that’s a Golf for you, but what about my headlamp and indicator? I was not bound to slap the 150k out of her and when she suggested we exchange numbers I accepted. She was a Jajja, what else could I have done?

It all ended on a good note for the following day, 25-Year-Old-Son called and did the needful.

Talking of geriatrics, the ruler of one of the most secretive countries in the world and who, bears a striking resemblance to Dracula, threw in the towel and resigned – something that has not happened in 600 years.

But what becomes of him? Does it mean he will have to refund the name - Benedict XVI which he picked when he became Pope and revert back to the plebe name of Joseph Aloisuis Ratzinger that he had? Is he required to do a handover and account for the per diem he got whilst he was in office? More importantly though, is there a scandal brewing that we don’t know about hence his decision to quit? All Catholics must be on bunkenke (peeing in their pants) at the thought.

Uganda is surely ‘gifted by nature’. I was in Jinja taking a drive past the Bujagali Falls dam, when I stumbled upon a hidden gem. I really should not be telling you about it because you will all go there and ruin the place.

It’s called Wildwaters Lodge and it’s in the middle of River Nile with a fast flowing rapid on either side. More importantly the chaps at the National Forest Reserve have them under a microscope that they have to promote ecotourism. William Pike and Cathy Watson, who, are so passionate about trees will be happy to know that for every tree that was chopped down to build the lodge, another one was planted in its place.

Now that I have let the cat out of the bag, I am sure the charcoal dealers will be descending on the area. By the way Jajja, you really can’t use a subwoofer to listen to CBS radio. As William Kakaire will tell you, a subwoofer is meant for Snoop and Dr. Dre!

The Nose That Sniffs The Deal

It is all in the nose and for that, I spent the best part of last week in Entebbe - not because I was summoned by State House or I was flying out. I was there because of the launch a luxury private jet.


When it comes to flying, I don’t fly First or Business Class but Economy or in Uganda speak, Kayola Class. Anybody flying and especially long haul, First or Business Class is the mode of travel. However, there is a ‘but’ as in the cost factor. I don’t have the dime for a First or Business and that is why I make do with Kayola Class.

If I had ‘the nose’, I would probably be First Class like Charles Mbire. Mbire has ‘the nose’. So he is a Mukiga but his nose is not long and pointed. His nose is robust and has the ability to sniff deals just like the noses of Sudhir Ruparelia, Patrick Bitature, Gordon Wava and the other tycoons who run this country.

Mbire sniffed a deal – the luxury private Vista Jet, while the rest of us were getting blazed in a kafunda. When the jet landed in Entebbe, it was a sight to behold.

And while we did we did not fly out, the one hour I was in the jet, I felt on par with other private jet owners like Donald Trump and Bill Gates. Swirling about in the wide leather seats complete with a set table and a bottle of chilled champers, the stewardess told me I could fly out and be in Paris for breakfast, London for lunch, catch the Barcelona/Real Madrid match at the Nou Camp in Barcelona and be back in Uganda in time to go clubbing. And being the ‘tycoon’ that I was, I also took myself to the back of the plane and flopped into bed for a power nap until reality set in when they threw me off the plane.

It did all did not end there, for I met an Indian, a Canadian Indian – Mohamed Awad. Like Mbire, Awad has a nose that sniffs out deals. Awad, so I found out, was the first person to open up a duty free shop in Entebbe airport and that was in the turbulent 80s when the mufu – President Obote was still ruling.

While we were cowering under our beds as the bullets flew and telling him (Awad) that his airport venture won’t work, he and his father were busy at the airport opening shops including Karibuni Lounge which, is a haven for First Class and Business Class flyers.

Awad further stretched his nose to duty free shops in Kilimanjaro, Zanzibar and Dar es Salam airports that today he owns a regional empire.

What I really liked about the day in Entebbe airport apart from enjoying the fine comforts of Karibuni Lounge and the Vista private jet, was watching the noses, the noses that sniff the deals at work like Stanbic Bank’s East Africa Chief Executive, Kitili Mbathi and Tony Gadhoke, the MD of Mukwano who were briefly there. Even Elvis Sekyanzi sniffed part of the deal because Silk Events was there too.

By the way, on my way home I passed a truck carrying matooke that had overturned on Salama Road. Perhaps I should have stopped and sniffed to see if there was a deal in the making for it would be a shame to find out that Mbire and Awad had passed the same truck, sniffed the deal, got paid and flew in sheer Vista Jet luxury to London, Dubai and New York.

The Mosquito, The Grafitti Artist

According to Google, the Egyptians invented the mosquito net. It was and still is a good and cheap invention and as long as malaria continues to reign, the net is here to stay.

However, what the Egyptians did not think about was how to stop the mosquitoes from getting into the net. The other night and feeling all lethargic, I didn’t have the energy to sit up and roll the net down - a process that would have taken less than five seconds and with little or no effort.

But I couldn’t be bothered until the mosquitoes got the better of me. And with that, I sat up and pulled the net down. All should have been well until at some ungodly hour I woke up – not because I wanted to wake up but two or more mosquitoes had gotten into the net and were wreaking havoc on me.

That got me thinking. Which is the better of the two evils – to sleep without a net and get bitten or to sleep with a net that has two or more mosquitoes in it and still get bitten?  

I opted for the latter. The following morning, I saw them. The first was so heavy with blood that it barely moved when I shook the net. The other two, equally as heavy flew straight into the palms of my hand where they met their death. They had so much blood in them that with hindsight I should have taken them to Nakasero blood bank and have them donate my blood.

Moving on, it happened. I was in the depths of Mukono – some place called Kawuga when my stomach started acting funny that there was an urgent need to be on a toilet. The toilets (pit latrines) that were on hand were not ideal when you have a spot of daios about to erupt.

But there was plan B. Drive to Jobiah hotel and use their toilets. The toilets were clean except they were not sit down toilets but squat down toilets and as you all know, the mechanics of squatting down especially when you have daios is no easy affair. There may be a need to hold onto a wall for support and you really can’t linger in there as you can in a sit down toilet where, you can have a smoke or even read a book.

In a squat toilet, it’s all about doing your stuff and getting out as fast as possible. So there I am squatting down and holding onto a wall for support and worried that the daios spray might go all over the place when I look up and see that somebody has written all over the door. When I say written all over the door, I don’t mean the entire length and width of the door, but at squat level!

Pause for thought. Now what sort of man goes to a squat toilet, squats down to do his stuff, has one hand on the wall to steady himself then looks up at the door and just like that whips out his pen to write his name on the lower half of the door?!    

The mind boggles for to reach the door, there was a need to lean forward, re-adjust the positioning of his legs and hand holding the wall, whip out the pen and think of what to write. And he is doing all this while doing his number two!

Enough of that crap. On a happier note, congratulations go out to Pompi and Winnie who got married last week. Make it work Pompi!