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.