The Job Description

Everybody who is employed has a JD (job description) of some sort. I guess even the unemployed also have one that reads something along the lines of: “Unemployed, bored, sitting at home.”

The lady who sells mandazi, her JD most likely reads as follows: “Find a good spot to perch. Radio One is ideal because of the heavy traffic. Make sure the mandazi is fresh and you have enough newspapers in which to wrap. You don’t get a day off, and your hours of employment are from 7:00am until all is sold.”

There is however, one JD I have been trying to get hold of but to no avail and that is President Museveni’s JD. I assumed that since he holds a public office, it would be easy to get, but despite the e-mails I sent out, the calls I made, the offices I have been to, nobody seems to know where his JD is.

The Ministry of Public Service told me they can’t help and referred me to State House’s web site. I also sent them a message on Facebook and Twitter and got no response. I tried Sarah Kagingo, who then was doing PR for State House and again, bleak. And that got me thinking. Perhaps they think I am after his job and that’s why they won’t give it to me.

But I don’t want his job - far from that. For the past two months I have been trying to keep tabs on what exactly M7 does during a working day and he seems to spend an awful lot of time opening schools, factories, shopping malls, office blocks, hospitals, roads or dams. If he is not opening schools, factories, shopping malls, office blocks or hospitals, then he is hob knobbing with the pope, Uhuru, Kagame, commissioning a road, water project, or dam, which I guess is good for him for it keeps him out of trouble.

However, in his JD, is it stipulated that it must be him to open up every single school, factory, shopping mall, office block, hospital, road and dam or commission a road and water project? I mean, Barrack Obama and David Cameron don’t go opening up everything there is to open up do they?

Museveni is the head of state and bluntly speaking, he need not trouble himself with such mundane tasks. And I don’t think the electorate or Aggrey Kagonyera would have rued him if he (M7) recently hadn’t travelled to Karamoja to commission the MTN water project.

There are many people out there who are willing to stand in for him. If you think about it, not much intellect is required for the job for when you get to the site, two young girls pop out of nowhere with a bouquet of flowers which you receive and pass on. You then give the girls a hug, tour the site then, sit in a tent while everybody who thinks they are important rambles out a lengthy boring speech. Once they are done, you give your own speech then go cut the ribbon – if not, pull a small string the opens the small curtains to reveal a plaque that reads: “This building was opened on 16 November, 2014 by President YK Museveni” or in my case, “This building was opened by Timothy Bukumunhe…”  And that is it.

If only State House could subcontract out those jobs, I would be willing to stand in for M7. It would be my contribution to Uganda, my CSR. There are plenty of projects to be opened up that I am sure can be passed on to me and my dogs like Julius, Doc, Paulo, Nodin and Kayos while M7 chills with investors in State House. You get where I am coming from?   

Am An Usher And Proudly Daft

There was an era, when we used to go to functions and there was nobody at the door to check us in, so we just walked in. Then somebody – Sylvia Owori I think, came up with the idea of having ushers lining the entrance to a function to give it a Hollywood feel and also to check you in.

Suddenly young women all wanted to be ushers – regardless of shape, size and physical attraction. “All I have to do is stand about, smile for a couple of hours and get 50k” so I am sure they told themselves.

Things have changed since then. Usher of today detests being called an usher. She prefers to be called a glamour girl and I have no problem with that. However, while they may be glamorous, one thing they all have in common, is that they are daft. Yes you read it - daft! They are stupid, lack common sense and live a life that revolves round wanting to be seen in Kampala Sun newspaper, Chicken Tonight, 2k airtime for Whatsapp, V&A and telling Boda Man to drop them 200 meters from the function so that nobody sees them riding a boda.

Organiser had taken the trouble to call me and apologise for not having delivered my invitation card and that I should not worry because my name was on the guest list at the entrance which, was cool with me. When I turned up at the function, this is what unfolded.

Glamour Girl: “Do you have an invitation?”

TB: “I don’t have a physical invitation, but Organiser says my name is on the guest list.”

Glamour Girl: “So what are you calling you?” – (Perhaps she meant to say: “What is your name?)

TB: “Timothy. Timothy Bukumunhe.”

She goes through the list twice then looks up and says: “I can’t find you name.” Hmm. “Are you sure” I ask her. Nervously, she says it might be on the other list. I had seen my name on her list because Organiser had listed all names in alphabetical order by surname with the surname upper cased. Glamour Girl on the other hand, was looking for Timothy and not BUKUMUNHE, Timothy. To make matters worse, the ‘other list’ was a mere photocopy of the one she had so still she wouldn’t have found my name.

When I suggested she look under BUKUMUNHE, she gave me a, ‘are telling me how do my job’ look followed by a frown. But she complied. When she saw my name, her face lit up and cast a look that read – “Yikes, how did you do that!”

At another function, an army of workers had been deployed the remove every small blemish from the 100 meter long VIP red carpet. We all acknowledged the work Workmen were doing and to get from one side of the carpet to the other, we all jumped over it regardless of our positions.

An hour before the function was due to start, Glamour Girl comes waltzing down the carpet in mivumba heels that her Matugga feet had yet to master and very oblivious to the mess she was leaving behind and the fact the everybody else was jumping over the carpet which, infuriated Workmen.

Workman: “Nyabo, who do you think you are? Can’t you see everybody jumping over the carpet? Look at the mess you have made.”

Her look of distain was for World Cup. It read: ‘You stupid didn’t-go-to school workman’ was worthy of an Oscar accolade. And to make sure Workman really did appreciate the Oscar performance, as she trumped off, with more than a touch of sarcasm in her voice, she said: “But can’t you see I am Glamour Girl!?”

What Do Museveni's Bodyguards Do With The Gift Bags?

Bodyguards, minders, bouncers. Call them what you want, but out there, are some important people who by the nature of the office that they hold, need to have protection to save them from nutcases, stalkers, assassins, kidnappers, thugs....the list is endless.

The Russian oligarchs transgress their business operations in fleets of armoured plated Mercedes limousines complete with a bevy of armed bodyguards. Film stars like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have muscled men to keep the nutcases and stalkers away from them while at the high end, Barrack Obama, Vladimir Putin and David Cameron will have a mini army following them everywhere they go.

In Uganda, there is a man called M7. M7, and by virtue of his job, has bodyguards who call themselves SFB. I think.

Apart from M7 and the people he employs, I hear that chick on Urban TV – Mary Luswatta has protection and she needs it because she has annoyed just about every person in Uganda. But Sudhir Ruparelia, Gordon Wava, Charles Mbire and Karim Hiriji for example and who are some of the biggest tycoons in the land, do not have bodyguards - at least not that I know of.

M7 and having SFB to protect him is justified for his job title reads: “Head of State”. When he goes to a function, his SFB will take over and do what is ‘necessary’ to protect him from his own people.

But SFB can be cantankerous. One day they are easy to get along with and at the next function, they are a living hell. Each time I am invited to a function and find out that M7 will be there, I pass because it is easier to explain something to a house-ee in the Katanga slum than it is to SFB.

Mind you, don’t get me wrong. Not all in SFB are hard to deal with. It’s the men battle fatigues who set up the outer perimeter cordon. Rightfully, they follow whatever instruction that they have been given. They won’t deviate and they won’t sympathise. With a straight face, they will look at you and say: “No”. Then “no” again. Thinking outside ‘orders from above’ is no option for them.

At a recent function attended by M7 and Presidents Kikwete of Tanzania, Kagame of Rwanda and Kiir of South Sudan, Chinese Host had a number of gifts to give out to all who attended. There were over 3,000 gift bags which contained a yellow t-shirt and a key holder and were being transported in a delivery cart from an office where they were packed to the function area. When we got to the SFB security check, all hell broke loose – something which need not have happened.

SFB: “What is in those bags?”

US: “Gifts for the guests.”

SFB: “They have to be checked.”

US: “Not a problem. How do you want to do the checking?”

SFB: “It is for us to tell you.”

So we give him a gift bag which he looks through and indeed there is a key ring and yellow t-shirt. Satisfied, he then says: “We need ten samples.” He retains ten gift bags. It took us four trips to deliver the gift bags and on each trip, ten bags were retained as ‘samples’.

I wanted to ask SFB why they needed to retain twenty plus gift bags as samples but I thought that would be digging a hole for myself, and let it slide. But the ‘samples’ had some effect on the SFB. It made life with them that much easier even though it was at the cost of some guests not getting gifts. But I just need to know what happens to the samples? Do they get destroyed or...?

          

          

You Want Sex With An Animal? Denmark Has Animal Sex Brothels!

When Ms. Wandira Kazibwe was still Vice President and Minster of Agriculture, she was reportedly against the artificial insemination of cows because “...cows also like to have sex.” But let’s bookmark Ms. Kazibwe’s comments and return to them later.

I’ve been to Denmark and it’s a beautiful country. But back in the day, they used to be barbaric with the Vikings marauding across Western Europe, pillaging, raping and looting. Today, they are a gentle nation with a population of 5.6 million, a life expectancy of 77 years for men and 81 for women and their GNI per capita according to World Bank, is US $60,160. They even give us Ugandan’s economic aid through DANIDA.

While the Danish might also produce some of the finest cheese in the world and have a solid football team, it would appear that not all of the once marauding Vikings have settled down and I hope you are sitting down when you read what’s coming next.

Two weeks ago, the Danish agricultural minister, Dan Jorgensen, finally decided to ban sex with animals because the practice was 'damaging the country's reputation as well as being non-consensual’. Do you want me to repeat that? Ok, two weeks ago, the Danish agricultural minister, Dan Jorgensen, finally decided to ban sex with animals because the practice was 'damaging the country's reputation as well as being non-consensual’. It sounds a trifle similar to what Kazibwe said except that, she was advocating for sex between bulls and cows. And Jorgensen, how do animals give consent to sex with humans? Would the cow have to moo twice?

Denmark if you remember, was one of the countries that made noise and threatened to cut off aid to Uganda if the anti-gay bill was passed not so? But between the two evils, which is worse – same couple sex or sex with animals?

The Danes would lecture us that if the practice was banned, it ‘would interfere on the human rights of those who have sex with animals.’ Hmm!

The country has now become a magnet for animal sex tourists and has even seen a surge in animal brothels - as the act is banned almost everywhere else in Europe.

Pause, pause, pause!! Sex animal tourists and animal brothels? How perverse can the Danes really get? We don’t have animal brothels in our backward Uganda but in first world Denmark, it is the order of the day. Can you imagine going to Meat Packers on Old Portbell Road on a Saturday morning to buy your Sunday roast and only to find a line of Danes hoping to have sex with the cows, goats or sheep before they are slaughtered.

A recent up opinion poll revealed that 76% of Danes supported a ban on animal sex. So what about the 24% who are still in favour of having sex with animals? Will they be camping at Jessa Dairies?

Uganda as a nation is not perfect and yes we do have our faults but, the Western World ought to first get their house in order before melting down rules to us.

Seeing Foreign Minister Sam Kuteesa, is now a bigwig at the UN, he should bring this practise to the attention of the world as well as writing a strongly worded letter to the governments of Finland, Hungary and Romania and threaten to close down their embassies in Kampala because sex with animals is still legal in those countries. And we should also take to the streets and also demonstrate outside their embassies.

I do love my meat, but when I next travel to Denmark, I will become a vegetarian – who knows who the cow, sheep, goat or pig has been sleeping with?

They Limited

There is an organization out there who I call - They Limited (Bangambye Limited). I have never met the people who are in They Limited, where and when they meet or if they have chapters all over the world or it’s just a Ugandan organisation.

I also don’t know that they stand for – their goals, aim and mission. Are they out to destabilize the country or do good for the country?

The first time I came across They Limited was late 1999 when I was still working at WBS television. I was sitting at my desk and two men came up to me and stood before me. The conversation went along these lines.

TB: “Can I help you?”

MEN: “They have sent us to you.”

TB: “Who?”

MEN: “They.”

TB: “Who is ‘they’?”

There was silence. Perhaps they would be more comfortable if we had the conversation in Luganda and when I did, one of the men said: “Bangambye.” We were at a stalemate and I couldn’t help them. I needed to know who ‘they’ were before we could carry on. The men ‘refused’ to reveal who ‘they’ were and that concluded our business.

The next time I ran into They Limited, I was having lunch with Greg Petzer, who is the general manager at Speke Resort Munyonyo. Three waiters presented themselves to him. This is how it unfolded.

WAITERS: “Mr. Greg, they have sent us.”

Greg: “Who sent you and to where?”

Waiters: “They sent us to you.”

Greg: “Who?”   

A silence prevailed. Seeing Greg is South African, I jumped in to help and asked Waiter in Luganda. Is there any need to guess what the response was? “Bangambye.” Obviously Greg was frustrated and told them to go away and come back when they had worked out who had sent them. They never came back.

They Limited are particular about the people they recruit. They don’t recruit white collar workers but blue collar – House Girl, Waiter, Waitress, Shop Attendant, Plumber, and so forth. I think they pick them because they are easily manipulated, don’t ask questions and most importantly, they will never reveal the people behind They Limited.

A few months ago, I was in Nakivubo Stadium for Radio Simba’s Kiggunda. A kiggunda in Nakivubo is a blue collar affair. I was talking to one of the sponsors when Young Girl turns up with a plate of food for Sponsor. This was the conversation in Luganda.

Young Girl: “Bangambye ye gwe.”

Sponsor: “Ani?”

At this point Young Girl hesitantly looks back at where she came from. When she realises that she is not too sure of why she is looking in that direction, she starts looking round the entire stadium, a process takes about four minutes. Then she breaks the silence. “Bangambye ye gwe.” And with that, she nervously looks at us, then skulks off with her food into the crowd.

During Kabaka Mutebi’s wedding, when a group of young men appeared before Elvis Wava saying they had been sent, Elvis didn’t bother asking who had sent them. He simply assigned them tasks. After they toiled in the sun for a good four hours lifting heaving equipment and pulling cables, he asked them who had sent them and of course the answer from the team leader was “they”.

Then Young Men had a discussion between themselves when it dawned on them that they didn’t know who had sent them and that they didn’t know if They Limited had sent them to Elvis or they were supposed to have reported to somebody else.

Disillusioned, they stopped pulling cables and walked away while arguing amongst themselves. Such is the power of They Limited. To confuse.      

When You Start To Drool

Coming of age is the relishing of freedom, the freedom of being able to do anything without having a mum or dad to nag you. But the older you get, the more the complications – especially medical complications.

There were times I could party in Club Silk on a Friday night and walk out in the wee hours of Saturday at 8:00am, go home and sleep till noon. By 1:00pm, I would be out again and return home on a Sunday morning and at the same time that the first service was kneeling down for prayers in Christ the King Church.

Today, I can barely mange a few hours in Club Silk. By 11:00pm, I want to be home and in bed with a good book. But not being able to do that anymore does not worry me.

I have also noticed that the reflexes especially in my legs are not as sharp as they used to be. I get pains in my knees and sometimes when I stretch out my legs, I hear ‘clicks’ in the knees. But again, it’s something that does not worry me.

Reading has also become problematic that I can no longer see what I am reading – especially at night. Txt messages that come in at night are deferred to the following morning when there is ample light from the bright Kampala sun. But again, it’s something that does worry me. 

What really worries me is drooling. You see, three months ago, I woke to find that I had drooled all over my pillow. To be honest drooling disgusts. Drool is sticky, slimy and almost as slippery as nasal snot or phlegm. It leaves a slime trail across your faces just like a snail does when it crosses your patio. If that was not bad enough, what was appalling is that the drool had snaked its way past my ears and into my hair. Drool in my ears and hair? - Yuck!

Drooling is a thing that pathetic sad old men (and women) do. It’s a jajja thing and it reminds me of when were kids - the old man in our village who used to insist on giving us hugs whenever we went to visit and we would freak and run and hide because he was a drooler and the front of his shirt was drenched in drool.

When you start to drool, the message is clear for all to see - that you are no longer in control of your faculties and no one wants to sit next to you just in case you drool over them as you talk. Once the drooling starts, what’s next - bladder control problems? I have drooled three more times since then, that it has been a case of having to wake up early and getting rid of the drenched pillow cases before somebody notices and decides to pack me off to the village to join the other droolers. Another thing about drool, it does not easily wash out of the pillow cases. You need to soak them for a good hour or two to get the slime out.

Ok yes, I have accepted the white strands of hair on my beard and the few on my scalp, the knee issues and the sight problems. I can deal with all those. I honestly can. But drooling? I am hoping that it’s just a case of sleeping badly and not closing my mouth.

Thankfully my pillow cases were dry this Sunday morning when I woke up for I have discreetly bought some hospital type disposable plastic pillow cases. And people, let’s not broadcast this article those who missed it and we keep the issue between us. Thanks.         

A Dime Is Tight

In this tough economic climate, one thing that is universal is the need to avoid frivolous spending. While Daniel, who I have known for years, is no economist, he has a simple three point plan to getting through the crisis.

1. Don’t spend if you don’t have to, but make sure you position yourself so others spend on you. 2. Be in the right place at the right time. 3. Take advantage of invitation cards to corporate bashes for there is always something to eat and drink and that solves the supper issue.

He has a point. But if white collar workers feel the pinch, what about the blue collar worker? How do they surf out the economic survival wave?

I politely asked Waitress to toss the tooth pick that dangled from her mouth into the bin as she served the TML. However, the interpretation I got from the roll of her eyes that shot back at me suggested she was not going to do it. A further message in her eyes read something along the lines of: “What is your f*****g problem, do you pay my wages?” I too retorted and berated her – and ended the tirade with something along the lines of: “If you didn’t have lunch, why don’t you have chips?”

When it was time to go and the bill presented, the word ‘chips’ appeared on the fourth line. Chips? I didn’t eat chips so I called Waitress back. She obviously knew what ‘the problem was’ and had an answer ready to roll. In a tone designed to quell any confrontation I might put up, she said: “Naye you told me to order chips.” Hmm! I tried to tell her that I was merely being sarcastic and not knowing the Luganda translation for sarcasm didn’t help. Because she was unrepentant and insistent on the chips, there was a need to firmly put her in her place with a mouth full of my finest Luganda swear words to drive the message home.  

Moving on, we go there once a week usually on a Friday because the beer price tag is sh2,500. But I am not going to tell you where it is because you will all come and spoil our ‘good thing’.

That evening, PL gave me a bag of t-shirts that were leftovers from a campaign he had been working on. 

Obviously when my boys saw the shirts, everybody wanted one and helped themselves. As we made merry and the night wore on, when Waiter served another drink, he cleared the bile from his throat and tapped me on the shoulder. He was straight to the point. “TB, you gave Doc and Anus a t-shirt, but I didn’t get one.” I think there is a need to repeat what he said just to make sure we are all on the same page - don’t you? “TB, you gave Doc and Anus a t-shirt, but I didn’t get one.” Yep, that is what I thought he said. What he missed is that Doc and Anus are my tights and he is not.

Was this a case of being in the right place at the right time like Daniel said? I would have swung him a shirt but like Waitress, it was his attitude - an attitude that he deserved one and that if I did not have one for him, he expected it the following Friday. I let him be.

During the week, my Samsung replica phone rings.

Caller: TB, don’t forget your promise.

TB: “Who is this and what promise?”

Caller: “It’s me. You promised me a t-shirt.”

It was Waiter. Had his airtime not run out, my finest Luganda swear words were set to roll.