THE CHEERFUL BEGGAR.

I distaste this city. I distaste it with passion, a passion so deep, so viscous Micheal Phelps would take an hour to swim a hundred meters in it. Yes, that is the extent of it. It developed in layers, build over the years and matured into a fully fledged distaste, encompassing everything I do not like about this city. At a certain point I lost track of why I did. Maybe it's because anything that is not trying to cheat you is trying to kill you, from your landlord to your Boss all the way to the taxi conductor. Even the beggars will try to cheat you.

Oh yes, beggars. I am talking about those shabbily dressed people with grey and cracked skin that always look like they hadn't had a decent shower in a month. Mark my words, I am a very empathetic man. It's just this city that sucked my soul and now they anger me more than they elicit my sympathy.

This is why I have a problem with vagrants of this city. In business school, the most dull-witted student will pick one lesson. That the only thing worth paying for is Value. Anyone that takes money without honoring the quid pro quo  ritual of exchanging value is a crook. Every honest man will be selling value for money, just not these homeless people. They siphon your hard earned coins by appealing to the softest part of your nature, that they deserve the living you earn more than you do. They weigh your suffering way above yours and in so doing, feel entitled to your sweat without exchanging value in return. I remember a beggar that was always stationed on the railway in Nakawa. The boldest beggar I ever met and he was straightforward as they come.
 "Nsabayo lukumi nywe ku chai (I need 1,000 shillings for my Tea)" That's what he always said.

A common sight; Beggars on the streets of Kampala

Once in a while however, you will come across a jolly beggar, like I did a few weeks ago. I am stuck in a Taxi one evening.  The suburb where I stay, it's notorious for the putrid taxis. They always look like they have changed hands ten times. Dilapidated, despicable tins held together by the mercy of the gods. This one was no exception. The company is unpleasant as they come, and one elderly lady decides to open her stash of roasted nuts, filling the air with a septic aroma. This beggar approaches. He is a young lad who by smiling, caught me off-guard. He wasn't an ordinary beggar this one. All of them would look to their cache of haggard faces on approach, not this one. He smiled, greeted me and asked how my day was. I told him I did not have any money on me but this did not deter him. Like a salesman, he struck up a conversation, asked how the day was going. He told me he was from Anaka, an Acholi. And then he got to teaching me Acholi.

'Tye nini?" Yeah, that's like a 'How are you?" to us.
"And what do you reply?" I was asking.
"Atye maber!" he said. "That is 'I am good'."
I had been in Gulu six months and I had never quite got a hang on the language. I always felt like Col. Spencer Chapman learning Chinese... only that this young beggar was a better teacher (and less malicious) than the latter's tutors.

This is how  I parted with one thousand shillings and before you call it peanuts, it's the highest sum of money I have ever given to a street beggar. I felt magnanimous.

This is what beggars never understand. By the time I am travelling by Taxi, I am already unhappy. I am irritable, cranky like a 10 year old cat and I will be triggered by as much as a breath out of the ordinary. I am wondering when I will buy the Mercedes G Wagon or if the model I need will still be in production. The last thing I need is a miserable face in need of money. If I am travelling by taxi, then I am short on cash. The last thing I need is a person trying to rob me by appealing to my softer nature.

Overtime, I learnt to insulate myself to these things. People with mouldy and oversized limbs and faces covered in tumors. Make me smile, I will gladly trade my sorrows for cash. Cheers to more cheerful beggars!