IT'S A CRUEL WORLD...

“When you move, you get to see things,” my late grandmother, R.I.P and God bless her beautiful soul, used to say. She was a jolly one, a plump brown woman who always smiled profusely and was extremely generous with appreciation no matter the size of your contribution. Always with a head scarf, it was rare to see her hair and once in a while, she would remove the beloved piece of cloth to have her head groomed, revealing a beautiful white mass on her head with slight traces of black, an angelic smile on her lips. She seemed to have a preternatural fascination for modern travel stories, so she would watch you intently while you narrated to her about wherever you had been and then she would suddenly clap her hands and then raise the left one to her lips in awe.

“Nyabura okugyenda kuteera kubona!” She would exclaim. Moving means seeing. Travelling is discovering.

My fondest memories of her are when as a kid, I would go to my grandfather’s in the afternoon. Mother being in the garden almost always, my brother and sister would return to school for the afternoon session and I being too young, would go to stay with granny till evening. Then I would find her, having secured a two-and-half liter jug full of concentrated, sugarless milk. I would then tip the jug over and drink my fill, leaving white drops on either side of my mouth like a kitten.                         

On a special occasion, I would have cluster of sweet bananas to go with it, little lumps of sweetness that can put chocolate cake to shame. Those were the times.

I cannot state with much confidence that at the time I understood what she meant by her favorite cryptic exclamation. Time has come up with cruel practical sessions, leaving me wishing she was still around…

A few days ago, I went to MTN towers. Big companies always reward their affiliation and so it was whispered to me that there was a Christmas voucher for every company employee. On a hot sunny Kampala afternoon, I braved the dusty streets and headed to plot 22, Hannington road. I had never been there before but I had a faint picture of a certain yellow storey somewhere around the Garden City area. Without difficulty therefore, I spotted the building soon as I exited from the taxi, so I headed straight in that direction.

It is like a dystopian universe every time I enter a corporate building. Getting past the security check, I headed straight to the reception, sighting four personnel and then carefully, with a dexterity developed over the years, I zeroed in on the Indian receptionist who looked like she eats dinner at Serena every evening. You know their kind. You need a microscope to find a scar on their skin. So I approached with utmost humility.

“Good afternoon madam,” Said I, bowing my head a little, “I am here to pick a Christmas voucher.”

“Oh. How are you? Head to your left, on the first floor.” She replied.

One of the things I have come to learn the hard way is that while in a strange environment (I mean government or corporate property), it is safer to express the highest level of humility. I will dish out several 'Sirs', 'Madams' and 'pleases' anytime I get presented with an opportunity.

I headed to the elevator direction. Then there are these ugly barricades that you have to open using either your finger print, access card or a combination. A gangly fellow came in, presented his index figure and proceeded. I came too, presented my figure to the brute and it lighted red. Finger print not recognized. I froze for a moment and waited for a siren. None came. I inhaled sharply and got stranded.  I had to step back to the security clerk, a thin fellow in a Blue and Black Saracen Security Uniform. He saw through my plight and signaled to the reception and then I saw them bend over, reaching for a switch definitely and then there was a clicking sound. Entry at last.

It was no walk in the park either on the first floor. Being literate however, I picked up a sign beseeching whomever it may concern to pick the vouchers at ‘this’ point and then headed to that direction. The lady seated right there looked like she had God on her speed dial. Dressed in a black and yellow corporate shirt, she only raised her head slightly to see me through her glasses, making me feel more awkward than I already was. I quickly addressed her as madam and let her know that I was there for a voucher and I was a company employee not a street kid like she was probably suspecting. She checked through the files but could not find my name. She said she was standing in for a colleague who had gone for lunch. So I had to wait, the fellow came in and couldn’t find my name on their godforsaken lists and I could not get them to give me a voucher, though I presented a company ID and an access card. Not my day obviously. Whoever had cast a spell that day had obviously not gone to the shower yet. Dejected, I planned my exit.

Lucifer was not yet done with me however. The door though which I had entered had been open at the time of my arrival. It was locked now. I looked for any tell-tale signs of a security lock but found none. So I proceeded with an artificial confidence to open the door. It did not budge however. So I tugged it with a renewed strength but it did not give in. I was stuck again. Damn these corporate prisons. I could not figure a way out. So I reversed my steps and landed on the elderly man that was now revising important looking documents through his sage glasses.

“Excuse me sir, the door is stuck!” I could not eliminate the agitation in my voice, try hard as I did.

A strange smile creased the old man’s face, he looked up at me, the way you look at a kid trying to catch his reflection in the mirror, or the kind that runs across your face when you see a dog chasing its tail.

“The door is stuck because you have to use your access card to open it!” He said.

I returned to the door, this time under the man’s watchful eye. He peered over to see me reach it.

“Do you have an access card?” the guardian angel asked.

“Yes I do.” I pulled it out of my front pocket, laughing nervously as I did.

“Swipe it over that black patch there.”

I did as instructed and the treacherous door beeped meekly and then I pulled it with the little energy I had left. This time it acquiesced. A deep and warm gust of blood covered my face and had I been white, they would have been able to see the beet-red blush of shame as it eclipsed my facial features. Luckily I am coal black. I thanked the man and headed out.

Reminded me of the time, having checked into Nordic C hotel in Stockholm, we headed up the building with luggage in hand. Into the elevator we went and checked into the room too. The journey downstairs was one to remember. The elevator doors do not require security. Inside the elevator however, it is a different story. You have to insert the access card into the machine and keep it there till the end of your descent. Poor I swiped the card and pulled out for over fifteen minutes, till a blonde woman found me on the inside, pushed her access card into the machine and left it there, then we began the sweet flight downwards. Travel is discovery you say, but you know nothing.

If Grandmother Cecilia was still alive, I would head to Mukwano arcade and buy her a beautiful kitenge and a decent dress. I would jump on the bus to Kabale and head straight to her, hug her plump body and probably cry while at it. I would not forget a cold Krest bitter Lemon, her favorite soda. I would watch her hold it with both hands like a traditional gourd, make a sign of the cross and proceed to take large generous gulps out of the green bottle and then belch with satisfaction. I would tell her all about 1000 feet into the sky and all the places I have been and then let her know that I am a grown ass man now and that indeed travel is discovery.

May be someday...