Martin II

I saw Martin again three days ago. This time I didn’t slink away as I did the first time when I saw him two years ago. At first I thought to myself, “what are you thinking, what if he’s violent?” But as these self-serving thoughts were doing the rounds in my head, I saw him go on his knees and drink from a puddle on the side of the road.

As I watched, memories from school came rushing back; this was the guy who had protected every small kid. He did not do it because they would help him with his math or because this would translate into free sugar in morning as we went for breakfast.

Martin was as bright as the best of them. He was just a gentle strong man. And here he was drinking dirty brown water.

His hair is still matted as it was last year. His body has obviously not been scrubbed in months, maybe years. He walks around in a daze, blood-shot eyes staring at nothing.

This time, because he had on pants, I thought there could be a chance to get through to him. The first time, he was naked and he had no care in the world. Seeing Martin drink the water made something within me break. I didn’t care if he was violent or not, I had to get through to him somehow. I quickly went to a nearby shop, bought a bottle of water and as I came back, bought two big bananas.

I felt strange, of course. As I neared him, I could see the many faces that turned away from him. No one wanted to stare at the mad man. The women steered as far away from him as possible and that was probably a wise thing.

So there I was, standing in front of Martin Aliker, holding two bogoyas and a bottle of Rwenzori mineral water.
“Hi, Martin. Want some water?” I started. That didn’t sound right by any measure. The boda boda man who was driving past suddenly had something to look at. Probably he was thinking, “Poor sod, you are going to get beat and it’ll serve you right.”

He actually came forward. When I asked if he remembered me, “We were in school together…,” he smiled thinly.He grabbed the bounty and walked over to the low wall. We were standing just outside Bat Valley primary school. There’s a low wall there on which people usually sit. That’s where Martin had been sitting. Occasionally, he’d walk over to the road and drink from the puddle.

He chucked the stuff over the wall. Calmly.

Whoever had taken over his head was telling him something. They were having a silent conversation and my intrusion was treated as such.

He doesn’t remember me. I would like to say it’s because it’s been years since we were in school together but I know better.

Super Higway

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

 

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

W. B. Yeats

 

Take whatever you want from Yeats. Different groups have done just that for decades. Don’t we just love double entendres!

But then again, knowing the story of people like Tim Berners-Lee and the growth of his spawn, the Internet, one can’t help but look with a worried backward glance as the creature slouches towards ‘Bethlehem.’

We are now on the cusp of the information age. Things are good. It’s amazing that just 15 years ago, there was no real internet. Fifteen years.

Right now, he who can store as much information as possible rules. When the President of my country calls on journalists from a neighbouring country to make his case for negative comments attributed to him, he knows there will be blood. So he makes sure he is well-prepared with his information. he hits them with all this information and one journalist goes back singing his praises.

People still employ workers on the basis of what the applicants say they know. Yes, papers can still get you a job. You go to school for two decades and come out with an impressive dossier. Hit your prospective bosses on the head with the tome and you are home free.

What’s going to happen tomorrow though? What happens when your papers don’t really matter anymore?

The creature seems to have been sighted already. It’s in the rebels of today who stare down their dads and refuse to go back to school because they have found the answer. If their dad won’t understand that, sayonara papi.

The dirty jeaned, sandal-wearing, shaggy-haired nerds of today are the business. They have the papers but they don’t really need them. The rules of today’s world are becoming obsolete fast.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow it’s going to be about how well we use the knowledge we say we have. Tomorrow, the 5 PhDs you hold won’t be worth the papers they are on if you can’t turn this sand into water.

The wisdom age is only a click away.

Tintin and the land of Black Gold

My country discovered that it had oil deposits underfoot. That was a good thing seeing as we are classified as one of ‘those that are broke’ and having a reprieve; any reprieve should be a god thing for us.

The elation was tinged at times with fear; suspicion that the ruling elite of the country would find a way to steal the wealth. There are those who believe that my country’s leaders being what they are and having the background that they have (poverty at all levels of their earlier years and having come to prominence because most of them were crazy enough to stare down the blood-crazed killers who ruled the land before them and won), they’d try to steal anything that could be stolen. If something was unstealable, it was believed, they’d bide their time and wait for a time such a thing would be available for theft.

Naturally, we all expected the oil to be stolen. No one was surprised to see the government cozying up to the Bunyoro kingdom, the traditional rulers of the land where the oil is found. No one is surprised that suddenly, a large number of contracts are going to a tiny clique. The wider public might not even know because of all the silence that the government says has something to do with the secrecy that is required in share agreements; we don’t know how and when the oil dollars will start making our lives better.

All that is understandable. This is Uganda where we let our leaders get away with anything so, as usual, we are not surprised. But we always knew that no matter how much the top guys stole, they could not exhaust the oil reserves. They’d steal some for their puny little families maybe to the third generation but such a resource is not limited to the whims of a few greedy thieves. We knew that we had arrived.

Unfortunately, the picture might not be as rosy as that. Reading the supremacist publications like The Economist, which is so condescending, (how come those guys don’t attribute as much as the rest of us are forced to?) one will get the sense that we are finding oil and any other resource this side (Africa) because there is something afoot.

The Germans have been showing us their electric cars for decades on TV but we always thought it is just smart kids doing some harmless stuff. But now with all the noises about going green, everyone will be looking at oil producers with disdain, I think.

Then all your oil will be worthless.

(Yeah, nothing to do with Tintin. Or maybe there is. I am on a marathon; got 30 issues, from the very first).

The fabulous puppet show

Nine years ago, I got into an argument with my roomie Rodney Ruvuza about fate and destiny. We’d just come out of a lesson on Oedipus.

In our back-and-forth, an observer would have gathered that I was passionately in the corner of those who believe that one can change their fate. I did not want to believe that there are some beings up there pulling the strings and whatever we did we could not run away from them. Until, maybe, they lost interest and went to sleep. Rodney, always the one to let life take its course was surprisingly passionate about the counter view; Oedipus’ ass was made the moment that oracle was made. He would kill his father and marry his mother.

He couldn’t run away. Last night I had an epiphany. Walking home in the gathering darkness, I almost broke my leg in some man-hole thingy. There they were again, the little bearded men playing nine pins, making fun and watching me stumble like I knew where I was going.

I am careful when I walk, of that I am sure. It wasn’t very dark and the roads are paved in Entebbe, thank you. In my area code, anyway. So what was I doing falling into a hole? If that’s not the evil hand of fate, what was it?

Maybe I should buy Rodney a beer one of these days.

Bred andi Bata

Been bingeing on Mowze and Weasel lately (thanks for the HD, antipop) and I am thinking to myself, Ugandan music has really arrived. It’s a nice break from the serious heavy stuff of hate filled lyrics and the constant gloom of knowing that the music of Chameleone and his like, completely devoid of comedy is always going to slide.

I know it’s probably too early to jubilate since the two still sing about nothing but there’s no equal for Mowze singing “Naye Sitani, y’olikaddiwa ddi?” (Devil when in hell will you grow old and die?). The descriptions in Bread and Butter (I prefer Bred andi Bata).

And of course I am trying hard to look busy. Jesus is coming back.

Diary of a 20 month old

Yeah, snigger all you like; 20 is the key word here. Who cares if it’s only months?

 

Monday

 

I must be dreaming. Maybe I should wake up like for real; the Daddy-guy is still here and it’s not the weekend. Something must be wrong.

 

Tuesday

 

For shizzle; even today, he’s here! Daddy-guy musta been given the sack or something. Pitty, these grown-ups do not understand intelligent conversation. I could have asked him what is up but I can’t be bothered right now. Well, since he’s here, I guess he can keep himself busy by cleaning up after me. Hey you there, I just pooped in my diaper.

 

Wednesday

 

All these people are fawning over me because I said something that they understood. People, I just said “open!” They need professional help. It’s like this every time I say something trivial like that. I look up and they are all staring with these goofy grins and calling for the Cavasier. The other day I was attending cell like the lot of them, right? And someone said, “Praise the Lord,” and I replied, like the good Christian I am, “Amen.” Suddenly the agenda was forgotten and they all went along the lines of, “Oh she’s so lovely.”

 

Thursday

 

We are traveling to some far off place called Mbrambra or something like that. From the intelligence I have gathered so far, this place, Mbram…whatever is so nice, so cool. The Daddy-guy and my Mummy are breaking the bank. I understand we are going by something called ‘the bus.’ This better be good, you bozos.

 

Oh, and that conundrum at the beginning of the week, (Scout’s honour, I didn’t lift that from The Ebonies), was solved yesterday. The Daddy-guy’s on something called ‘Leave.’ I guess it’s when growed up people can go out and be even sillier. So I am going to keep him enslaved to me. Give me that book. No reading; if you are taking time off work, it’s for me, not for some silly novel. So his kabumbum is mine to bozz around for the time he’s here. No reading of novels. I loved that look of incredulity when I yanked the book out of his hands and snapped it shut.

 

Friday

 

Oh, my back. Oh my poor little feets. What are you smiling at? Feets? Or that I am sore all over? I shall never agree to go on a bus again. We spent a whole two days on it, no matter what the growed ups say, mbu four hours. But I met the funkiest three dudes at this place, Mbr… and I think that’s worth it. Too bad they are my cousins. And of course, there’s Kaaka, always fussing and calling me strange names.

 

Saturday

What’s wrong with being a leftie? What’s wrong with being like the strongest man in the known world as we speak? Huh, huh? Some chick I’ve been trying so hard to leave out of you, diary, who lives with us at home and who the Daddy-guy and his wife insist I call Auntie but who in reality is called Immy or Machu (yeah, I know, har, har, har), has been calling me kamosho. Investigations have revealed that it has something to do with me doing things, like pulling the cables out of the sockets or punching the digits of the Daddy-guy’s phone when I try to be calling my people (I just like it when he realizes I just sent ten empty messages to his boss, har, har, har). Yeah, as I was saying, I do important things using my left hand and left is emosho in some strange tongue. It’s always at the tip of my tongue to remind her that the most feared spinners in the world (Shane Warne et al), are the lefties. Everyone tells you to look out for the leftie.

 

Sunday

 

MBARARA was such a trip. I came down with a fever. I liked playing with the boys and running all over the place but the price was a bad cold. Worse still, we traveled back to Entebbe with me in this condition. Hey look, I am not a travel journo so don’t be asking me to describe the scenery; the hills and valleys and all that crap. Call Timothy Bukumunhe or K.K.

 

Oh, I missed Sunday School. Now that’s where the fun lives.

 

 

 

Fools rush in: a witness account

Somewhere in the Bible, there’s a verse that says one of the most puzzling things in the world is how a man and a woman fall in love. How many times have you heard the incredulous question “what on earth did he see in her?”

 But I saw it this week on the ride I’d hitched to Entebbe. (Aside: More travellers are abandoning the park or, in the words of Moses Isegawa, the ‘bowl’ where most of the city’s taxis or minibuses converge before they extract blood and money from the hapless passengers. Lately, some rich men have realized that the buses cannot be held at bay any longer and they’ve started a war on the taxis. Right now, on Entebbe Road, there are five buses and there are others on other roads. More people are waiting for the buses where they pay just Shs1000. This is a big break from the headache of the taxis which charged Shs2500 to the last stage in Kitooro. Reportedly, the taxis have revised their fares and it’s now Shs2000 but that’s not good enough).

the madness. Photo by Stephen Wandera

So all these strangers meet at Conrad Plaza and wait for the bus. It’s the good old days all over again. Anything can happen; like falling in love with a complete stranger. I doubt these two knew each other before they met at the stage.

But I couldn’t mistake what was going on at 9 O’clock (because I was observing the proceedings on my right with slit eyes). “swiureuree, hee hee hee, swuiauw,” Loverboy said to Ihuoma. “Hee hee heee heeeee,” she replied.

I am paraphrasing here because love is best expressed in low tones and these two were sticking to the rule. Nothing wrong with all this. Only that I was genuinely surprised. It’s not every day that a youngish man in his late twenties finds love with a late-forties-looking madam on the trip back home. And she was surprised too. But she played along and even gave him her digits. Never walk out on a winning streak.

Maybe I am just hating.

In other reports, the President is really playing to the gallery, don’t you think?

This old man, he played knick-knack on my mind

Young and Upcoming Ugandans are wont to complain that the System is not pulling its weight. The guys ‘up there’ are just idiots who do not deserve to be there. That all they have is the guns they could easily use against the very people they are supposed to protect and of course, when the time is right, the half-century-old depreciating skulls that will be used in election campaigns to scare some votes out of the population.

Maybe the Yuppies are just spoilt and they’d probably not say a thing if their requirements are met. They want their Premier League and please don’t block the TV. And of course, as it has been said before, they must have access to their Cappuccinos and Lates.

The whole of 2008, we had power where I stay. Rarely did I have to dread going back home to a blackout. The kerosene lamps were dry but that didn’t bother me because there would always be power.

This was definitely different from 2005-2007 where every day, the letters’ pages of the press had people calling for the heads of officials because of the shortage. That’s the time we had ministers blaming it on everything from low water levels in Lake Victoria to scanty rains to witchcraft performed by opposition parties.

Last year, it was the fuel prices. A liter of petrol hit Shs3000 and was rising in some parts of the country and the din was uncontrollable. Then the prices started going down.

That’s when the cries also stopped. The people who control things around here know exactly what to do, it seems. Appear to give the people what they want, ‘appear’ being the operative word here, and all things will be cool.

And we have accepted. Fuel prices are still high, if you think of it. Ivan Kyayonka was quoted at the beginning of the global oil price slump saying that there’d come a time when Ugandans would be able to buy petrol at Shs1700. That has not happened but hey, if we are comfortable where the prices are at, maybe we can take the burden.

A fast retreat

When I am in town, I try not to use public toilets because…well, because one visit to most of those places will destroy your appetite for anything. You’ll be in such a state that even the mere thought of going to the bathroom will induce nausea.

When I say ‘public’ I am talking of those places where some sorry person has to take your Shs100 and avoid looking into your eyes because they heard what you just did in there. You know the drill.

The nausea will come because of what you’ll invariably find there. It’s really in the upbringing, I am told. Like that talking head on TV the other day on the 9 o’clock news who said the police recruits who destroyed Mandela National Stadium did it because “most of them had come to Kampala for the first time from far-flung places where there are no toilets.” Yeah. That’s why they found it convenient to pull apart our only national treasure when it comes to sports facilities.

But sometimes the urge to go is unbearable and one just has to or else, they’ll do it right there in the taxi. You don’t want to be the one sitting next to a guy who’s on the brink, fighting off green stuff that’sjust beating on the door.

I never ‘tie.’ I have been told it is very dangerous to refuse to relieve yourself when your body demands it. So I always go to a hotel. Not just any 1-Star affair passing off as a hotel – a real hotel.

My thinking is that if the high and mighty of society are eating there; if the politicians and their cousins and their wives are wining and dining at an establishment, chances are that they’ll have clean toilets.

I have gotten really familiar with the johns at Grand Imperial Hotel.

Last week, I had to beat a quick retreat. When I got there, someone had left a surprise for me. Or for whoever was supposed to come after them. It could have been that the toilet was broken or that all one needed was to flush but I couldn’t wait to find out. Whatever that person had eaten was pure evil.

So there I was, sitting on a boda-boda returning to office and pretending that it was all part of my schedule. I learnt that it’s not so easy to smile at a joke a colleague throws your way when it’s fire behind.

Control yourself now, Ms Shontelle

There’s a young girl up in the speakers in the office singing longingly; I don’t quite get the words, probably because of the L1 effect (and the accent is like Greek to me). I, however, hear what is undoubtedly her wish to be in someone’s T-Shirt and nothing else.

I also heard something about Jimmy Choo shoes. She at least has style.

This is one of those songs that make me admit with horror that I’m truly an old fuddy-duddy. I don’t understand the reasoning behind it and I know I will never even in a million years, not that I have a million years. More and more, I realize that I am growing more comfortable with Bob FM (in the evening) and hard rock.

But it gets really cold at times in outside countries. Won’t she catch her death?