December is finally upon us and it heralds the start of the silly season. I call it the silly season because Christians take leave of their senses, just like the Muslims do when the return from the pilgrim to Mecca.
I suppose I could have called Simba FMs Aga Sekalala and asked why it is that when somebody returns from Mecca, an entourage of at least 40 to 50 people, a convoy of 20 cars that includes buses, vans and trucks are dispatched to Entebbe Airport to meet them. But for the lack of airtime I didn’t. I was down to sh200 which is ‘beeping’ airtime. Nevertheless I did beep him a couple of times but alas, he never called back. Perhaps he does not respond to beeps?
A few weeks ago – 13 November to be precise, I was in Entebbe with an ambition of spending a relaxing afternoon there.
But the afternoon was hardly relaxed for just about every square inch of Entebbe was taken up by Muslims who had come to meet their people back from Mecca. Cars were decorated, people had dressed up to the nines in their Sunday best and just about every hotel or restaurant had struck a certain item of meat off the menu because it was bound to offend them.
So the car did a u-turn back to Kampala to avoid getting entangled in a traffic jam and ended up parking in Soya, Bunga – at Joy’s where three ribs ‘n’ebigenderako’ (accompaniments) went down.
Back to the silly season proper. Any HR Manager with her head screwed on properly would by now be thinking of the end-of-year office party. Some stingy companies throw parties only for their staff while others, throw open the gates and invite their clients too.
The lady who is in-charge of HR at New Vision is the amiable Kathy who is backed up by a vivacious lady called Gloria. Last year I was not invited to the office party which led me to believe I was either a persona non grata or that Motorcycle Courier simply kept my invite and used it himself. Perhaps this year they will remember me and seeing that my surname starts with the letter ‘B’, I should be at the top of the list – on the second page or at worst, the third. You see by the time they make the list out in alphabetical order, the mind is still fresh so why forget me? They should be forgetting people whose names are further down the alphabet like Ssewankambo, Kakaire, Lukwago, Keyeunye, Muzee and Mulira for example.
As it’s the silly season, the whole idea is to get through the month without spending a dime on a swallow. Ok, I can feel my dad reaching for his phone to ask what a swallow is. A swallow is a beer or any form of alcoholic beverage. And dad please don’t follow up by asking where the name came from because I don’t know.
To get into a position where you find yourself invited to at least three office parties in a week, you have to have an invitation card. Anybody who is a CEO, MD or say a CFO will no doubt get an invite. That is automatic. It is us the plebs who, have to scratch about looking for them.
Talking of the big guns, Allen Kagina who heads Uganda Revenue Authority must have a very happy personal assistant. You see, Ms Kagina is a mulokole and with that, her life revolves round trying to ‘fleece’ us of as much money (a very un-mulokole to do if you ask me) as possible for something called taxes and then going to church on Sunday presumably to ask for forgiveness for fleecing us blind. Better sill for her PA, Ms Kagina does not go out so why would she need the invitation cards to the Club Silk, Boda Boda, Cayenne or Shell Club end of year parties? Such invitations, PA won’t even bother telling her. She will just slip them into her bag, call her friends and that will be that.
When William Pike was still head of New Vision, though he was not a major player in the hanging out circles, he nevertheless did get a number of invites. And the key to Pike was to time him just at the right moment. Obviously Camilla at reception kept me appraised as to the number of invitation cards that flowed in for him. If there was an invite that I wanted, the best time to approach him was after lunch. I would storm his office under the pretext of asking for some information for a story I am writing and somewhere in there, ever so deftly, I’d mention a party to which he would say: “I got a card here, do you want it?” And that would be that.
At some parties I used to hear whispers along the lines of: “I always thought Pike was a muzungu. Turns out he is black after all.” At one company party that I attended using Pike’s invitation, I was invited by Newly Arrived in Town Wifey of CEO to a party at their house the following weekend. I went and when I got there, as I walked through the house and out the back to the pool where the party was being held, Newly Arrived in Town Wifey of CEO announced that: “Now that William Pike is here, let the party begin.”
There was an awkward silence. Newly Arrived in Town Wifey of CEO had yet to meet the bona fide Pike and seeing that it was her at the entrance of the earlier function I attended and it was her who had ticked me off, she just assumed I was Pike. For the rest who did know Pike, they simply smiled, coughed out loud and howled until Angelica Arden (I wonder where she is now) put her foot in it and I was rumbled. Good thing was that Newly Arrived in Town Wifey of CEO had a sense of humour. On Monday morning back in the office, the first call I got came from Pike asking if it was a difficult job impersonating him.
This year, I have already secured myself two invites from Swivel Marketing and a company called Oregon whom I have never heard of but will nevertheless attend seeing an invite is an invite – not so? It would rude not to attend. I also have some friends at Vero so an invite from Paulo Lukwago or the mullah himself – Mr. Katongole should land on my desk but seeing they are a mineral water company, I wonder how many bottles of water I will be able to knock back before I get bloated.
The Phado has also left National Housing to do his own thing, so I don’t foresee an invitation coming from them. So far this year things are looking pretty bleak in the invite department.
But I have my plan B and that is to loiter at reception and make off with any invitation card that has not been picked up by the rightful owner after two days.
It would also be helpful if companies inviting me considered location. Anything from Kansanga onwards is fine with me - like Speke Resort Munyonyo, Hotels International and Diplomate which are near home for I am not keen on being pulled over by the police breathalyzer units who I am sure will be lurking at Mukwano roundabout, Electoral Commission, Kira Road ready to nab me as I drunkenly try to drive home after an office party that was held at Kabira Country Club, Cayenne, Sheraton or Serena Hotel.
By the way, I took a small break from typing this cowardly tale and went for a haircut. I didn’t go to my usual place – Baskuru’s but to a new place in Kansanga. Barber was all about attention to detail. After trimming my goatee, he trimmed my eye brows then, jammed the machine into my ears and nose - mbu to “to trim away some offending hair follicles.” To make matters even worse, he whipped out a tooth brush and brushed my eye brows! A melee should have gone down, but I was so stunned and shocked, I just froze in the chair. Real men don’t have their eye brows trimmed. But eek, I had hair growing out of my nose and ears? That is sad, really sad and I feel embarrassed at the thought!
At least I am now looking good for any office parties that might happen this week. Kathy and Gloria don’t forget me and to Editor Esther, seeing that you don’t swallow, can I have your beer coupons?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Is Einstein's Theory Right?
Supposedly, the Kardashians, are a global household name. They have to be because even Godfrey Kivumbi who is the chief editor at Silk Events has heard of them as has Barrack Obama and who according to his wife Michelle is not too keen on his daughters – Sasha and Malia watching their reality TV show. Whilst I have never seen the show, I did try calling up Mrs. M7 to find out if like Barrack Obama, M7 too is against his kids – Muhoozi, Natasha, Patience and Diana watching the show. She hasn’t gotten back to me. Perhaps she is busy in Karamoja? Or her Blackberry has issues?
The intro of the way, Albert Einstein once said: “Only two things are infinite. The universe and human stupidity and I am not sure about the former.” He has a point because today, there are things we do that simply defy human logic.
Take Minister Kahinda Otafire for example. Some years ago he got into a verbal onslaught with the late Mrs. Kuteesa at Fairway Hotel and sensing he was losing the argument, he pulled his Star pistol and held it to her head in a bid to gain the upper hand. Then there was Bright Young Man who shares his name with that of a local FM station and who got into an altercation at a popular Industrial Area nightclub. When he was thrown out, he walked to his 4x4 car, got in, revved it up and drove it through the main entrance and into the club! And finally, there was Young Man who was ditched by Girlfriend who used to work for a telecom company. Rather than just accepting he had been ditched, Young Man sold pictures of him and Girlfriend which by the way were very nude and very intimate to a local tabloid. Then he stole her Corsa car and torched it to a crisp on Owen Falls Dam if memory serves me correct.
Now Eritu is one of those people I have known since my days at WBS. He was a loyal and focused cameraman who worked alongside me when I was producing and directing Showtime Magazine. We were in Kabale and driving up the hill to White Horse Inn where we were to spend three nights. As we drove, we came up behind a prison’s pick-up transporting prisoners back to the goal. On the steep incline, the pick-up died which, was a godsend to one of the prisoners. He saw an opportunity, jumped off and slithered into the misty valley.
Prison Warder didn’t waste any time in cocking AK-47 and letting off a few rounds. Whether Prisoner was shot or not, that I don’t know.
Later in the evening, we were filming in a club called Earthquake when some soldier type chap came up demanding to know what we were doing. I wanted to assure and put him into his place but Eritu and suddenly no longer feeling weedy but ‘built up like Mike Tyson’ wanted to take him on. Above the Lucky Dube song ‘Ire’ that was belting out of the speakers and at such a decibel that it was next to impossible to hear yourself think or speak, you could make out the words “tumbavu, f**k, and malaya” as Eritu and Soldier Type Chap tussled it out.
I tried to restrain Eritu but the lanky chap from Teso wasn’t listening. Then things took a twist. “Just because you are from Kampala you think you can do what you want? Wait until you get outside” so Soldier Type Chap assured us. We laughed him off.
When it was time to go, there he was outside the club brandishing an AK-47. Upon seeing us, he let off a round of bullets. I cowardly disappeared back into the club and sought refuge behind the speakers and Eritu, the next time I saw him, was back at White Horse Inn. There he gave me a colourful story of how he stood his ground, assured Soldier Type Chap and called him every vile name under the sun. He Eritu, had triumphed.
But there was a glitch in his story. The following day and in my room, I was reviewing the material we had shot the previous day on a small monitor. Unknown to Eritu, he had the camera rolling as we exited Earthquake and rather than seeing footage of him standing his ground and assuring Soldier Type Chap and calling him every vile name under the sun, it was footage of a cowardly and distraught Eritu running for dear life and taking cover in a ditch with the camera facing him. With the sound of bullets being squeezed off ringing in the background, Eritu is seen weeping, begging for forgiveness and saying his last funeral rites.
It was 1989. Off The Old Kent Road in South London there used to be a club called Ziggy. While I had heard of it – well sort off, what I didn’t know is that it was a place for hardcore Rasta’s, it was a place where hardcore contraband drugs exchanged hands and it was an illegal club in a building marked for demolition.
I went there on a Friday and straight from work with Dale who while of West Indian origin, was not a Rasta. That Friday, Ziggy’s was steaming. Rasta’s were grinding their groins into women on the walls. ‘Splifs’ (ok dad, for your benefit, a splif means a ‘joint’. But then again do you know what a ‘joint’ is? Hmm, I am in a fix here. A joint or a splif is a rolled up cigarette that contains tobacco and a contraband drugs like cannabis or Moroccan Black) were being inhaled while heavy reggae music from the likes of Peter Tosh and Dennis Brown filled the air.
But I stood out. I stood out because I was wearing a work suit, didn’t have a Rasta hairstyle, and had no clue of what ‘Jah rastafari’ or ‘five-O’ meant. I think, I am not too sure, but I think Jah rastafari means God is great? ‘Five-O’ means police and is derived from the cult 70s TV series, Hawaii Five-O.
Getting back, at the bar I got strange looks from the barman when I declined a bottle of Red Stripe, the favoured beer drink for anybody who is a Rasta or anybody who came from the West Indies. Apart from that, they ‘body checked’ me and those guys could really body check to a point that it actually hurt my shoulders whenever they did it.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, I told Dale that I ought to leave. Dale was against it because as he said: “If you go now, hell will break out.” I should have listened but I didn’t.
Outside and with an autumn breeze blowing, I stood by the entrance trying to figure out what to do next. But I really didn’t have the time to figure out what to do next because Rasta Men did it for me. They surrounded, took me behind Elephant and Castle tube station where, the larger of the three Rasta Men produced a knife. On second thoughts, it was not a knife. Rather it looked like a machete, the sort of machetes that the men use to cut sugarcane at Kakira sugar plantation.
My first reaction? I was being mugged. My second reaction? I was being mugged. My third reaction? They want sodomise me then slice me up. Yes, am sure they wanted to do just that! I should have known better than to hangout in Elephant and Castle, an area that was notorious for drug related killings.
In thick West Indian accents they asked me a number of questions that were centred round my being a police informant. With a mouth filled with gold bling coated teeth, Rasta Man held up the machete of a knife and rifled through my pockets and seemingly satisfied, he chilled out on me.
As I walked to the mini cab office, I looked back at them. Did they really have to produce a machete and rough me up to find out if I was a police informant? Why did they not just ask me? Was it right for Otafire to pull out his Star pistol to take on a defenceless Mrs. Kutesa over a simple argument? Did Bright Young Man who shares his name with a local FM station really have to drive his 4x4 car into a nightclub because he was thrown out? And did Soldier Type chap have to let off an entire magazine of bullets on Eritu simply because we were filming in a club?
Einstein was correct when he said: “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity and I am not sure about the latter.” If only Muhammad Gadaffi had heeded Einstein’s words, I suppose he would have been alive today.
The intro of the way, Albert Einstein once said: “Only two things are infinite. The universe and human stupidity and I am not sure about the former.” He has a point because today, there are things we do that simply defy human logic.
Take Minister Kahinda Otafire for example. Some years ago he got into a verbal onslaught with the late Mrs. Kuteesa at Fairway Hotel and sensing he was losing the argument, he pulled his Star pistol and held it to her head in a bid to gain the upper hand. Then there was Bright Young Man who shares his name with that of a local FM station and who got into an altercation at a popular Industrial Area nightclub. When he was thrown out, he walked to his 4x4 car, got in, revved it up and drove it through the main entrance and into the club! And finally, there was Young Man who was ditched by Girlfriend who used to work for a telecom company. Rather than just accepting he had been ditched, Young Man sold pictures of him and Girlfriend which by the way were very nude and very intimate to a local tabloid. Then he stole her Corsa car and torched it to a crisp on Owen Falls Dam if memory serves me correct.
Now Eritu is one of those people I have known since my days at WBS. He was a loyal and focused cameraman who worked alongside me when I was producing and directing Showtime Magazine. We were in Kabale and driving up the hill to White Horse Inn where we were to spend three nights. As we drove, we came up behind a prison’s pick-up transporting prisoners back to the goal. On the steep incline, the pick-up died which, was a godsend to one of the prisoners. He saw an opportunity, jumped off and slithered into the misty valley.
Prison Warder didn’t waste any time in cocking AK-47 and letting off a few rounds. Whether Prisoner was shot or not, that I don’t know.
Later in the evening, we were filming in a club called Earthquake when some soldier type chap came up demanding to know what we were doing. I wanted to assure and put him into his place but Eritu and suddenly no longer feeling weedy but ‘built up like Mike Tyson’ wanted to take him on. Above the Lucky Dube song ‘Ire’ that was belting out of the speakers and at such a decibel that it was next to impossible to hear yourself think or speak, you could make out the words “tumbavu, f**k, and malaya” as Eritu and Soldier Type Chap tussled it out.
I tried to restrain Eritu but the lanky chap from Teso wasn’t listening. Then things took a twist. “Just because you are from Kampala you think you can do what you want? Wait until you get outside” so Soldier Type Chap assured us. We laughed him off.
When it was time to go, there he was outside the club brandishing an AK-47. Upon seeing us, he let off a round of bullets. I cowardly disappeared back into the club and sought refuge behind the speakers and Eritu, the next time I saw him, was back at White Horse Inn. There he gave me a colourful story of how he stood his ground, assured Soldier Type Chap and called him every vile name under the sun. He Eritu, had triumphed.
But there was a glitch in his story. The following day and in my room, I was reviewing the material we had shot the previous day on a small monitor. Unknown to Eritu, he had the camera rolling as we exited Earthquake and rather than seeing footage of him standing his ground and assuring Soldier Type Chap and calling him every vile name under the sun, it was footage of a cowardly and distraught Eritu running for dear life and taking cover in a ditch with the camera facing him. With the sound of bullets being squeezed off ringing in the background, Eritu is seen weeping, begging for forgiveness and saying his last funeral rites.
It was 1989. Off The Old Kent Road in South London there used to be a club called Ziggy. While I had heard of it – well sort off, what I didn’t know is that it was a place for hardcore Rasta’s, it was a place where hardcore contraband drugs exchanged hands and it was an illegal club in a building marked for demolition.
I went there on a Friday and straight from work with Dale who while of West Indian origin, was not a Rasta. That Friday, Ziggy’s was steaming. Rasta’s were grinding their groins into women on the walls. ‘Splifs’ (ok dad, for your benefit, a splif means a ‘joint’. But then again do you know what a ‘joint’ is? Hmm, I am in a fix here. A joint or a splif is a rolled up cigarette that contains tobacco and a contraband drugs like cannabis or Moroccan Black) were being inhaled while heavy reggae music from the likes of Peter Tosh and Dennis Brown filled the air.
But I stood out. I stood out because I was wearing a work suit, didn’t have a Rasta hairstyle, and had no clue of what ‘Jah rastafari’ or ‘five-O’ meant. I think, I am not too sure, but I think Jah rastafari means God is great? ‘Five-O’ means police and is derived from the cult 70s TV series, Hawaii Five-O.
Getting back, at the bar I got strange looks from the barman when I declined a bottle of Red Stripe, the favoured beer drink for anybody who is a Rasta or anybody who came from the West Indies. Apart from that, they ‘body checked’ me and those guys could really body check to a point that it actually hurt my shoulders whenever they did it.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, I told Dale that I ought to leave. Dale was against it because as he said: “If you go now, hell will break out.” I should have listened but I didn’t.
Outside and with an autumn breeze blowing, I stood by the entrance trying to figure out what to do next. But I really didn’t have the time to figure out what to do next because Rasta Men did it for me. They surrounded, took me behind Elephant and Castle tube station where, the larger of the three Rasta Men produced a knife. On second thoughts, it was not a knife. Rather it looked like a machete, the sort of machetes that the men use to cut sugarcane at Kakira sugar plantation.
My first reaction? I was being mugged. My second reaction? I was being mugged. My third reaction? They want sodomise me then slice me up. Yes, am sure they wanted to do just that! I should have known better than to hangout in Elephant and Castle, an area that was notorious for drug related killings.
In thick West Indian accents they asked me a number of questions that were centred round my being a police informant. With a mouth filled with gold bling coated teeth, Rasta Man held up the machete of a knife and rifled through my pockets and seemingly satisfied, he chilled out on me.
As I walked to the mini cab office, I looked back at them. Did they really have to produce a machete and rough me up to find out if I was a police informant? Why did they not just ask me? Was it right for Otafire to pull out his Star pistol to take on a defenceless Mrs. Kutesa over a simple argument? Did Bright Young Man who shares his name with a local FM station really have to drive his 4x4 car into a nightclub because he was thrown out? And did Soldier Type chap have to let off an entire magazine of bullets on Eritu simply because we were filming in a club?
Einstein was correct when he said: “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity and I am not sure about the latter.” If only Muhammad Gadaffi had heeded Einstein’s words, I suppose he would have been alive today.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Dealing With The Porn Merchant
I rarely go to town on a Sunday. I mean why would I? Perhaps being able to drive from Wandegeya to Shell Jinja Road in a matter of minutes because the roads are devoid of traffic? Better still, the pavements (if at all they can be called pavements because there are so many manholes that lack covers that it is much safer to walk on the congested roads than the pavements) are devoid of people who walk without plan or thought. You know the people who just stop dead in their tracks or the people who can’t walk in a straight line?
Anyway, this Sunday I find myself at Kassalina’s early in the evening. Kassalina’s, which is opposite the Post Office, must be a diehard haunt for the Baganda if the numerous pictures of the Buganda royal family that cover once section of the wall are anything to go by.
Going to the lower level, I place an order for a cold Club beer and a glass. The beer, when it is presented, is not exactly ice cold but will do. The glass on the other hand is a tankard but it is the smallest tankard I had set my eyes on. In fact, it looked more like spirits measurements glass than a beer tankard.
Obviously the Club beer that I am holding rejects the tankard. I ask for another glass and Waitress tells me the other glasses are strictly reserved for people drinking juice. Not one to give up, I insist that surely she must have a decent glass tucked away somewhere.
She does. When it lands on the bar counter, it’s a wine glass! I should have unleashed my standard one liner – “tumbavu!” on her, but I bite my tongue, let it slide and take my Club and myself to a seat as far away from her as possible.
Settling into a high table and contemplating drinking the Club from the bottle, I see him tumbling down the stairs clutching a batch of DVDs.
He makes a beeline for me and well before I have the chance to say ‘no’ to him, three DVDs are in my face. I glance at them and sensing that I am not interested, five more DVDs are unleashed followed by a commentary in Luganda about how they are action movies.
To sweeten the deal, out come other DVDs. “Kartooni e’za abaana” (cartoons for the kids). I must point out that my spoken or written Luganda is not all that and seeing that my vivacious editor, Esther can’t read Luganda she probably has no idea either if “kartooni e’za abaana” are words that exist in Luganda.
Then something strange happens. Tucked in between the kiddie’s movies, The Lion King and Snow White, he flips out four DVDs after first casing the room. When I look down at them, it takes me a while to figure what I am looking at. They are blue movies. Hardcore porn to be precise!
The covers were graphic – pictures of two naked women and a man doing imaginable sexual acts to each other. It was not for the faint hearted. Former minister Nsaba Buturo, would have passed out had he seen them as would the Pope, Nelson Mandela, Bad Black and even Saddam Hussein and Gadaffi had they still been alive.
According to DVD Hawker, two of the movies were filmed in Kigali and the other two in Kampala – Bwaise to be exact so he tells me. Sensing he has got my attention, he gives me a brief narrative on one of the movies and it is hard to believe that what he is telling me is actually on film.
I am sold, and decide to buy the lot. Before I go on, I have to insert a disclaimer here. ‘Timothy Bukumunhe bought the porn DVDs for purposes of research only. Should there be anybody out there doing research in the same field, please feel free to get in touch with me so I give you the said DVDs’.
Before I pay him, I berate him for having positioned the porn between The Lion King and Snow White. “Do you want to tarnish Snow White’s squeaky clean image?” It was followed up with the “tumbavu” that I was supposed to have unleashed on Waitress for offending me with a wine glass. Just to make sure the message had sunk in, I give him a slap on the back and send him scurrying off for a black plastic bag. What, did you expected me to have a Sunday afternoon stroll through town while clutching four porno DVDs? Hmm!
The DVDs packed into a black bag and with the Club done, I am on my way. But for some reason as I walk down to Nakumatt, everybody is ‘looking’ at me. Even the people in cars appear to slow down, peer at me and either shake their heads or wag their fingers.
I am so convinced that DVD Hawker went to Clock Tower and with the aid of a megaphone, blurted out how I had bought porn DVDs for the world to hear. I consider ditching them into KCCA or perhaps Parliaments compound but I hold on to them.
At Nakumatt I am rumbled. I have been in and out of Nakumatt a million times with CDs in a black plastic bag and the guard has never looks in my bag. This time he stops me and after running the metal detector over me, he not only peers into the black bag but also takes the DVDs out. Immediately Second Guard’s attention has been diverted from checking people to looking at the offending pornography that I was trying to smuggle into the store. Worse, a man out with his family catches sight of the DVD and mutters away to Wifey who turns round to give me a so not approving look.
“Chief” so I tell Guard, “Is all this necessary?” He retorts: “We have to check everything.”
My humiliation over I wander about the store while wondering what brought me here in the first place. I am in the DVD player section and when I look round I see Guard giving me a quizzical look. I think he thinks I am going to slot one of the DVDs into the player. Dazed and confused, I flee empty handed only to be stopped by Guard again – this time to make sure I have not swiped anything from the store.
A few days later I am sitting at my desk and though the office is full, I decide to watch the porno that was filmed in Bwaise. As I hear the DVD whirl into life, through the corner of my eye, I see some visitors who are being shown round the office. No need for them to interrupt my movie so I adjust my desk and screen and plug in some headphones.
But alas, I plugged the headphones into the wrong port terminal. The first two minutes of the movie was all about noise and noise of a sexual content and at a high volume. I saw the office freeze then saw Visitors giving me a nasty look. As all that was happening, I tried desperately to mute the volume but I couldn't get the cursor to stop on the mute button.
I went in for plan B – shut to computer off and pull the power cable out of the socket. But it took forever and a quick glance at the screen revealed some horrible things going on. Eventually the computer was switched off but for an agonizing 30 or so seconds, the office including Visitors looked at me with mouths agape. Of course they would, wouldn’t they?
Once the storm had passed in which numerous Sportsman cigarettes would have been smoked but for BAT not wanting to stock the old Sporti packs, I settled for two Club beers.
Back at my desk I turned on the PC and it started doing things it was not supposed to do. Seeking help from IT, they diagnosed the problem in a matter of minutes. The porn had given my PC a virus and it has since been taken away for repair.
That said, would anybody mind if I came over and I watched the DVDs from their crib –Barbie, Mzee, Willo, Dr. Muloodi, Paulo, Phado, what say you? I’ll bring the beers.
Anyway, this Sunday I find myself at Kassalina’s early in the evening. Kassalina’s, which is opposite the Post Office, must be a diehard haunt for the Baganda if the numerous pictures of the Buganda royal family that cover once section of the wall are anything to go by.
Going to the lower level, I place an order for a cold Club beer and a glass. The beer, when it is presented, is not exactly ice cold but will do. The glass on the other hand is a tankard but it is the smallest tankard I had set my eyes on. In fact, it looked more like spirits measurements glass than a beer tankard.
Obviously the Club beer that I am holding rejects the tankard. I ask for another glass and Waitress tells me the other glasses are strictly reserved for people drinking juice. Not one to give up, I insist that surely she must have a decent glass tucked away somewhere.
She does. When it lands on the bar counter, it’s a wine glass! I should have unleashed my standard one liner – “tumbavu!” on her, but I bite my tongue, let it slide and take my Club and myself to a seat as far away from her as possible.
Settling into a high table and contemplating drinking the Club from the bottle, I see him tumbling down the stairs clutching a batch of DVDs.
He makes a beeline for me and well before I have the chance to say ‘no’ to him, three DVDs are in my face. I glance at them and sensing that I am not interested, five more DVDs are unleashed followed by a commentary in Luganda about how they are action movies.
To sweeten the deal, out come other DVDs. “Kartooni e’za abaana” (cartoons for the kids). I must point out that my spoken or written Luganda is not all that and seeing that my vivacious editor, Esther can’t read Luganda she probably has no idea either if “kartooni e’za abaana” are words that exist in Luganda.
Then something strange happens. Tucked in between the kiddie’s movies, The Lion King and Snow White, he flips out four DVDs after first casing the room. When I look down at them, it takes me a while to figure what I am looking at. They are blue movies. Hardcore porn to be precise!
The covers were graphic – pictures of two naked women and a man doing imaginable sexual acts to each other. It was not for the faint hearted. Former minister Nsaba Buturo, would have passed out had he seen them as would the Pope, Nelson Mandela, Bad Black and even Saddam Hussein and Gadaffi had they still been alive.
According to DVD Hawker, two of the movies were filmed in Kigali and the other two in Kampala – Bwaise to be exact so he tells me. Sensing he has got my attention, he gives me a brief narrative on one of the movies and it is hard to believe that what he is telling me is actually on film.
I am sold, and decide to buy the lot. Before I go on, I have to insert a disclaimer here. ‘Timothy Bukumunhe bought the porn DVDs for purposes of research only. Should there be anybody out there doing research in the same field, please feel free to get in touch with me so I give you the said DVDs’.
Before I pay him, I berate him for having positioned the porn between The Lion King and Snow White. “Do you want to tarnish Snow White’s squeaky clean image?” It was followed up with the “tumbavu” that I was supposed to have unleashed on Waitress for offending me with a wine glass. Just to make sure the message had sunk in, I give him a slap on the back and send him scurrying off for a black plastic bag. What, did you expected me to have a Sunday afternoon stroll through town while clutching four porno DVDs? Hmm!
The DVDs packed into a black bag and with the Club done, I am on my way. But for some reason as I walk down to Nakumatt, everybody is ‘looking’ at me. Even the people in cars appear to slow down, peer at me and either shake their heads or wag their fingers.
I am so convinced that DVD Hawker went to Clock Tower and with the aid of a megaphone, blurted out how I had bought porn DVDs for the world to hear. I consider ditching them into KCCA or perhaps Parliaments compound but I hold on to them.
At Nakumatt I am rumbled. I have been in and out of Nakumatt a million times with CDs in a black plastic bag and the guard has never looks in my bag. This time he stops me and after running the metal detector over me, he not only peers into the black bag but also takes the DVDs out. Immediately Second Guard’s attention has been diverted from checking people to looking at the offending pornography that I was trying to smuggle into the store. Worse, a man out with his family catches sight of the DVD and mutters away to Wifey who turns round to give me a so not approving look.
“Chief” so I tell Guard, “Is all this necessary?” He retorts: “We have to check everything.”
My humiliation over I wander about the store while wondering what brought me here in the first place. I am in the DVD player section and when I look round I see Guard giving me a quizzical look. I think he thinks I am going to slot one of the DVDs into the player. Dazed and confused, I flee empty handed only to be stopped by Guard again – this time to make sure I have not swiped anything from the store.
A few days later I am sitting at my desk and though the office is full, I decide to watch the porno that was filmed in Bwaise. As I hear the DVD whirl into life, through the corner of my eye, I see some visitors who are being shown round the office. No need for them to interrupt my movie so I adjust my desk and screen and plug in some headphones.
But alas, I plugged the headphones into the wrong port terminal. The first two minutes of the movie was all about noise and noise of a sexual content and at a high volume. I saw the office freeze then saw Visitors giving me a nasty look. As all that was happening, I tried desperately to mute the volume but I couldn't get the cursor to stop on the mute button.
I went in for plan B – shut to computer off and pull the power cable out of the socket. But it took forever and a quick glance at the screen revealed some horrible things going on. Eventually the computer was switched off but for an agonizing 30 or so seconds, the office including Visitors looked at me with mouths agape. Of course they would, wouldn’t they?
Once the storm had passed in which numerous Sportsman cigarettes would have been smoked but for BAT not wanting to stock the old Sporti packs, I settled for two Club beers.
Back at my desk I turned on the PC and it started doing things it was not supposed to do. Seeking help from IT, they diagnosed the problem in a matter of minutes. The porn had given my PC a virus and it has since been taken away for repair.
That said, would anybody mind if I came over and I watched the DVDs from their crib –Barbie, Mzee, Willo, Dr. Muloodi, Paulo, Phado, what say you? I’ll bring the beers.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Sunday At Choma
In his circles, they call him Vero Paulo – not that that, is his real name. It’s Paulo Lukwago. However, whenever Vero Paulo is amongst friends, the best part of his conversation has to do with plugging mineral water. But then again, after office hours and in the madness of a drinking joint, who wants to talk about mineral water yet, there are other more interesting drinks to talk about and to quaff like, a black Johnnie Walker, Club or TML for example. But he persists and often gets his way.
Vero Paulo is also the ‘Chairman’ of his local kimeeza, a post he has held for five years. While there have been calls for him to step down, in his deluded self, it’s something he is not willing to consider. What were once whispers have now grown into open discontent that if does not go before Christmas, he’s bound to end up as sad and as pathetic as Muhammer Gadaffi was at the end of his life. Vero Paulo, if you are reading this, the writing is on the wall. GENDA!
It’s a Sunday and I am at Choma in Centenary Park. I normally don’t do the town thing but being a Sunday, I figure it will be empty which will allow me the freedom to read and do some writing without being disturbed. There is also the most appealing waft coming from the kitchen that I figure John Kulubya, who owns a large chunk of Kampala City has a chef who knows what he is doing.
Through the corner of my eye I see some activity at one of the tables. There are a couple of ladies all dressed in black. I can’t quite read what is emblazoned on their t-shirts so I will have to squint. I do just that. Ah, it says ‘Guinness’ so my reckoning is there is a promotion of sorts about to happen and I hope they don’t bother me.
Then he sees me. He comes striding over with a sense of purpose and once he is done with the pleasantries, he pulls up a chair. It’s Oscar Mulira, who is the Country Manager of Swivel, a marketing support services company, who launches into a thirty minute lecture about how marketing has changed in Uganda in the past twenty years and how over the next couple of years the competition amongst events, PR, marketing and advertising companies is going to be tight.
For listening to his lecture, he asks Marketing Girl to swing me four bottles of Guinness. “Christ!” so I think to myself. Perhaps I should not have been hasty in giving him that bored look. If I had looked chirpy enough, perhaps he would have told Marketing Girl to swing me round after round until I thought I had ‘done enough responsible drinking’ and took myself home.
With Oscar gone and a blank laptop screen staring at me and four cold Guinness beers chilling in the cooler, I give Oscar’s lecture some thought and that is when I see him.
No it’s not Oscar again. I know him as Alex and that is it. He’s not even a friend. On the flip side, he so thinks we are the best of friends just because we had been introduced. As he takes his seat, he looks up in my direction and then away. Phew, he hasn’t recognised me! Quickly I grab my stuff and head for a table behind some shrubbery.
From my new vantage point, I can see him but he can’t see me though, I do see him looking around wondering what happened to the person who only a few seconds ago was sitting across from him. And the fool just won’t let it rest. He even stands up and scratches head. Trust him to be nosey that he takes a walk round the small gardens in an attempt to smoke me out and he does smoke me out.
Content that he has tracked me down and seeing that he is idle, rather than drool at Oscar’s vivacious Marketing Girls, he is content on looking in my direction.
And the more he looks in my direction, the more it dawns on him that he knows me. His glee can hardly be contained. When he pulls up a chair, the kaboozi goes along these lines.
Alex: “Eh Timo, I thought I saw you and then all of a sudden you were gone. Were you trying to hide from me?
TB: (To myself): “What do you think?? Yes, I was so trying to hide from you! I came here to have time to myself and now that you are here, my day is ruined.”
Alex: “Timo, what’s happening over there? I see many girls wearing Guinness t-shirts.”
TB (Again to myself): “You fool, it is so obvious what they are doing! But seeing you asked a daft question, I will give you a daft answer. (This part I said out loud): They are preparing for Gadaffi’s vigil.”
Alex: “It seems I am in the right place.”
Alex is one of those people you want to avoid at all costs. He is unable to read the situation. Even when I got deeply involved in reading the foreign newspapers on-line, he pulled his chair round to have a better view of the screen. Frustrated, I simply closed down the laptop. But Alex was not done for he said: “Timo, now that you have finished reading your papers, let me check my mail and Facebook” and just like that, MY laptop was prized open and I could hear the motor purring as it powered into life.
I left Choma hurriedly, quickly gulping Oscar’s four beers for Aristoc. There I was sure the only people I would rub shoulders with would be the likes of Oscar Wilde, Jeffery Archer, John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemmingway. Three of them are dead and Archer is somewhere in England and no, he does not have my cell number to bother me.
But Rita was also there – very much alive and she is an annoying version of Alex – like Alex was not annoying enough in his own right. And the moment she spotted me, she raced her short stubby legs that are so hairy, even the people at Gillette, the razor blade company, would balk at selling her their razors. This was the kaboozi.
TB: “You are lost. I have not seen you for a long time. Where have you been?”
TB: “Nowhere.”
Rita: “Whenever I call, you don’t pick up my calls. What’s up?”
TB: “Ah, I lost my phone.”
Rita: “Let me give you my number again.”
I give her a number that I made up but am not thinking because when I give her the number, I didn’t bank on her ringing the number to confirm. “TB” she says, “It was answered and was told I have the wrong number. Give me your phone yet you have your phone.”
I now have a sheepish ‘I want to crawl under a rock’ look on my face. And with that, my kabiriti is snatched out of my hand and she proceeds to save her number. She also calls it just to make sure it is saved and that her name shows up.
Since then, I get text messages along the line of “TB, how is there?” If not, “TB, what are you going to write about on Sunday?” I normally ignore her messages but seeing she’s asked what I am going to write about, I couldn’t resist telling her. “I have written about people who annoy and who we try to avoid. You see Rita, when we see them we do a u-turn, hide our faces or hide behind shopping aisles, cars and shrubbery.
And Rita, the funny thing about annoying people is that even when you don’t respond to their txts or calls, they still don’t get the message. Rather, it gives them the gas to send more txts and to call.” Her response was: “I am sure it is going to be an interesting read. Let me send House-ee to buy the papers.”
I may have goofed for normally I change people’s names to save them embarrassment but this time I have purposely used her real name (Rita), the day (Sunday) where we were (Aristoc) in a hope that she gets the message.
Next Sunday, I will let you know what went down. Did Rita get my sublime message? Is she vexed to an extent she will want to throw acid into my face? Or perhaps she will storm the Sunday Vision office and vent her anger on my editor, Esther Namugoji? What about Alex? What was his reaction? To be continued...
Vero Paulo is also the ‘Chairman’ of his local kimeeza, a post he has held for five years. While there have been calls for him to step down, in his deluded self, it’s something he is not willing to consider. What were once whispers have now grown into open discontent that if does not go before Christmas, he’s bound to end up as sad and as pathetic as Muhammer Gadaffi was at the end of his life. Vero Paulo, if you are reading this, the writing is on the wall. GENDA!
It’s a Sunday and I am at Choma in Centenary Park. I normally don’t do the town thing but being a Sunday, I figure it will be empty which will allow me the freedom to read and do some writing without being disturbed. There is also the most appealing waft coming from the kitchen that I figure John Kulubya, who owns a large chunk of Kampala City has a chef who knows what he is doing.
Through the corner of my eye I see some activity at one of the tables. There are a couple of ladies all dressed in black. I can’t quite read what is emblazoned on their t-shirts so I will have to squint. I do just that. Ah, it says ‘Guinness’ so my reckoning is there is a promotion of sorts about to happen and I hope they don’t bother me.
Then he sees me. He comes striding over with a sense of purpose and once he is done with the pleasantries, he pulls up a chair. It’s Oscar Mulira, who is the Country Manager of Swivel, a marketing support services company, who launches into a thirty minute lecture about how marketing has changed in Uganda in the past twenty years and how over the next couple of years the competition amongst events, PR, marketing and advertising companies is going to be tight.
For listening to his lecture, he asks Marketing Girl to swing me four bottles of Guinness. “Christ!” so I think to myself. Perhaps I should not have been hasty in giving him that bored look. If I had looked chirpy enough, perhaps he would have told Marketing Girl to swing me round after round until I thought I had ‘done enough responsible drinking’ and took myself home.
With Oscar gone and a blank laptop screen staring at me and four cold Guinness beers chilling in the cooler, I give Oscar’s lecture some thought and that is when I see him.
No it’s not Oscar again. I know him as Alex and that is it. He’s not even a friend. On the flip side, he so thinks we are the best of friends just because we had been introduced. As he takes his seat, he looks up in my direction and then away. Phew, he hasn’t recognised me! Quickly I grab my stuff and head for a table behind some shrubbery.
From my new vantage point, I can see him but he can’t see me though, I do see him looking around wondering what happened to the person who only a few seconds ago was sitting across from him. And the fool just won’t let it rest. He even stands up and scratches head. Trust him to be nosey that he takes a walk round the small gardens in an attempt to smoke me out and he does smoke me out.
Content that he has tracked me down and seeing that he is idle, rather than drool at Oscar’s vivacious Marketing Girls, he is content on looking in my direction.
And the more he looks in my direction, the more it dawns on him that he knows me. His glee can hardly be contained. When he pulls up a chair, the kaboozi goes along these lines.
Alex: “Eh Timo, I thought I saw you and then all of a sudden you were gone. Were you trying to hide from me?
TB: (To myself): “What do you think?? Yes, I was so trying to hide from you! I came here to have time to myself and now that you are here, my day is ruined.”
Alex: “Timo, what’s happening over there? I see many girls wearing Guinness t-shirts.”
TB (Again to myself): “You fool, it is so obvious what they are doing! But seeing you asked a daft question, I will give you a daft answer. (This part I said out loud): They are preparing for Gadaffi’s vigil.”
Alex: “It seems I am in the right place.”
Alex is one of those people you want to avoid at all costs. He is unable to read the situation. Even when I got deeply involved in reading the foreign newspapers on-line, he pulled his chair round to have a better view of the screen. Frustrated, I simply closed down the laptop. But Alex was not done for he said: “Timo, now that you have finished reading your papers, let me check my mail and Facebook” and just like that, MY laptop was prized open and I could hear the motor purring as it powered into life.
I left Choma hurriedly, quickly gulping Oscar’s four beers for Aristoc. There I was sure the only people I would rub shoulders with would be the likes of Oscar Wilde, Jeffery Archer, John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemmingway. Three of them are dead and Archer is somewhere in England and no, he does not have my cell number to bother me.
But Rita was also there – very much alive and she is an annoying version of Alex – like Alex was not annoying enough in his own right. And the moment she spotted me, she raced her short stubby legs that are so hairy, even the people at Gillette, the razor blade company, would balk at selling her their razors. This was the kaboozi.
TB: “You are lost. I have not seen you for a long time. Where have you been?”
TB: “Nowhere.”
Rita: “Whenever I call, you don’t pick up my calls. What’s up?”
TB: “Ah, I lost my phone.”
Rita: “Let me give you my number again.”
I give her a number that I made up but am not thinking because when I give her the number, I didn’t bank on her ringing the number to confirm. “TB” she says, “It was answered and was told I have the wrong number. Give me your phone yet you have your phone.”
I now have a sheepish ‘I want to crawl under a rock’ look on my face. And with that, my kabiriti is snatched out of my hand and she proceeds to save her number. She also calls it just to make sure it is saved and that her name shows up.
Since then, I get text messages along the line of “TB, how is there?” If not, “TB, what are you going to write about on Sunday?” I normally ignore her messages but seeing she’s asked what I am going to write about, I couldn’t resist telling her. “I have written about people who annoy and who we try to avoid. You see Rita, when we see them we do a u-turn, hide our faces or hide behind shopping aisles, cars and shrubbery.
And Rita, the funny thing about annoying people is that even when you don’t respond to their txts or calls, they still don’t get the message. Rather, it gives them the gas to send more txts and to call.” Her response was: “I am sure it is going to be an interesting read. Let me send House-ee to buy the papers.”
I may have goofed for normally I change people’s names to save them embarrassment but this time I have purposely used her real name (Rita), the day (Sunday) where we were (Aristoc) in a hope that she gets the message.
Next Sunday, I will let you know what went down. Did Rita get my sublime message? Is she vexed to an extent she will want to throw acid into my face? Or perhaps she will storm the Sunday Vision office and vent her anger on my editor, Esther Namugoji? What about Alex? What was his reaction? To be continued...
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Accent
Our capital city, Kampala, has issues. While KCCA director, Jennifer Musisi and The Lord Mayor Erias Lukwago are throwing their toys out of the pram over who has the final say in running Kampala, it’s just dawned on me that as a resident, time will come when we find that every square inch of the city has been seized.
Do you know the entrance to State House Nakasero – the one opposite Sheraton Hotel’s main gate? Until M7 came to power in 1986, you could walk down that road, past the Army Officers Mess, peer into the iron grilled gates of State House and end up at All Saints Church. And apart from the army men at The Officers Mess, the two or three guards who manned the State House gates wouldn’t even bother you.
However today, that road is blocked. Also try walking past that entrance and see what happens. Dare you sneeze? Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features will want to take you down!
And there are the Americans. On the road outside their embassy in Nsambya and their depot in Bugolobi, they have thrown a ring of concrete blocks around the buildings. But they didn’t stop at that. They also erected signs which read: ‘No Stopping’ and ‘No standing’ among others. Really, the Americans are telling us what we can and can’t do in our own city? Why don’t they just close up shop and go back to DC?! Perhaps I shouldn’t have had a spat at them because come Monday morning, there is a good chance that the ambassador will instruct whoever it is that handles visas to blacklist me.
Does anybody also remember those days when you could freely walk into City Square or is it Constitutional Square in front of the High court, lay on the grass and read your book while having a sandwich or a cold soda? Well you can’t anymore because the square has been cordoned off and has been turned into a siesta field for Anti Riot Police. By the way, which of the two names is the right one for the square? Could it be that Constitutional Square is the upper half of the square and City Square the lower half?
Anyway, in less than 400 words, I have managed to antagonise Jennifer Musisi, Erias Lukwago, State House, Paul Kagame, Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features, the Americans and Police. I suppose it’s quite a feat that not even Kizza Besigye has been able to pull off.
Getting back to today’s cowardly tales. They are a number of white expatriate men living and working in Uganda. Some of them have what I would class as legitimate jobs and others are seemingly doing ‘this’ or ‘that’ as in menial jobs. And usually White Expatriate Man doing This or That has a failed marriage and children who he has abandoned back home.
When White Expatriate Man doing This or That comes to Uganda, as far as women are concerned, they want to have the Nubian experience. They want to feel and sooth the ebony skin of our sisters. Whilst there is nothing wrong with interracial dating, one thing White Expatriate Man doing This or That all have in common, is that they don’t have high ambitions. They don’t want a graduate sister. Rather, they pick up our ‘discards’ and by discards, I mean our sisters who fallen wayside and ended up as prostitutes in Kabalagala and Kansanga and beyond.
Of course once Discarded Sister has hooked herself White Expatriate Man doing This or That and who in his native country would be classed a ‘bum’ or a ‘loser’, Discarded Sister automatically thinks she has made and will want to flash her new status at the earliest opportunity.
So I am chilling with White Expatriate Man doing This or That. He’s a Swede who I met at a Kampala Casino party a few years ago. I couldn’t understand why he was at the party because he was so unkempt and looked like he had spent the past four weeks trying to find his way out of the depths of Mabira forest. His teeth – the few that he had were mangled and stained yellow and black that not even brushing them with Jik would have whitened them. And his body odour was interesting – it was hard to make it if he smelt like Kampala Meat Packers or the inside of a pit latrine.
Like I said, I was chilling with him – under duress I might add when the tranquillity of the Sunday afternoon is broken by a shrill of: “Baby, baby, honey”. At first the accent was difficult to place. Was it American? No. British? No. Australian? No. It sounded closer to home - Matugga perhaps or even Ku Biri on Gayaza road. But it had a distinct bite. And when she said ‘baby’ for the fourth time, it finally dawned on me where I had heard the accent before. Kabalagala!
Discarded Sister had acquired herself an accent which she thought was befitting of her status now that she was hanging off the arms of White Expatriate doing This and That.
When I was introduced to her, I didn’t know what to say because I was not sure if she said ‘hello’ or something else. Discarded Sister twanged that even her man found it difficult to grasp what she was trying to say. When she ordered us drinks, this is how the conversation went.
Discarded Sister: “????????????? Tusker?” (all I managed to get out of it was Tusker).
TB: “Have you heard the MTN advert on radio when the girl goes “hello my name is Stella” in a very forced twang?”
Discarded Sister: “????????MTN????????Tusker??????Cold? (again all I managed to pick out was MTN, Tusker and cold).
TB: (A safe bet would be just to answer yes.) “Yes”.
The cold Tusker is served and the conversation resumes.
Discarded Sister: “?????????????????”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “Half the time I can’t bloody understand what she is saying. I don’t understand why she just can’t speak English, though I am not even sure if she knows how to speak it. I just end up saying ‘yes’ most of the time.
TB: “I can feel you. But if you can’t understand her, then how do you communicate?”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “Ah, that is the easy part because my conversation usually has to do with sex and her conversation usually has to do with my wallet.”
TB: “Hmmm.”
Discarded Sister: “Let???????Muzungu???????Money?????Can go home.”
TB: “Er, you have lost me there.”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “She said if I don’t want to give her money, I should go home with my Muzungu friends.”
There is a lull in the conversation so I start downing my Tusker with ambitions of fleeing. I am half way through the bottle and through the corner of my left eye, I see White Expatriate Man doing This or That get up and only to return with another bottle for me.
The lull in the conversation is broken by yet another shrill and in the same accent that Discarded Sister has. It’s another Discarded Sister hanging off the arms of yet another White Expatriate Man doing This or That. As the men talk, Discarded Sisters and perhaps feeling that getting a sore throat might be a possibility if they don’t stop faking whatever accent it is that they are trying to fake, decide to switch to Luganda.
Hmm, this is interesting so I think to myself. There is not a trace of a foreign accent when they speak in Luganda, and, their Luganda is so crisp and fresh that I deduce it must be a ‘Ku Biri’ accent.
Discarded Sister (now jazzing in Luganda): “Gwe TB, I hope you are not going to write about us. People here are scared of you but anyway when I read the magazine I don’t understand what you are writing about so I look at the pictures in fashion police.”
TB: “Starting with pictures is good. It is important not to get ahead of yourself.”
Discarded Sister (this time in English and without her fake accent): “Wat-eee? (what) TB you speak like a Muzungu and I am not getting you.”
Eh, now check this. Discarded Sister is trying to accuse me of faking an English accent. I think it is time to make a run for it! See you all next Sunday assuming Jennifer Musisi, Erias Lukwago, State House, Paul Kagame, Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features, the Americans and Police have not sent out hit squads to get me.
Do you know the entrance to State House Nakasero – the one opposite Sheraton Hotel’s main gate? Until M7 came to power in 1986, you could walk down that road, past the Army Officers Mess, peer into the iron grilled gates of State House and end up at All Saints Church. And apart from the army men at The Officers Mess, the two or three guards who manned the State House gates wouldn’t even bother you.
However today, that road is blocked. Also try walking past that entrance and see what happens. Dare you sneeze? Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features will want to take you down!
And there are the Americans. On the road outside their embassy in Nsambya and their depot in Bugolobi, they have thrown a ring of concrete blocks around the buildings. But they didn’t stop at that. They also erected signs which read: ‘No Stopping’ and ‘No standing’ among others. Really, the Americans are telling us what we can and can’t do in our own city? Why don’t they just close up shop and go back to DC?! Perhaps I shouldn’t have had a spat at them because come Monday morning, there is a good chance that the ambassador will instruct whoever it is that handles visas to blacklist me.
Does anybody also remember those days when you could freely walk into City Square or is it Constitutional Square in front of the High court, lay on the grass and read your book while having a sandwich or a cold soda? Well you can’t anymore because the square has been cordoned off and has been turned into a siesta field for Anti Riot Police. By the way, which of the two names is the right one for the square? Could it be that Constitutional Square is the upper half of the square and City Square the lower half?
Anyway, in less than 400 words, I have managed to antagonise Jennifer Musisi, Erias Lukwago, State House, Paul Kagame, Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features, the Americans and Police. I suppose it’s quite a feat that not even Kizza Besigye has been able to pull off.
Getting back to today’s cowardly tales. They are a number of white expatriate men living and working in Uganda. Some of them have what I would class as legitimate jobs and others are seemingly doing ‘this’ or ‘that’ as in menial jobs. And usually White Expatriate Man doing This or That has a failed marriage and children who he has abandoned back home.
When White Expatriate Man doing This or That comes to Uganda, as far as women are concerned, they want to have the Nubian experience. They want to feel and sooth the ebony skin of our sisters. Whilst there is nothing wrong with interracial dating, one thing White Expatriate Man doing This or That all have in common, is that they don’t have high ambitions. They don’t want a graduate sister. Rather, they pick up our ‘discards’ and by discards, I mean our sisters who fallen wayside and ended up as prostitutes in Kabalagala and Kansanga and beyond.
Of course once Discarded Sister has hooked herself White Expatriate Man doing This or That and who in his native country would be classed a ‘bum’ or a ‘loser’, Discarded Sister automatically thinks she has made and will want to flash her new status at the earliest opportunity.
So I am chilling with White Expatriate Man doing This or That. He’s a Swede who I met at a Kampala Casino party a few years ago. I couldn’t understand why he was at the party because he was so unkempt and looked like he had spent the past four weeks trying to find his way out of the depths of Mabira forest. His teeth – the few that he had were mangled and stained yellow and black that not even brushing them with Jik would have whitened them. And his body odour was interesting – it was hard to make it if he smelt like Kampala Meat Packers or the inside of a pit latrine.
Like I said, I was chilling with him – under duress I might add when the tranquillity of the Sunday afternoon is broken by a shrill of: “Baby, baby, honey”. At first the accent was difficult to place. Was it American? No. British? No. Australian? No. It sounded closer to home - Matugga perhaps or even Ku Biri on Gayaza road. But it had a distinct bite. And when she said ‘baby’ for the fourth time, it finally dawned on me where I had heard the accent before. Kabalagala!
Discarded Sister had acquired herself an accent which she thought was befitting of her status now that she was hanging off the arms of White Expatriate doing This and That.
When I was introduced to her, I didn’t know what to say because I was not sure if she said ‘hello’ or something else. Discarded Sister twanged that even her man found it difficult to grasp what she was trying to say. When she ordered us drinks, this is how the conversation went.
Discarded Sister: “????????????? Tusker?” (all I managed to get out of it was Tusker).
TB: “Have you heard the MTN advert on radio when the girl goes “hello my name is Stella” in a very forced twang?”
Discarded Sister: “????????MTN????????Tusker??????Cold? (again all I managed to pick out was MTN, Tusker and cold).
TB: (A safe bet would be just to answer yes.) “Yes”.
The cold Tusker is served and the conversation resumes.
Discarded Sister: “?????????????????”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “Half the time I can’t bloody understand what she is saying. I don’t understand why she just can’t speak English, though I am not even sure if she knows how to speak it. I just end up saying ‘yes’ most of the time.
TB: “I can feel you. But if you can’t understand her, then how do you communicate?”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “Ah, that is the easy part because my conversation usually has to do with sex and her conversation usually has to do with my wallet.”
TB: “Hmmm.”
Discarded Sister: “Let???????Muzungu???????Money?????Can go home.”
TB: “Er, you have lost me there.”
White Expatriate Man doing This or That: “She said if I don’t want to give her money, I should go home with my Muzungu friends.”
There is a lull in the conversation so I start downing my Tusker with ambitions of fleeing. I am half way through the bottle and through the corner of my left eye, I see White Expatriate Man doing This or That get up and only to return with another bottle for me.
The lull in the conversation is broken by yet another shrill and in the same accent that Discarded Sister has. It’s another Discarded Sister hanging off the arms of yet another White Expatriate Man doing This or That. As the men talk, Discarded Sisters and perhaps feeling that getting a sore throat might be a possibility if they don’t stop faking whatever accent it is that they are trying to fake, decide to switch to Luganda.
Hmm, this is interesting so I think to myself. There is not a trace of a foreign accent when they speak in Luganda, and, their Luganda is so crisp and fresh that I deduce it must be a ‘Ku Biri’ accent.
Discarded Sister (now jazzing in Luganda): “Gwe TB, I hope you are not going to write about us. People here are scared of you but anyway when I read the magazine I don’t understand what you are writing about so I look at the pictures in fashion police.”
TB: “Starting with pictures is good. It is important not to get ahead of yourself.”
Discarded Sister (this time in English and without her fake accent): “Wat-eee? (what) TB you speak like a Muzungu and I am not getting you.”
Eh, now check this. Discarded Sister is trying to accuse me of faking an English accent. I think it is time to make a run for it! See you all next Sunday assuming Jennifer Musisi, Erias Lukwago, State House, Paul Kagame, Lanky PGB Guard with Paul Kagame Features, the Americans and Police have not sent out hit squads to get me.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Punching Bag
During the Idi Amin era, whenever there was talk of outside countries, the usual countries – England, America, France and Canada for example sprung to mind. But there were the other ‘unconventional’ ones like North Korea, China, Romania and Czechoslovakia which stole their way into the conversation and which we had little regard for. However, seeing Uganda Television had a broadcasting monopoly, they made it a tedious habit of screening hour upon hour of communist propaganda documentaries made by those countries.
At one point, I even thought The National Theatre was a Chinese Cultural Centre in Uganda for just about every square inch of wall space had pictures of Chairman Mao and something to do with his Cultural Revolution.
While today, China is viewed as suspicious by the western world, it is an economic power, a source of cheap imports and fake goods. A few weeks ago, when I asked people what they knew about China and the Chinese, they said: “Eyes with small slits, sweet and sour pork, no butts, small busts, road works and cheap goods which break down after two days.”
Regardless that they have eyes with small slits and they have no butts to sit on, the Chinese are here in Uganda and are diversifying from their traditional jobs of construction, road building and the food industry.
They have branched out into entertainment that to the best of my knowledge, the first Chinese pub-cum-nightclub, opened up a few weeks ago in Kansanga next to Al’s Bar. And knowing the Chinese, by the time we blink our big eyes, that solitary pub-cum-nightclub would have mushroomed into twenty or more by the end of the year and while they rake in the dime we will moan at the missed opportunities that their eyes with small slits saw and our big eyes missed.
Despite the large Chinese community in Uganda, of which I don’t have any as friends, the only contact I have with them is in eating their food.
Going back, Uganda was gearing up for CHOGM. Roads were being repaired; trees planted and new hotels were being built at a furious pace. While all that was going on, I was having lunch at Jeremy’s, the carwash between Clock Tower and the railway line on the approach road to Nsambya traffic lights. It was a Monday and Jeremy’s was relatively deserted.
Two Chinese men walked in and despite an abundance of seating, they choose to join me at my table. They also struck up a conversation, a conversation which went nowhere because they were speaking in Chinese and I was speaking in English and they couldn’t click was I was saying and neither could I click what they were saying.
But they were insistent on getting through to me that, whenever they asked what I thought was a question, they would first ‘hit’ me on the arm to get my attention. They hit me so many time times that by the time I was done with lunch, my arm was sore.
So the question begs, what is it with people who feel the need to ‘punch’ or ‘hit’ you whenever they talk to you? Can’t they just spit out whatever it is that they have to say and leave it at that without inflicting some form of grievous bodily harm?
Moses lives in my hood and whilst he is a nice chap, he finds it seeming impossible to talk to you without beating you up first. And during his conversations with you, he expects your total attention and that includes direct and unwavering eye contact. Dare you blink or look away he will punch you back to attention. Try and multitask – send a phone txt while listening to him, he will punch you till you stop sending the txt to listen to whatever it is that he is trying to tell you.
Worse, it transcends to driving too. As you drive and you are concentrated on the traffic ahead, if Moses is sitting in the front passenger seat he will punch your left arm to get your attention. If he is sitting behind you, then it’s your shoulders that he will hammer away at.
Then I met Rose. Rose, came across as a pleasant enough lady until I discovered her habit - pinching that is. When she first pinched me on my thigh, I thought she was coming on to me. “Hmm” I thought to myself, “a lady of ‘today’, a lady who knows what she wants and is not afraid to go out and get it.” Seeing that the pinch was not aggressive but subtle, why on earth would I not think she was coming onto me?
But she was far from coming onto me. She was doing it to get my attention and worse, the more Club beers that she drank, the more the pinches hurt. When she got up to go to the washrooms, I sought to exchange seats and put some space between her and I and lucky for me there was a taker who didn’t mind because he was smitten with her. However, when she returned to find I was no longer sitting next to her, she didn’t show any disappointment or ask questions. Back in her seat, whenever she wanted my attention, nonchalantly she leant over the person who was sandwiched between her and I and pinched me so hard that I squirmed.
Seeing that I have written this small excerpt on her, it has suddenly dawned on me that I have not seen her for a while. I wonder why?
Tired of being punched and pinched I sought help from people who have been in similar situations and their advice was straight forward. If they pinch, pinch them back. If they tap you, tap them back and if they punch you, punch back so they told me.
Let’s call him Moshe for the sake of it and to protect his identity. Well tell a lie. I am calling him Moshe to protect myself from him. I met Moshe through a friend of a friend and we had settled down to some drinks in a Namuwongo kafunda. I had the bottle of Vero water pressed to my lips when his elbow hit my arm. Of course there is no need to tell you what happened next and no, I did not swing him a left. I figured that like Moses and Rose, he was one of those people who had to hit you to get your attention. I let him be seeing that I really didn’t know him that well.
Then it happened a second, third and on the fourth time, that was it. The gloves were off and remembering what I had been told, whenever I wanted his (Moshe’s) attention, I would punch him on the thigh.
The first time I punched him, he gave me a quizzical look. To counter his quizzical look, I gave him a smirk. The second time I punched him, he had his beer glass in his hand that the jolt of the punch made him spill some beer. Now he was agitated and I was happy because I felt he now knew how I felt whenever he was doing it to me.
I was beginning to enjoy myself but when I went to punch him again, he was ready and waiting. He grabbed my fist before it hit his arm, gave it a bruising squeeze and with that, his ‘wires’ snapped and he unleashed a tirade that went along these lines: “Man, what the f**k is wrong with you?! Quit hitting me. Am I a punching bag? Jeez you have issues – style up!”
It turns out that Moshe was not punching me to get my attention. The bench that he was sitting on was so uncomfortable and coupled with an uneven floor, in trying to position himself into a good seating position, he had been inadvertently knocking my arm.
While I sulked and used the cold bottle of Vero Water as an ice pack to ease the pain inflicted on my fist, I was nevertheless comforted by his words – ‘“Man, what the f**k is wrong with you?! Quit hitting me. Am I a punching bag? Jeez you have issues – style up!”
Don’t say I haven’t warned you for if any of you feel the need to punch, pinch or tap me to get my attention as you talk to me, be ready for my verbal onslaught.
At one point, I even thought The National Theatre was a Chinese Cultural Centre in Uganda for just about every square inch of wall space had pictures of Chairman Mao and something to do with his Cultural Revolution.
While today, China is viewed as suspicious by the western world, it is an economic power, a source of cheap imports and fake goods. A few weeks ago, when I asked people what they knew about China and the Chinese, they said: “Eyes with small slits, sweet and sour pork, no butts, small busts, road works and cheap goods which break down after two days.”
Regardless that they have eyes with small slits and they have no butts to sit on, the Chinese are here in Uganda and are diversifying from their traditional jobs of construction, road building and the food industry.
They have branched out into entertainment that to the best of my knowledge, the first Chinese pub-cum-nightclub, opened up a few weeks ago in Kansanga next to Al’s Bar. And knowing the Chinese, by the time we blink our big eyes, that solitary pub-cum-nightclub would have mushroomed into twenty or more by the end of the year and while they rake in the dime we will moan at the missed opportunities that their eyes with small slits saw and our big eyes missed.
Despite the large Chinese community in Uganda, of which I don’t have any as friends, the only contact I have with them is in eating their food.
Going back, Uganda was gearing up for CHOGM. Roads were being repaired; trees planted and new hotels were being built at a furious pace. While all that was going on, I was having lunch at Jeremy’s, the carwash between Clock Tower and the railway line on the approach road to Nsambya traffic lights. It was a Monday and Jeremy’s was relatively deserted.
Two Chinese men walked in and despite an abundance of seating, they choose to join me at my table. They also struck up a conversation, a conversation which went nowhere because they were speaking in Chinese and I was speaking in English and they couldn’t click was I was saying and neither could I click what they were saying.
But they were insistent on getting through to me that, whenever they asked what I thought was a question, they would first ‘hit’ me on the arm to get my attention. They hit me so many time times that by the time I was done with lunch, my arm was sore.
So the question begs, what is it with people who feel the need to ‘punch’ or ‘hit’ you whenever they talk to you? Can’t they just spit out whatever it is that they have to say and leave it at that without inflicting some form of grievous bodily harm?
Moses lives in my hood and whilst he is a nice chap, he finds it seeming impossible to talk to you without beating you up first. And during his conversations with you, he expects your total attention and that includes direct and unwavering eye contact. Dare you blink or look away he will punch you back to attention. Try and multitask – send a phone txt while listening to him, he will punch you till you stop sending the txt to listen to whatever it is that he is trying to tell you.
Worse, it transcends to driving too. As you drive and you are concentrated on the traffic ahead, if Moses is sitting in the front passenger seat he will punch your left arm to get your attention. If he is sitting behind you, then it’s your shoulders that he will hammer away at.
Then I met Rose. Rose, came across as a pleasant enough lady until I discovered her habit - pinching that is. When she first pinched me on my thigh, I thought she was coming on to me. “Hmm” I thought to myself, “a lady of ‘today’, a lady who knows what she wants and is not afraid to go out and get it.” Seeing that the pinch was not aggressive but subtle, why on earth would I not think she was coming onto me?
But she was far from coming onto me. She was doing it to get my attention and worse, the more Club beers that she drank, the more the pinches hurt. When she got up to go to the washrooms, I sought to exchange seats and put some space between her and I and lucky for me there was a taker who didn’t mind because he was smitten with her. However, when she returned to find I was no longer sitting next to her, she didn’t show any disappointment or ask questions. Back in her seat, whenever she wanted my attention, nonchalantly she leant over the person who was sandwiched between her and I and pinched me so hard that I squirmed.
Seeing that I have written this small excerpt on her, it has suddenly dawned on me that I have not seen her for a while. I wonder why?
Tired of being punched and pinched I sought help from people who have been in similar situations and their advice was straight forward. If they pinch, pinch them back. If they tap you, tap them back and if they punch you, punch back so they told me.
Let’s call him Moshe for the sake of it and to protect his identity. Well tell a lie. I am calling him Moshe to protect myself from him. I met Moshe through a friend of a friend and we had settled down to some drinks in a Namuwongo kafunda. I had the bottle of Vero water pressed to my lips when his elbow hit my arm. Of course there is no need to tell you what happened next and no, I did not swing him a left. I figured that like Moses and Rose, he was one of those people who had to hit you to get your attention. I let him be seeing that I really didn’t know him that well.
Then it happened a second, third and on the fourth time, that was it. The gloves were off and remembering what I had been told, whenever I wanted his (Moshe’s) attention, I would punch him on the thigh.
The first time I punched him, he gave me a quizzical look. To counter his quizzical look, I gave him a smirk. The second time I punched him, he had his beer glass in his hand that the jolt of the punch made him spill some beer. Now he was agitated and I was happy because I felt he now knew how I felt whenever he was doing it to me.
I was beginning to enjoy myself but when I went to punch him again, he was ready and waiting. He grabbed my fist before it hit his arm, gave it a bruising squeeze and with that, his ‘wires’ snapped and he unleashed a tirade that went along these lines: “Man, what the f**k is wrong with you?! Quit hitting me. Am I a punching bag? Jeez you have issues – style up!”
It turns out that Moshe was not punching me to get my attention. The bench that he was sitting on was so uncomfortable and coupled with an uneven floor, in trying to position himself into a good seating position, he had been inadvertently knocking my arm.
While I sulked and used the cold bottle of Vero Water as an ice pack to ease the pain inflicted on my fist, I was nevertheless comforted by his words – ‘“Man, what the f**k is wrong with you?! Quit hitting me. Am I a punching bag? Jeez you have issues – style up!”
Don’t say I haven’t warned you for if any of you feel the need to punch, pinch or tap me to get my attention as you talk to me, be ready for my verbal onslaught.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Previously on The Coward...
Previously on The Coward: Some people have tried to punch, pinch and slap me to get my attention. Then there was a waitress who assured me at a function and more recently, I gave the Independence Day celebrations a miss because I had better things to do.
Did that intro not sound like a recap from a television series where they start off by going over what happened in the previous episode?
Today in The Coward: I am sitting in Fuego’s in Muyenga and wondering if anybody remembers somebody called Edmund Kizito? Edmund was the brains behind Chic and Spice magazines. Chic and Spice were not pornographic magazines but they did contain ‘saucy’ stories. As part of their selling strategy, the cover always had a picture of a vivacious looking girl. One day, Vivacious Looking Girl appeared on the cover with part of her underwear showing and that was it. The church went up in arms, politicians made noise (not Nsamba Buturo because he was not in government then) which, prompted John Nagenda’s nemesis Anna Borzello who was then the BBC’s correspondent in Uganda to do a piece on it for Focus on Africa.
Today a picture of a girl showing her underwear hardly causes a stir because a number of tabloids fill their pages with explicit pictures and driving round the city at night, one is bound to find a club or pub which caters for people who want to see erotic dancing – and I mean real erotic dancing that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Anybody who has been through Bwaise will tell you there is nothing much to write home about it – save for its legendary traffic jams whenever the heavens open up. However, just off one of the major intersections - on the left hand side – assuming you are coming from the Wandegeya end, there is a nondescript pub that bustles into the wee hours of the morning.
When I was still with the paper, I got more than a tip or two about the on-goings of the pub that I had to go there to check it out. My tipster had also advised that I dress down. Dress down? “It would be advisable if you wore a stay-at-home tee shirt, faded jeans, so that that you blend in with the crowd” he told me. At a loss for words of what he meant by a ‘stay-at-home tee shirt’, he meant something like ‘Omo washes brighter’ written across it, for example. I didn’t have an Omo tee shirt so I borrowed one that had Ryco Muchuzi Mix written over the back from House-ee.
From the moment I walked in, it was so obvious I was not supposed to be there. Not only was it dark, their clientele was predominantly blue collar worker – the ilk of taxi touts, girls who spend their day peeling matooke and serving the vast army of touts, boda boda riders, petrol pump attendants and traffic policemen lunch.
And so the show started. Upfront on a rickety dust strewn stage, the belles for the night took to the stage.
Let’s pause here for a while I get one thing straight. The ‘belles’ who were on stage could hardly be described as being bells for they were not of the same breath as say Halle Berry, Tara Banks or Kelly Rowland. Rather – or more appropriately, they were butch, stout with a Mike Tyson frame, a Moses Golola type haircut and bosoms that were so wasted in their bras because gravity had already taken a toll on them and thus wearing a bra served no purpose. But like they say, every woman out there has a man who will find her attractive and certainly, Traffic Policeman, Boda Boda Rider, Taxi Tout and Petrol Pump Attendant did find the belles on stage attractive enough – even though they were just standing on stage and doing nothing.
The show got underway to music sung by our local artistes. It was a drag to watch them, because they did nothing really save for stomping on the stage like a squad of Nazi storm troopers. Just as I was about to lick my wounds and write off the sh2,500 I spent at the entrance and a further 12k on Tusker Malt, MC came on stage to announce that the time has come. ‘The time has come’ for what so I wondered. I didn’t have to wait for long for an answer for he appeared to have read my mind.
In Luganda, he said, “It is time for action!” He went on. “Gentlemen, don’t be shy let’s see which of you is man enough!”
Of out the crowd, a hand shot up and a burly figure of a man, made his way to the stage. He had more than a belly about him, wore his trousers up by his chest with a set of keys dangling off his belt. He also wore pointed shoes that curled up at the front which suggested he was of the type that used pit latrines. Think about it, all men whose shoes curl up at the front use pit latrines because they have to squat on their toes which, disfigures the front of their shoes into pointing upwards. Anyway Burly Figure thought he was it, Action Man.
Others were coerced by their friends and soon enough the stage was full of eleven men for eleven butch, stout women with a Mike Tyson frame, a Moses Golola type haircut and bosoms that were wasted in their bras because gravity had already taken a toll on them.
And with a Joe Tabula song playing in the background they got down to ‘it’.
I am not too sure if Esther, my editor that is, and the Sunday Vision rules will allow me to mention what exactly it was that that were doing, but let me put it this way. They were engaging in a bout of ‘saawa ya maalavu! Yes, ‘saawa ya maalavu right there on a rickety and dusty stage with a crowd roaring them on.
Can I take a breather here for a while and allow not only my intestines to settle back into their wrinkled fold but to also rush to the washrooms to let go of a torrent of vomit that is threatening to erupt? Thanks.
“Waiter, where are the washrooms - I feel like vomiting?” I hurled twice and luckily enough for me, there was a pharmacy nearby so I sent for some mouthwash and knocked back two Tusker Malts to get my breath back to normal.
I am back now. Where was I? Ah, saawa ya maalavu on stage. So it happened and the more it went on, the more the crowd pushed forward and rather interestingly enough, it was the women who wanted to be at the front, at the touchline so to speak and to have the action right up in their faces.
If engaging in saawa ya maalavu on stage and in public was not bad enough, as the action went ‘limp’ (sigh), MC would pull the couples upright and congratulate them. But how do you congratulate a couple whose hair and clothing is now dust ridden? Gross.
I was still saying ‘gross’ over and over to myself when the chap tapped my elbow. He looked like Taxi Tout and in Luganda and sounding rather happy with himself he told me what he would have done had he been up there. “Too much info for me” so I told him though he did remind me of Policeman who I met while in Jinja at Cool Breeze hotel for PAM Awards. Sizing up the dancers on stage, Policeman said: “Me, I can handle those girls. I first make my thing sharp then attack.” It took me a while to make sense of what it was that he would make sharp and if you doubt he made those utterances, just ask the lady who edits Vision Health. She will confirm the story.
As the crowd dispersed, MC had some information to pass on. In Luganda, he said: “Ladies and Gentlemen, that was kimansulo but every Friday in Ndeeba, we have super kimansulo.” Yikes, I wonder what does super kimansulo entails?
That said, spare a thought for Mr. Buturo. Seeing that it was he who wanted to have all this stuff banned, I presume he must have gone on fact finding missions to get first-hand accounts of what really happens. Looking at it that way, I can now see how he must have emerged from the shows a disturbing figure. I know I was disturbed.
As I end, I sense you all want to ask a question. The answer is NO! I did not go to watch super kimansulo!
Did that intro not sound like a recap from a television series where they start off by going over what happened in the previous episode?
Today in The Coward: I am sitting in Fuego’s in Muyenga and wondering if anybody remembers somebody called Edmund Kizito? Edmund was the brains behind Chic and Spice magazines. Chic and Spice were not pornographic magazines but they did contain ‘saucy’ stories. As part of their selling strategy, the cover always had a picture of a vivacious looking girl. One day, Vivacious Looking Girl appeared on the cover with part of her underwear showing and that was it. The church went up in arms, politicians made noise (not Nsamba Buturo because he was not in government then) which, prompted John Nagenda’s nemesis Anna Borzello who was then the BBC’s correspondent in Uganda to do a piece on it for Focus on Africa.
Today a picture of a girl showing her underwear hardly causes a stir because a number of tabloids fill their pages with explicit pictures and driving round the city at night, one is bound to find a club or pub which caters for people who want to see erotic dancing – and I mean real erotic dancing that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Anybody who has been through Bwaise will tell you there is nothing much to write home about it – save for its legendary traffic jams whenever the heavens open up. However, just off one of the major intersections - on the left hand side – assuming you are coming from the Wandegeya end, there is a nondescript pub that bustles into the wee hours of the morning.
When I was still with the paper, I got more than a tip or two about the on-goings of the pub that I had to go there to check it out. My tipster had also advised that I dress down. Dress down? “It would be advisable if you wore a stay-at-home tee shirt, faded jeans, so that that you blend in with the crowd” he told me. At a loss for words of what he meant by a ‘stay-at-home tee shirt’, he meant something like ‘Omo washes brighter’ written across it, for example. I didn’t have an Omo tee shirt so I borrowed one that had Ryco Muchuzi Mix written over the back from House-ee.
From the moment I walked in, it was so obvious I was not supposed to be there. Not only was it dark, their clientele was predominantly blue collar worker – the ilk of taxi touts, girls who spend their day peeling matooke and serving the vast army of touts, boda boda riders, petrol pump attendants and traffic policemen lunch.
And so the show started. Upfront on a rickety dust strewn stage, the belles for the night took to the stage.
Let’s pause here for a while I get one thing straight. The ‘belles’ who were on stage could hardly be described as being bells for they were not of the same breath as say Halle Berry, Tara Banks or Kelly Rowland. Rather – or more appropriately, they were butch, stout with a Mike Tyson frame, a Moses Golola type haircut and bosoms that were so wasted in their bras because gravity had already taken a toll on them and thus wearing a bra served no purpose. But like they say, every woman out there has a man who will find her attractive and certainly, Traffic Policeman, Boda Boda Rider, Taxi Tout and Petrol Pump Attendant did find the belles on stage attractive enough – even though they were just standing on stage and doing nothing.
The show got underway to music sung by our local artistes. It was a drag to watch them, because they did nothing really save for stomping on the stage like a squad of Nazi storm troopers. Just as I was about to lick my wounds and write off the sh2,500 I spent at the entrance and a further 12k on Tusker Malt, MC came on stage to announce that the time has come. ‘The time has come’ for what so I wondered. I didn’t have to wait for long for an answer for he appeared to have read my mind.
In Luganda, he said, “It is time for action!” He went on. “Gentlemen, don’t be shy let’s see which of you is man enough!”
Of out the crowd, a hand shot up and a burly figure of a man, made his way to the stage. He had more than a belly about him, wore his trousers up by his chest with a set of keys dangling off his belt. He also wore pointed shoes that curled up at the front which suggested he was of the type that used pit latrines. Think about it, all men whose shoes curl up at the front use pit latrines because they have to squat on their toes which, disfigures the front of their shoes into pointing upwards. Anyway Burly Figure thought he was it, Action Man.
Others were coerced by their friends and soon enough the stage was full of eleven men for eleven butch, stout women with a Mike Tyson frame, a Moses Golola type haircut and bosoms that were wasted in their bras because gravity had already taken a toll on them.
And with a Joe Tabula song playing in the background they got down to ‘it’.
I am not too sure if Esther, my editor that is, and the Sunday Vision rules will allow me to mention what exactly it was that that were doing, but let me put it this way. They were engaging in a bout of ‘saawa ya maalavu! Yes, ‘saawa ya maalavu right there on a rickety and dusty stage with a crowd roaring them on.
Can I take a breather here for a while and allow not only my intestines to settle back into their wrinkled fold but to also rush to the washrooms to let go of a torrent of vomit that is threatening to erupt? Thanks.
“Waiter, where are the washrooms - I feel like vomiting?” I hurled twice and luckily enough for me, there was a pharmacy nearby so I sent for some mouthwash and knocked back two Tusker Malts to get my breath back to normal.
I am back now. Where was I? Ah, saawa ya maalavu on stage. So it happened and the more it went on, the more the crowd pushed forward and rather interestingly enough, it was the women who wanted to be at the front, at the touchline so to speak and to have the action right up in their faces.
If engaging in saawa ya maalavu on stage and in public was not bad enough, as the action went ‘limp’ (sigh), MC would pull the couples upright and congratulate them. But how do you congratulate a couple whose hair and clothing is now dust ridden? Gross.
I was still saying ‘gross’ over and over to myself when the chap tapped my elbow. He looked like Taxi Tout and in Luganda and sounding rather happy with himself he told me what he would have done had he been up there. “Too much info for me” so I told him though he did remind me of Policeman who I met while in Jinja at Cool Breeze hotel for PAM Awards. Sizing up the dancers on stage, Policeman said: “Me, I can handle those girls. I first make my thing sharp then attack.” It took me a while to make sense of what it was that he would make sharp and if you doubt he made those utterances, just ask the lady who edits Vision Health. She will confirm the story.
As the crowd dispersed, MC had some information to pass on. In Luganda, he said: “Ladies and Gentlemen, that was kimansulo but every Friday in Ndeeba, we have super kimansulo.” Yikes, I wonder what does super kimansulo entails?
That said, spare a thought for Mr. Buturo. Seeing that it was he who wanted to have all this stuff banned, I presume he must have gone on fact finding missions to get first-hand accounts of what really happens. Looking at it that way, I can now see how he must have emerged from the shows a disturbing figure. I know I was disturbed.
As I end, I sense you all want to ask a question. The answer is NO! I did not go to watch super kimansulo!
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