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!

I WANT A BLACK FUNERAL!

Symbolism.  The simple concept that one thing,  an item or idea stands for an alternate meaning, that one thing represents another other than itself.  

During those long and wondrously enjoyable literature seasons,  we used to spend ages trying to decipher what things stood for, even those that stood for themselves. 

Ken Walibora, one of my favorite Swahili novelists (among the few that I read), often used the weather to make a sneak peak into a fresh chapter.  Ominous and dark rain clouds for Ken and his readers usually mean that someone is going to die… or will wish to. You must rejoice therefore when there it is a warm sunny morning,  with bright rays, there is a marriage ahead. 

But that’s not the point.  

The color white. Yes,  I am talking about that white color. Most people,  well,  all people think and actually believe that white stands for purity. That it signifies flawlessness, perfection,  heaven.  Isn’t that why our dear lassies are going to FACO, buying whitening creams and spotting white weaves?  Do you remember that movie that had a character of God and he was dressed in black?  No you don’t.  I don’t remember it either. Have you ever seen a black angel before,  I mean apart from those teenage love letters?  
What do we usually sing in the church choir?  Oh yes, 

…wash me oh Lord, 
That whiter than snow, 
My spirit shall be.. 

What if I am a blackboard?  What if I am a car tyre?  What If I desire to be blacker than a raven’s wing?  I will be Excommunicated. Poor mother would never have the end of it if I told her my soul is black. It would be an early ticket to her grave.  

What people don’t understand is that symbolism can be manipulated to orchestrate a sinister form of deception.  You see, as long as there is a concept you believe to represent an alternate idea,  once that concept is present,  you will have the said idea,  with or without the latter’s presence. 

A king is king for example because he holds a scepter and lives in a palace.  Take that away and you will have a common man, with common doubts and fears,  who entered the universe through the same orifice like the beggar did.  

I am willing to wager that the devil would have a considerable following if he decided to shown up as an elderly white man,  with a long white beard and dressed in long flowing bright white robes.  After all,  what is white and impure?  

After all,  what is white and impure? 

Uncle Mukiibi, like a friend referred to him, the respected educationist, requested for a white funeral.  Why? He probably surmised that his soul was blacker than coals and wanting to con his way past St Peter,  he gambled on his clothing.  A pedophile, adulterous, fornicating (and most likely rapist) professor requested for a white funeral.  Who wasn’t fooled?  

I want a black funeral.  My coffin should be black. Let the guests dress in black and blondes must dye their hair coal black. Anyone who shows up even in grey will be expressly haunted by yours truly.  And I assure you I am not that friendly as a ghost. I will need a magician to be present and she must release crows instead of the ceremonial white doves, black doves will be a welcome bonus.  I want a black funeral. 

KAMPALA AND ITS BUILDINGS.

Unexpected journeys and unexpected people. I love travel and I always never care whether I am on foot,  bus or plane.  As long as I am seeing new places, new people,  I will be at peace and I think that will always be so until my next destination is jail or hell,  then I will humbly decline this chance to see new faces.

My last trip to Kabale guaranteed that there be a return journey.  So early morning,  I was up preparing,  wearing my new sweater, a gift from one of these Beautiful Creatures.  Her perfume was still fresh and I could figuratively touch her but that is not the gist of this post.  I folded my mother’s piece of cloth around my neck and I would have passed for an African man on his first trip to Europe,  you can always tell those.  The story needs to be short so I was on my way in no minute,  dosing off occasionally and then tapping my phone which had about two percent of battery power,  this was going to be one hell of a journey.

In Mbarara town of course,  we made our first stop and people left.  These were replaced.  I did not notice this new entrant until he stood up and cleared his voice,  obviously in need of our audience.  The Young gentleman,  in his early twenties,  very young indeed, looked quite energetic.  He had chosen for facial accessories, a pair of shades and a blue cap so he looked worry-free.
“I want to talk to you about AIDS!” The Young man said.
That’s when I returned to my sleep.  He was only an employee, out to make a buck,  paid by one of these NGOs to sensitize travelers about the new old scourge.  I then noticed the tag he wore around his neck and although I could not make out what was inscribed thereon,  I could tell it was a company ID, probably.  So I reclined back in my seat and prepared for chapter two of my sleep.  He went on about AIDs, ways how we could prevent it and all.

The bus stopped again and this time we let in an entourage of rowdy people.  Builders.  They were loud,  like they were intoxicated and they shouted and pushed people. Making their way to the vehicle rear. The bus being full,  they sat on the floor.  One of them hassled the Young gentleman and asked what he was ‘teaching’ about. The Young man said he was teaching about AIDs to which the former jovially called out one of his mates and told him that he had to pay attention.

It was at this moment that the young man took off his pair of shades. Blood of Jesus Christ! His eyes.  I could see the Young man’s eyes and they were a sight not for sore eyes this time,  for sober eyes may be.  They were dilated,  like Heimdal’s, only that these did not have a light in them like the Asgard gatekeeper’s.  They were pale eyes,  with a reddish hue all around and the pupils were not black at all.  They were watery grey.  Then for an unknown reason, they were protruding… a human with dilated lizard eyes.

“What do you think happened to my eyes?” The whole vehicle hushed.  The Young man repeated his question and no-one had an answer.  So he moved around,  staring us in the face, to give us a closer look at hell.
“I am a student, in my second Year at the Kampala International University.” he said.  “ You wonder why I am not in class like the rest,  why I am here on a bus full of people, teaching about AIDS. Well,  I am a patient of the same.  Father and Mother are both deceased and I am entirely unaware of how I contracted the disease.  All I know is that I have been taking ARV  ever since I was a kid. Have you ever seen the drug before?”
He proceeded to fish out his pocket, a small tin and opened it, then showed us a huge tablet. But is it even a tablet or common stone.

The size of it will shock you. 

“Two years ago,” the Young man retrieved his tale,  “living in hostel,  one of my roommates asked me boldly.”
“Moses,  you always take tablets every day.  What kind of disease is that,  that never heals?”
“ I broke down and cried almost immediately.  And then I resolved never to take the tablets again. So just like that, I stopped the daily dosage.  Pleas from the doctors fell on caged ears and for one year and two months,  I could not take the tablets no matter what. Then on a cold afternoon,  my eyes started paining.  In a short while,  they were bleeding bloody puss. I could not see anymore.  The doctors said my pride had caught up with me finally, that I would now dance to the tune I had so beautifully orchestrated. I went to the eye clinic in Mbale and they said I would need a surgery.  Ten million Ugandan shillings. My bank balance at the time was 23,900 Ugandan shillings only and having auctioned  piece of land, my sole inheritance from late father,  I could only raise three million…”
He needed not mention the rest of the story, we were almost immediately in our pockets,  looking to make a contribution to this young man’s predicament.

Kampala is not just mere buildings,  the city dwellers always say. You can be conned clean in broad daylight.  May be this man was an advanced conman who had just mastered the art.  May be not.  Whatever the case was,  I think he was good enough and I would be proud to have fallen prey to his tale not failing to mention that I would fall for it time and over again.

I stared out of the window,  looking at the rolling grassland plains of Sanga,  dotted with feeding cattle.  I wondered who ordained that a young man bear the burden of his parents, that a soul must live with the looming harsh reality of the uncertainty of tomorrow.  Life could surely be cruel.

Looking at the size of those tablets,  turning them over and over in my mind,  I could tell which choice of prevention I am going to stick to. I pictured the last time I had unprotected sex so vividly and I shuddered at what a fool I had been.  I would definitely go for a test the following day and then live out the rest of my days abstaining.  That was a fortnight ago,  I haven’t tested yet.  Everyday I say a little prayer to God to have mercy on his lost sheep. I hope you do too.

THE VOICES IN MY HEAD.

"So,  do you believe in predestination?"

I have,  on more than several occasions, asked this question,  both to myself and the people I consider but most especially the ones that confess to be grown in the faith.  For a conscious mind,  they usually hesitate to supply an answer.  Most have usually not thought about it beforehand but it is such a burning concept that one understands what it means in a short time. One’s face will be creased with a smile as they supply a stark “yes” or a dodgy “no” although interestingly,  most will look to evade either with a counter explanation that conforms to what they believe in.

One thing is obvious. Either answer is an ideological trap. One answering in the affirmative, will be acknowledging the omniscience God. This in itself implies quite an array of assertions.  That God for example knew before hand and actually willed it that Eve would harvest the raw apple before ripening. He knew it that the willy serpent would successfully persuade naïve Eve and that Adam too would not stand the test of time.  It would mean that He knew the battle would be lost and yet His majesty went ahead to issue a stern warning against the harvesting of the apple before He had authorized It.  Do you see where I am going?

The affirmative answer to the question would imply that God knows everyone before they are born and duly knows what they shall do,  when they will die and what their fate in the afterlife shall be.  He would know that Kony for example shall see it fit to rape young girls and mutilate countless bodies or that Hitler would be a menace to a certain minority yet He would go ahead to allow the people set foot on earth.  That means that He actually willed it that the better proportion us come to earth,  make wonderful nuisances of ourselves and there after proceed to the eternal agony of the hot flames while a select few suffer here on earth and then proceed to an ephemeral rendezvous in paradise.

That would make the world the Lord’s play thing,  like a toy or a novel,  where some characters are in it to die,  play prop or obey whatever whims the writer sees fit.  I mean it would sound like the Lord just created the universe and decided to throw in a bunch of miniature dogs,  to fight,  mistreat each other, drive cars, go to the moon and think they have made it in life and then die while He invited some over for tea and others burned in Hell.  Sounds hypocritical to me,  I do not know about you.

The negative answer is not any better.  The failure to believe in predestination actually doubts the omniscience  of God.  This would cast a shade on the other qualities, omnipotence  in particular.  It would therefore mean that something’s are beyond God’s control and that when push comes to shove, He does not know what will become of us or what will happen in the end. Now,  there is a common belief,  as asserted in the Bible too,  about the final battle , then, when God shall defeat Lucifer so magnificently and then proceed to claim His rightful place.  What if He is not sure about this too?  What if He was to lose this battle given the fact that Something’s are beyond his control?  I mean at the moment,  things are not looking good for team heaven.  Homosexuality, disease,  war,  famine and a lot of stupidity which are All evils attributed to the devil.  I mean the devil has claimed people like Kaweesi, Muhamad Ali and Micheal Jackson. Why would you ever take these while Justin Beiber and Kim Kardashian  are left standing?
What if the devil was to play a Bayern on Arsenal on the final battle?

There are voices in my head, questions that need to be answered and these keep me awake.  Someone schedule a meeting for me with the Pope,  I will meet Kayanja there after,  the Mufti and Mama Fina.  May be they can put my heart to rest.

Is it all an illusion?  Have we been played? 

PLAN Z

Men are obsessed with plans. In our human minds,  we fantasize,  lay out and visualize the perfect outcome of our ventures. We draw out the best and worst possible scenarios and swear upon our grandfather’s graves that A to Z is the best we can ever have.  The truth is, nothing ever comes out according to the perfect plan, at least not to the letter. After all,  the first men did not know that meat tasted better with salt. I have a feeling that in the beginning,  men thought bananas must ripen before consumption.  Now we just harvest them green,  heat them up and speed up the process.  Dots can only be connected backwards. 

What we don’t realize is that we are scared, extremely terrified that when push comes to shove,  we shall in despair,  blame ourselves for having done nothing or failing to do something about it in the least. In the end however,  we always go along with plan Z.  That, which always inevitably happens, that we had not foreseen.  The first girl that your teacher forced you to seat with who later became the puppy love of your dreams.  That stranger on the bus that ended up being the mother of your son. The time you forgot your cap at the café and met your current boss on the way back.  In the end,  we always sit back and relax,  think to ourselves that after all things have not been ‘that bad’.

The king Odysseus, a proud suitor to the most beautiful Helen. You bet he had everything in plan.  Win fair Helen’s heart,  have a hoard of sons and live out the rest of his loyal life basking in Glory.  Helen of course chose Menelaus.  King Odysseus settled for Penelope and look how they ended up.  Who would have thought? Helen ended up a whoring disgrace,  seduced by a boy playing a harp.  Penelope to this day still represents fidelity,  having held on for decades. If the sands of time were to flow,  any man who would choose Helen over Penelope would be the essence of dimwittedness.

Looking back at my life,  I realize the need for auto pilot. Sometimes we need not worry about the next step,  may be sometimes,  we need to just close our eyes,  rest,  Laugh easy and let nature take its course.

After highschool,  it was evident that I needed a miracle.  I needed astate sponsorship for me to proceed to university ,  short of which I had to ‘sit and dig’ like the phrase goes.  My perfect plan and it’s back up visualized me doing a bachelor of Laws,  the most prestigious of social arts courses. Most of us, having failed to live up to our parents science dream,  always fancied Law as the next best thing.  I failed the preentry exam or at least, the 66% that I scored could not let me onto the state sponsorship.  I settled for a bachelor of International business and the cogs turned.  Look where it got me. To the shores of the Baltic!  I got to live through the ice cold northern European nights and like I always muse, had I excelled in that exam,  I would not be here.

We can only get as far manipulating the future. Something’s are better left to God,  fate or even science,  whatever one chooses to guide them. There is always a plan Z that we can’t foresee and just like I always say,  what happened is always the best that did, after all nothing better did. 

 

BAD THINGS AND GOOD PEOPLE.

BAD THINGS AND GOOD PEOPLE.

Siku njema huonekana asubuhi. The coastal dwellers always say. A good day manifests itself at dawn. Contrary to the good day however, the bad day is not interested in revealing itself beforehand. It will just sit back, relax, take a breather and probably visit its friends to sip on tea and then wait for the right moment to strike. And just like that, in a trice, you will be declaring it the worst day of your life.

On a fine Saturday morning, we relaxed at hostel, slept our behinds off and then indolently had lunch. Mayanja, the class motor mouth had been proclaiming all week that Saturday was the day the Lord had planned. A birthday of sorts. So in high spirits we waited for evening to set in.

We drove off to the venue, Michael getting directions on phone, Mutebi on the steering. We manoeuvred the Bugolobi neighbourhood till we got to the party. The disappointment, we could not hide. There were no drinks in sight. All they had were a few bottles of soda on the table, the music mediocre and the high school style MC who kept on blubbering high school slang. Not the place we wanted to be. We stuck around for a while. The bottle game began. You hold a bottle and as soon as the Dj starts playing a song, you pass it on till the song is cut short and the culprit with the bottle stands up and is given a task. Campus demands that the commonest task be dancing with a female, usually one you do not know about. This was certainly not the day the Lord had planned.

It is at that moment that we remembered Janet’s birthday. Hurriedly we excused ourselves and headed to Wink Bar in Kololo. Here, we were not disappointed. Although we had spent two years in the same class and hostel block, Janet was not my friend. Often I would pass her up on my way to campus and we never greeted each other. I was therefore surprised when she hugged me and cordially led us to a secluded spot in the bar gardens. One Guinness after another. The cake was cut. We ordered a round of shisha, the first and second last time I ever tried it.

The festivities got done close to midnight and that was still too early to call it a night. First, we headed to Casa. It lacked the lure. Just old white men and young promiscuous ladies out to considerably dent the former’s wallets. Then we went to Nagulu, Panamera first. Arrogant Banyankole men, sitting and drinking like it was their last day on planet earth. Bouncers moving up and down asking the rest why they had no drink in their hands. The night was bound to end at Legends Sports Bar. This one never disappoints. Loud good old music, a jovial crowd, beer, the smell of roast pork on skewers and an open space for bone shaking. Ah, the good old times, before they started making us pay for entry. Banger after another and this time it was surely late. So we decided to converge and head home.

Ahmed who had wondered off had to be called. So I, glass of the bitters in hand, followed him. Pushing people out of the way until I caught up with him, tapped him on the shoulder and let him know we were leaving. He turned around and led the way. The Dj changed song and every one bleated to Chris Brown’s Loyal intro. So I did a slow jump and turned around, to the opposite direction.    

 That’s when I was swept up. Huge men, Dwayne Johnson’s size hustled me. I could tell by their midnight complexion that their surnames begin with an ‘O’. One scuffed me by the collar so violently that my tie button flew off.
“I’ve got the rascal!”
The huge black men then descended upon me and started thumping, like I was a venomous African snake. One rained a fist on my left jaw. Decibels of pain raced up and down my spine, numbing me in the process. It is common practice in Africa that a thief be taken as a common enemy. Within a short while therefore, a sizeable mob had formed around me, kicking, battering and showering blows on my head.
“Wuuyo. Wuuyo omubbi.” They chorused.

The huge men decided to rush me to security.  It all happened in a rush and I was just there stupefied. It felt like an extremely bad dream save for the little detail that the pain was real, and I was being mobbed for apparently pickpocketing a huge black man. I could feel my mouth getting heavy and the bruises forming. Despite the haze around me, I knew that my face now looked like I had poked it in a beehive.

It always gets worse.
“Who are you?”
“I am a student.”
“Where is your ID?
“I don’t have the ID. We haven’t got them yet.” I desperately blurted out.
The mean looking security guy smirked at me with the all-knowing we-know-your-kind face. The only piece of identification I had on me was a black and white NSSF card. They were not convinced.
“Bino babija ku Nasser Road”. They said.
Great. My only form of identification was hurriedly dismissed as a forgery. The security guy handcuffed me and took me to the dock, complete with iron bars. Now I was a convict. He said he would take me to Police. Inside, I slumped down, heaved a sigh of worry and wondered why God had decided to take watch a movie at such a time of need.

God must have woken up just in the nick of time. Thirty minutes later, the security guy came, opened the iron bar door and shoved me outside. He un-cuffed me and threw me out of the gate. 2.30 am. I would not locate Mutebi. I had no coin on me, having spent the whole of it on the bitters. I was going to walk to Nakawa on foot. I quickly recited a Hail Mary and sauntered away from the music.
The sound of an engine revved up behind me. Probably one of the drunk night revellers going home.
“You guy. Where the f*ck have you been?”

Mutebi. I said the name like a prayer. I could have cried tears of Joy. He had returned to transport a second shift, the Toyota Subaru being a little too small for the whole lot of us. I hopped into the back seat, with three other ladies, reeking of Red Label.
“Where have you been, we combed up the place and you were nowhere to be seen!”
Excellent. So no one had witnessed the ordeal. I sighed and leant back, stared out of the car window as we sped off. It was something I would take to my grave. I have a blog though, so my death house will be robbed of one dark secret. The day that will arguably pass as my worst.

EMPTY WALLETS DO TALK!

Dating tends to be akin to walking through a murky, reptile infested stream in an equatorial jungle. You have to tread carefully, lest you be mauled by an alligator or you get swallowed by a humongous snake out to get an early breakfast. This is always so, especially when your financial skeletal system is a little bit below the average national levels of calcium required. You plan meticulously before you can part with a shilling which is almost every time you get to see your better half or the better half to be. Men are instinctual providers, this means that even in the event of her being well to do, it is hard to let her foot the bill two times in a row. You will begin to feel inadequate.

You have spent a week without seeing her and it is almost inevitable that you have to visit her. You will be there by five in the post meridian you say, but for some reason it is four forty five and you have not started on your journey. She texts you, demanding to know where you have reached and you will confidently tell her that you are at the taxi stage. You speed up, hurry to the taxi stage and the particular taxi in the lead only has two people in it. You cannot take the boda boda because it will end up consuming five times the portion of the budget allocated to transport. You take the front seat, pull out your Tecno M6, switch on the mobile data and it vibrates twelve times, that must be her.

“Are you coming or not?” She will break the silence.
“Of course am coming baby. What kind of question is that?” You will reply.
“Well you said you would be here by five p.m. if at all you had a watch, you should have realised that it is five minutes past your arrival time.”

The taxi starts moving and you will be filled with energy. Then you will turn around the corner and you will see the longest line of cars you have ever seen. Traffic Jam. God’s timing never seems so imperfect until now. It is coming to six. The phone will ring.
“Where are you?”
 “I am at Spear now sweetheart.” You will reply, trying to incorporate a hearty lilt in your voice, unsuccessfully so.
Everyone in the taxi will turn and train their eyes towards you. It is not because you have green eyes or webbed hands. It is because you are stuck in jam at clock tower, a long way from your location on the phone. You will start feeling like a lying idiot for a minute until the back seat is filled with the ringing of a phone. The person will claim they are in Ntinda. Perfect, time has vindicated you.

There are times which are so bad the devil will not take credit for it. This one time she will be sick. You will head there thinking it is only a cold, only to find she is down with the worst fever you have ever seen. You will head out looking for a pharmacy but the place being upscale, the only one you will find is Vine Pharmaceuticals. No mom and pop drug shops around here. When the pompous young lady behind the counter tells you that half a dose of Coartem goes for 10,000 shillings ‘only’, you will smile, pull out your wallet and train it towards the light and see the lone five thousand shilling note carefully folded in the corner, and then you will clear your voice and ask for quarter dose. I tell you.

Oh the sound, of an empty wallet!

A friend of a friend of a friend of mine has a girlfriend. She is one of these upstate cute little things that has become so assimilated to the city that she ‘craves’ pizza despite lacking a foetus in her belly. Pizza, not chicken! For if it were the in the latter’s case, eleven thousand shillings on the streets of Kitintale could get you a whole chicken. Pizza. Reminds me of the time father used to equip me for a school term with fifty thousand shillings. That is a four month’s budget down the drain at Nandos, excluding transport to and fro.

For people that were tempted only by a third party in the Garden of Eden. God punishes men far too worse.

Malt, Hops and Water.

“So, how did you metamorphose, from the hard liquor advocate, to the beer ambassador that you now are?”
To this question, I rarely reply honest. I will simply tell you that beer is the best drink that the gods have to offer from their holy refrigerators. That malt, hops and water add up to life. That far from Nicola Tesla or even Darwin, Arthur Guinness, the man from St James’ gate is the greatest man to ever walk upon planet Erath and its neighbours. Like an NRM junkie, I will cram stupid and empty supercilious praises down your throat, with little substance.
“Man, you are ‘fake’. Whiskey, waragi are the real things.” The whiskey faithful will say.
 Beer is too soft, you say. I will look at you with that sage, all-knowing gaze, size you up, like Ygritte sweeping up a naïve Jon Snow, and deep in the recesses of my mind, I will tell you, slowly, that you know nothing.

Two years ago, still at the business school, I am young and energetic. It is the second year of campus, when adrenalin is highest. You have not dealt with responsibility enough to know its weight and so you blame young age for all the folly. At this stage you can hardly fend for yourself and all your source of income is punctuated by ‘I don’t have money’ or ‘I need a new shoe.’ Then they will know your reserves are empty and willingly fill them for you. The bliss at this age is almost annoying.
So on this fateful day, the preamble to my life changing evening begins. I sit in a half lit room in the hostel basement. It is an extremely uneventful day that I spend day indoors, sharing with a newly found friend of the female species and although we had chatted for long, we had not had much to eat. There is an event to look forward to however.  A friend of a friend is celebrating her belated birthdate, the actual one having fallen in the examination period, the hype was pushed forward.

7 p.m. came on tortoise-back but when it finally did, I cantered towards the venue, donning a pair of shorts, brown moccasin-hide shoes and a black shirt. When I reached the venue, the last floor of Betsam hostel, everything was still in low gear. The spirits began to ascend however when two huge speakers were shipped in. Large crates of Romi’s wine followed and we did come short of salivation. More beer came in and the last batch was pair of whiskey cartons. Gilbey’s, Crazy Cock… it was surely the night that the good lord had crafted, we said.

When the festivities began, we could not hold the excitement. The liquor was too much to go to waste so we enlarged our throats and proceeded to guzzle the drinks like at the feast in Canaan when the people realized the miracle worker was in the building.

It was a strange way of drinking however. There was a protocol to be followed, like at a cafeteria. You would pick up a huge disposable glass, proceed to the first station where a scantily dressed young lady would pour a base of the local wine, the second stop would be at the whiskey station, Gilbey’s first and then lastly top up with crazy cock, to make the most repulsive cocktail of all time. Boys are boys however, and campus is campus so we did drink it.

The first stages, I can narrate with clear precision, because it was a clear head that I still had. The music was turned up, and oh boy did we dance. Strange rituals followed, of boys rubbing their crotches against soft feminine bottoms, while the latter bent at an acute angle to create a ramp like figure. About what pleasure we derived from this, I cannot quantify, if at all there was or is any.

About two rooms away, I had a classmate. Female too. We shall call her Janet for the sake of this story. So when the liquor began to work its way to my head, I decided I would pay her a visit. Three trips I did make to that room that night. I found when she had visitors, her boyfriend, Collin, inclusive and the roommate, Anna. So we chatted casually for a while and I left. The second time I came, let them know that liquor was in plenty and it was flowing like ‘sweet pussy,’ to quote the words I said. This time though I was not me. The alter ego had taken place of the usually quiet and meditative me (around strangers that is). So I rumbled on, about how I could have made sweet love to her if she had not been my sister. The icing on the cake though was that Collin (not real name) did not and does not drink. So he starred at me with disgust as I wallowed in my drunken stupor. I remembered a story that Janet had told me once. Anna had had a row with her man and then he had come to see her, a bitter and a fight had ensued, her screaming to the security guards for help. So I looked her in the eye and said,
“Anna, if you don’t stop playing men they will strangle you!”                                                                        I spent my last year of campus trying to avoid her.

The celebration back in the room was now frenzied. Machemba, a brother of mine usually celebrated for his super natural height got so up in the clouds that he went to the toilet and we do not know whatever he did there. All we know is that water started seeping into the room. On opening the door, we found he had smashed the toilet bowl in half (whether with fist or head, that much we do not know).

The third trip to Janet’s room was just as disastrous. This time I passed out briefly and slumped on the carpet. My bladder filled up and I could feel the unpleasant pressure. I woke up and headed to the bathroom and started to take a leak in the ‘toilet’ only that it was not into the bowl that I directed the stream of my waste… it was the washing basket, full of freshly done laundry.

Cold milk was bought. I became an emergency case and people moved about like a surgery room the moment an accident victim with minutes to live is brought in. They fussed over me, hovered and wondered how or if I was going to make it. I blacked out.

From the sane sources at the scene, I am told several phone calls were made, including one to my best friend, who happened to be home at the time. He could not make it. So he contacted Oj, a giant crony of mine that would take the Undertaker down, given a chance. He hurried to my rescue and carried me like a bride off for the bedding ceremony (I am a Game Of thrones Junkie, don’t look at me like that). Legend has it that at the gate, Oj put me down to look for a boda. I righted myself and staggered to the wall for support. A young man who had just packed a black Mercedes came to sign into the hostel, to see one of his birds probably. It was at this moment that my stomach churned so bad I arched my back and released the murky residues from within, staining the man’s shoes. I cannot claim with much certainty that he did not slap me, that I did not feel it however, that much I can vouch for. They later narrated to me that he had gone back, the young man, his evening thus ruined… and that of the young bird for sure.

The first boda guy that came first could not be compelled to transport me.                                                            “I will not carry a corpse,” he exclaimed.                                                                                           “This one is going to die. Look at him.” His conviction was real.
Oj did the magic again. Called his own boda guy that then transported us to hostel. I do not know who paid the fare. Al I know is that I was glad to have reached my bed. So I fell down, like a sack of charcoal and bid adieu to the world… that was 9 pm, on a Tuesday night.

I woke up, past three pm, Wednesday evening and was something less than a walking corpse. I filled up the room with filth for three straight days, powerless and could barely walk. And when I tired of lying on the bed, I slept on the bare floor, till Friday evening.
In that darkness, I prayed to God… to make me well again and I would honour his presence by never drinking again. He did, and unlike other drunkards worldwide, I honoured my promise and I never touch whiskey ever again.

And that my friend, is how I became to be baptized, with malt, hops and water.

Of Malt, Hops and Water...

Of Monsters And Common Men.

The common men, fought for common men,
Friend made foe and mother lost son,
Necks were decapitated, the limbs amputated,
For shelter the wilderness provided,
And blood was mercilessly spilled,
The common men fought the monsters in power.

Guns, bombs boomed, machetes were wielded and the fires lit,
For the bodies were strewn like a ghost fleet,
Childless fathers, brother-less sisters wailed,
Onto their tears a ship could’ve sailed,
As the common men fought the monsters in power.


They won.

Onto the throne, the common men now sit,
And corrupted by power they now become one,
With the monsters they once fought.
The once common men, now uncommon men made,
They loot and plunder, rape and kill,
And watch the common men die.
                                                                                    Abaasa, january 2017

THE POISON ON CUPID’S ARROW.

For a million furlongs in the sea so deep,
Miles yonder, in the sky so steep,
Wandering, to the world’s end
I never found a soul so deer,
Or a love so true.

Lethal, I will have to be,
Over again if need be,
Verily I’ll long for you,
Eternity, I will cherish the stew,
Long as I have a breath in me.

Impetuously, seers the preternatural passion,
Reverent, close to obsession,
Endless, like a drum’s percussion,
Ceasing never, always in succession,
Queens not, for you are my satisfaction.

If I ever have to die for love,
Meekly I will, akin to the dove,
Forever together, hand and glove,
Thorn or rock won’t tear us apart,
Never, for you be my blood and heart.
                            ____________Abaasa, July 2015.

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...

JESUS OR JESUS PIECE?: Inside an 'international deliverance' church.

I went to visit a friend last Wednesday. In the Old Park, I boarded a taxi to Namugongo at around 18.00 EAT and Kampala being Kampala, we negotiated with jam, till at about 19.30 hrs. when I arrived in the vicinity. I am not friends with taxis and occasionally I always swallow saliva repeatedly to avoid wreaking havoc to my neighbors. It was with much relief therefore when I shouted at the conductor, a shabbily dressed fellow.

“Maasawo!”

I alighted just before crossing the bridge over the northern bypass and proceeded on foot along the Kamuli-lubaawo Namugongo bypass. By this time it was alarmingly dark and I fought several urges to take a boda. The Swahili always say it, there is no problem that travels alone. When shit is going south, expect a bucketful. My host made it clear that he had stepped out shortly. I had to wait on the outside. Turning on my mobile data, the battery level dramatically dwindled to fifteen percent. Great. Just what I needed. I quickly turned the phone to the ultra-power save mode and dropped it into the pocket. Mosquitoes of every bleed and race buzzed over my head, forcing me to pull over the hood of my sweater. They buzzed over me again, like the unwelcome visitor that I was. Then I decided to take a walk.

I hunched my shoulders, pushed my hands deep into the pockets and then proceeded on my forced tour. There was nothing much. Just a typical Kampala suburb, a saloon here, an aroma of freshly made chappatis, roadside sausage stalls and music. A cinema hall with V.j Jingo in full blast.

“Nga tuli Kasubu na kki?”

“N’aloo.”

I felt my pockets keenly, anticipating a call but there was nothing. My host was not yet back. He would call if he did arrive. No worries. I headed north, more uneventful saloons and chappati stalls. Nothing to get my attention.

I was about to turn back when I picked up an all-too-familiar sound. The sound of evening praise and worship from born again churches. I had never been into one before and I had nothing worthwhile to do. Why not?     

                                                              

I branched to the left, past an abandoned automobile washing bay and beyond. Just like I had pictured in my mind, it was an iron sheet structure. It shined in the dark, the pale moon light reflecting on the ‘walls’, signifying the presence of the Lord, I mused.

prayer and divine healing ministries international.

The blast of music hit my face with such force as I entered this holy iron sheet structure. Sounds of praise and worship, akin to the midnight atmosphere at Rock Catalina filled my ears and it was sheer providence that my eardrums remained intact. A tremor run through my body. Inside the house of the Lord, I felt like s stranger and expected to be bundled up at any time and thrown on the cold outside in case someone noticed the devil ridding on my shoulder. I was not roughed up however, not at that moment and not in the hour that I spent looking at frenzied worshipers.

The floor was covered with red woolen carpets that had seen better days no doubt, with plain white chairs scatter across. The lot of them however had been bundled to the sides, creating an expanse of space in the middle. The altar  was a different dimension. Ornately constructed with stone and painted immaculate cream. A glass stand was elected thereon with the church Logo gloriously emblazoned, the mark of the church. This juxtaposition is usually symbolic… flamboyant shepherd, wretched sheep.

Inside this house of the lord, it is a different universe. I felt like John Carter on his first day on planet mars. The worshipers were marching, like army recruits, pacing back and forth. Sometimes they picked up pace, like in an Olympic race walk, mumbling a heavenly dialect that I could not fathom. I felt ill at ease, shifted from one leg to another till I settled in the corner and keenly watched the proceedings. I could see the lot of them and more than half were young women not yet into their thirties obviously and about half of the latter had babies slung over their shoulders, young mothers perhaps?

The leader of this praise and worship was an equally energetic young man, spotting a plaid shirt and a black trouser that looked worn out from a distance. And occasionally he would pump words into the microphone. His voice, so powerful had by now grown hoarse and constantly he would pose for a breath before barking bark into the microphone again.

“Twaala okusaba okwamaanyi!”

“Twaal’emikisa gya Yeesu!”

A young lad probably gripped with the holy power, circled around the church and finally linked up with a young lass, they joined hands and prayed so powerfully that the young man’s abdomen shook, the young lady shaking like an autumn leaf in the wind. I know nothing about praise and worship rituals so I just starred in awe like a teenage boy having extracted a word from the girl of his dreams.

It took me a while to realize that the microphone had changed, to a young lady this time. The lady’s voice had been no different from the young man’s that the transition had gone unnoticed. Hers in fact was over the top you would think we had a lion growling in the church. Her predecessor, visibly exhausted made his way to the altar, to the glass pulpit and picked up a glass of water, took a long swig and then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He then paced around the altar and shook his head in appreciation, like a man inspecting a half days work.

Waking up from the eerie, I could see a young man who had now lain on the floor, like an expectant heifer about to bring forth its calf. A young girl, oblivious of the lad’s intentions went up to him and shook him, probably fearing the worst. He did not budge. She then imitated him and spread her miniature body on the carpet. Her mother came and whisked her away, admonishing her to stay put.

Inside the house of the Lord, I did not feel any different. I looked at the men and young ladies pacing around in prayer and mumbling in tongues and wondered if it was not a hoax. That deep within, they were just problem-laden people looking for release. I remembered a time a friend of mine showed up with a string of new beads on his arm. Keith is not really the religious type so I was a little bit shocked to see the word Jesus etched on the bracelet.

“Uh. So now you are a believer.” I had exclaimed, a strange light shining in my eyes.

“Turn it around.” he had said.

I twisted his arm around to complete the bead maze.

Piece. It said. Jesus Piece. The Game’s fifth studio album...

Aren’t most things usually like that. Look once, it is that, look twice and it is a different story.

I felt in my phone pocket for my Tecno m6. It was getting late really. I stepped outside and just then sly thing started ringing. It was my host come back… Time to go home old boy. I pulled over my hood and pushed north, beyond the praise, beyond the worship, beyond the music. 

ISIAH 1.15

I love solitude. It is a love so strong I would pay a hefty price to be left alone to think. So last Saturday I happened to land on the chance of a life time. My brother having left to the village and my sister long gone to work, I stayed in bed, long enough to savor the delicacy of the silence and let the aroma of privacy waft past my nose. I jumped out of bed, shed the last garment I had on my body and prowled around the room, like the alpha lion making sure that it was alone in the lair.

I set about brushing the carpet but no sooner had I landed on my knees to start on the Sisyphean task than I heard a knock on the door. The footsteps I heard definitely meant that I had an entourage of people at my door.

“He is around!”

I froze. It was a female voice. The last time I had heard that phrase used was long ago when I was knee-deep in debt. You would start to look to the nearest corner for cover.

They knocked. I waited, may be it was a wrong door. The second knock was much firmer meaning they were sure it was the right door. So I frantically looked around and landed on a baggy pair basketball shorts (I don’t play the sport, it was a gift) and slipped into it, no time for a shirt and then I opened the door. The female voice was my neighbor's, with whom I have never exchanged a single word, not even a hello. She left soon as I had opened. Her companions on the other hand, they stayed. I instantly recognized the two gentlemen, they were the Jehovah’s Witness preachers who had got quite friendly with my brother. Once in a while they show up and preached to him, I had never ventured to reveal myself, I would casually stay in bed while they preached away, citing evidence from the bible when the occasion permitted.

“Johnpaul is not around. He left, I mean he went to the village and he won’t be back till may be Wednesday.” I was definitely not sounding welcoming. But they were men of God anyway so the stayed.

Well I got to know that one was Ukrainian, I could have guessed by his thick eastern European accent, the second was Ethiopian. They started doing their thing, preaching to me with that phony attempt all preachers usually make to seem friendly. I have always had some questions that I could not find answers to. So I guessed this missionary would offer some answers.

“Do you believe in predestination?” I asked.

“No!” his reply was too curt for a preacher.

“And why is that?”

“Well I have my own reasons.”

“Did you grow up as a Christian?” I asked.

“No. I did not. Back home, people are atheists. They do not teach religion so people grow up when they do not know about it.”

“So why did you choose to come to Africa while folks back home are more in need of salvation?” I asked. I was not giving him rest this one.

“Well, it is not because they did not want to listen to me. They are many of us, well so me I was sent to Africa.”

Perfect.

 I was at this moment that the preaching started to hook my attention in earnest.

“Do you think God listens to our prayers?” the preacher asked.

I told him I did believe He does. He then handed me the bible to read.

Isiah 1.15 “when you lift up your hands in prayer, I will not look. Though you offer many payers, I will not listen, for your hands are full of blood.”

Interesting.

“So imagine a battle field,” said I hoping to make sense of this quote, “there are two warring factions. Both have taken blood and shed some. They are all praying, who does He listen to and who does He let go?”

“The answer is no one!” the preacher said.

I was baffled. So what he was insinuating was that there is actually an ‘autopilot’, a situation when God just abandons all of us and aids none. In this case, all fate is in man’s hands. 

Now I imagined, what if God was to forsake us? What if he was to put the universe in autopilot and let the sleeping dogs lie?

The answer is America!

If you want to know what a godless nation looks like, look at America. Guns on the street, drugs, prostitution, robbery, murder, suicide. The worst situation of a godless nation is when men start to think fellow men are women. A godless nation is doomed. Has no peace and there is chaos anywhere. The first time I got to know that there were psychos and serial killers was in American movies. Read their literature, watch their movies and you will get to know what I am talking about.

I have heard about murdered judges and people who were shot for scratching cars, all in this our Uganda. There is a drug ‘cartel’ in my neighborhood and the ‘kifeesi’ group really rhymes with the crips and the bloods and the Crenshaw kings, American style gangs.
Is Uganda becoming a godless nation?  

CRY for THE BELOVED COUNTRY!

I work in the night, late night actually. Its not what you think. It is a legitimate job and I am paid per month, not per round.

The limited time I have spent in the customer service center of a telecommunication company, serving the low value customers has given me a fresher perspective of my beloved mother land… and it is not an encouraging picture. We are so lacking as a people that we may need the second coming of Jesus if at all we are to have any glimmer of hope. I mean the situation is so bad that sometimes I break down and cry (take that with a grain of salt, or two for that matter)

For starters, the levels of illiteracy are alarming. I honestly maintain that it is more a result of a crippled education system as much as the lack of one. So you will pick up a call, about twenty minutes after mid night and the sub is in need of help.                                                                              – “My Facebook is not working. Every time I try to visit the site, they tell me that ‘error’!”                                        

 –Have you used the internet on your phone before?                                                                                  _No!                                                                                                                                                           –Do you have an internet bundle?                                                                                                            –No!                                                                                                                                                      Of course after running the number through the system, you will discover that the sub is using a Nokia 1200, a rudimentary non-internet enabled device.

I have also realized that the poverty is biting. It is so loud it can be picked up on a microphone. The poverty is of an audible kind. One of the results of this is a people so susceptible to deceit they are wonderfully gullible and prone to petty theft. It is normal to pick up about ten calls a day of people who have been conned clean of their yearly savings. The man comes on the phone, and from the deep solemnity of his voice, you can tell he is in the mid-thirties. They will usually ask if it is true that they have won. You will proceed to ask them if they have been part of any promotions and they will repeat in the negative. You will ask them then why they thing they have ‘won’ and they will dive into the well-known story.

“Someone called me today morning at about three thirty in the post meridian, he said that I have won with this company. That I am a lucky winner of three million shillings and a brand new Toyota Premio. He said that in order to claim my rewards, I should buy airtime of ten thousand shillings and read out the voucher pin to them so that I can be registered. Then I should also send them one hundred thousand shillings on their mobile wallet so as to be insured before I claim the prize. I did not have the money so I hurried to my wife’s purse and borrowed the ten thousand and then ran to the shop and purchased the airtime, which I read to him.

I could not solicit the latter part of the funds so I told him to deduct it from my bounty. The man has disappeared in thin air. I have tried calling the number now and it is off! Can you imagine?”

What you really want to shout to the man is how stupid they could have been but you cannot. First of all, it will get you fired and well you know it is not their fault. Any poor man will light up at the sound of a few shillings and famous people have been conned before, only on a grander sale. They have been already robbed anyway, and the only thing you can do is apologize and issue stern advice on the level of vigilance needed when it comes to the matters of ‘abafere’, like they are usually termed in one of the local dialects.

This kind of job opens you the doors to the lowest rung of humanity and all the salient issues that rock their world. Of people that neither read nor write, yet they are the back bone of the nation and they live and die like that, only slightly aware of the basics of civilization. May be I will become a humanitarian, in my next life, if reincarnation is a theory to be trusted. This all breaks my heart and it is literal this time.