Of Holidays and Resolutions.
I usually prefer to be in the know. To fit in without effort. That's not what's happening now. It's the holidays again. It's Christmas time and soon it'll be new year's. Somewhere along the way I've come to accept that I'll never know the true motivation behind pre Christmas excitement in the real authentic meaning of the word. I'm not at all sad about this but were I to be only slightly inspired, were I to understand the need for a new dress and a new shoe, I'd have a gloriously perfect story to write home about. So I can't fit in for Christmas and I couldn't possibly fit in for new year's. I don't make sound resolutions and I never disappoint on any front, which qualifies me as an odd aspirant for new year celebrations. To qualify for new year one should've made resolutions 12 months back that they wouldn't live up to. There should be a general air of self reproach which I can never seem to summon on any new year's day.
2015 hasn't been miraculously different. Nothing thus far has been inspiring enough to make me resolve anything for the approaching new year. In that respect I have nothing of value to share with you.
But I can tell you about 2015 escapades that weren't sound resolutions in the first place.
I finally took the city bus last week and it wasn't to appease the gods of transport as I'd unsoundly resolved to do twelve months ago. It was to evade the advances of an unusually chatty homeless person and to avoid the enveloping darkness of the late hour at a lone stage in a lone part of the city. I had positive thoughts entering the bus and seeing all seats were taken-I'd stand straight above potholes as we rode through the city. Maybe not the most dignified position for a young 20-something year old female still looking to impress but it screams adventure on any day.
Ugandans on a Ugandan bus have a way of making one feel new. I could tell they knew I wasn't a regular on this bus. I passed by bus driver without paying for the ticket and that wasn't a good first impression. Then I angrily contorted my face because I didn't want to stand next to who I stood next to. My neighbour wasn't any better than the homeless individual I'd left at the stage. He was worse. He was a drunkard with an irritating urge to grab onto his neighbour's clothes. He tended to sway to my side every time we hit a bump in the road. He kept whispering drunken words into my ear. I wasn't happy with him or the lady across the aisle who looked boldly in my face and laughed out loud. I wasn't really mad at her though, I might in fact have laughed with her at one point.
As the new year draws near, I shall simply continue with my small acts of model citizenship. Ranting here and there about nothing in particular. Caring for fellow humans as I educate them. Loving this country as I positively criticise it. It's a love-hate relationship with me and Uganda. Rarely do I speak ill of my countrymen. When I'm pushed to my limits, say, for instance in a taxi somewhere in Busoga getting squashed between a woman with a breastfeeding baby and an unsettled toddler and a man with three chickens and a young turkey, I remain calm. I imagine given the same circumstances I'd behave exactly as my kinsmen have chosen to behave. But that train in Namanve crosses the line.
That train in Namanve is a big fat conspicuous joke. It's as if whoever instituted it picked up random carriages at the abandoned station in Jinja and went ahead to paint the thing an offensive shade of green. That train is terrible. It shames me. It still hoots in a primitive fashion and quite steadily pollutes our air. It uses coal or charcoal in this bright new civilised day as it shamelessly rattles along on the Uganda Railway. Yes. Uganda Railway. S.S.T-Indian-Coolie Uganda Railway! The very same. Still in its original state, never renovated. Never painted green-like the train-even as it disappears beneath the ground in some parts (and we all know that this is no unique case of a secret underground tunnel). Even as a 'new' train, a revered symbol of this country's 'steady progress' was dumped upon it. I don't like that train at all. I wish it jams up and never sees the day again. I wish earth swallows up more Uganda Railway so that that painstakingly slow excuse of a campaign strategy has no choice but to stay put in Jinja. I'll not take the train. Not even for a selfie.
Maybe I've finally resolved. Perhaps I'll join in on the fireworks.
Happy holidays. Happy new year!
Monday, 21 December 2015
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell
Pope In Uganda: The Story I'll Tell
At Munyonyo, the announcer said, "be joyous, try to be as joyous as possible when he comes." I thought it reminded me of a once upon a time when mother hen prepped her brood in anticipation of a long lost, socially better placed relative. But the crowd at Munyonyo did not need that sort of prepping. They heard the announcer's words and they nodded with polite consent but they had already thought this through. Months back when news of his coming was first confirmed, they had unanimously agreed that they'd be joyous. In line with African norms, when a richer, more exotic relation decides to pinch some minutes off his important time and comes for a visit, joyous is often the resultant mood.
Dear child (or children, or grandchildren, or some random 2020's kid),
In the year, 2015, at a time of intense political battles, the period when el nino rains had washed off this very roof you now sit under, His Holiness Pope Francis came to Uganda.
Some said that with him would come immense blessings. Others hoped that if they prayed with the Pope, kissed his holy foot or succeeded in shaking his holy hand, they'd beat bitter rivals in the forth coming elections. Most were curious observers who'd had the misfortune of missing the two precedent sets of events when previous Popes had come to this country.
Overall, the mood on the streets had steadily drifted from hopeful smiles to exuberant euphoria. Masses had thronged to and filled Namugongo martyr's shrine to capacity the week before. Talk of this anticipatory mood filled our tabloids and national papers and the campaigns were all but relegated to the alleys. Our leaders had warned us of historically delicate times ahead. The police had frightened off the last traces of errant behavior in us. Our general thoughts leaned-rather dangerously I might add-towards the same similar positive angle. The Pope was airborne and most were ready to receive him. No, they were nervous and apprehensive but that's the kind of irrational agitation befitting a visit from a man of His Holiness' station.
Kenya had bade him farewell, H.E Magufuli had diverted another sum of tax payers' shillings to more important, more humane matters, the Pope had arrived. His earlier commitments in Kenya had not tired him out, neither did the 45 minute flight to Entebbe. He was immediately treated to a lyrical composition of notes in a language he could never discern and a string of dance moves to beats he would never decipher but the Pope, we had heard, was a people's Pope. Upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, he waved and smiled and showed no signs of fatigue. He was 78 years of age, so more than once I was tempted to suspect that perhaps His Holiness was a devoted member of a gym somewhere in the Vatican.
At Namugongo, the Pope might as well have landed at the shrines themselves. The crowd there was beside themselves with rapture the moment live feeds showed the Kenya Airways plane the Pope had opted to use, touch down. And although the Pope wasn't to attend to their needs until the next day, at a holy mass, this did not deter faith filled individuals from hoping that somehow, with His Holiness only a few short kilo meters away from them in their very motherland, blessings would gravitate through the winds and soils towards their pious repentant souls.
The Pope did indeed bring blessings and peace. On mass day at Namugongo, in a rare, never-seen-before moment of political bliss, long written-off foes became friends. H.E Yoweri K. Museveni shook his arch rival's hand, and said rival, Rt. Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye W. Kifeefe smiled bright as he shook back. It was epic, newsworthy, slow motion-worthy. It reminded us, for a fleeting, reality sparked second, that it was still campaign period and our vote would soon be cast.
One or two individuals might have remarked that permitting a few 'Very Very Important Persons (VVIPs)' to use certain purpotedly closed off roads while others trekked miles through foot paths to see the Pope, was a grossly ironic fit for such an event.
But that was not all the quarrel there was. Some further argued that the official broadcaster of the events did not deliver to expectation. They had stayed home to view the Pope's proceedings from the luxury of their sofas but like I've been telling you all along, when a visitor (a richer, exotic, socially better placed visitor) decides to come by your place, you ought to come out and greet in person, body and spirit. You ought to somehow obtain those VVIP invites, beat Kayihura's security men, shake the visitor's hand and with a humble smile say 'how are you?"
I guess I should also mention that men had been working tirelessly to revamp the shrines and make them shiny and new for the Pope. This had been going on for weeks before the Pope's arrival date and there were stories (these we later learnt had been exaggerated) of progress and success but final touches were still being made even as Pope Francis blessed Kenya one last time.
I do not know how he slept, although I'm certain that as a man of God, he had bigger concerns he rather discussed than the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts. He did not say how he slept, I doubt he ever will be inclined to tell, but I can reliably relate that there was the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts in His Holiness' bed chamber.
Disclaimer: Nothing written here is to accuracy, believe at your own peril.
It's highly appreciated when you comment and share.
At Munyonyo, the announcer said, "be joyous, try to be as joyous as possible when he comes." I thought it reminded me of a once upon a time when mother hen prepped her brood in anticipation of a long lost, socially better placed relative. But the crowd at Munyonyo did not need that sort of prepping. They heard the announcer's words and they nodded with polite consent but they had already thought this through. Months back when news of his coming was first confirmed, they had unanimously agreed that they'd be joyous. In line with African norms, when a richer, more exotic relation decides to pinch some minutes off his important time and comes for a visit, joyous is often the resultant mood.
Dear child (or children, or grandchildren, or some random 2020's kid),
In the year, 2015, at a time of intense political battles, the period when el nino rains had washed off this very roof you now sit under, His Holiness Pope Francis came to Uganda.
Some said that with him would come immense blessings. Others hoped that if they prayed with the Pope, kissed his holy foot or succeeded in shaking his holy hand, they'd beat bitter rivals in the forth coming elections. Most were curious observers who'd had the misfortune of missing the two precedent sets of events when previous Popes had come to this country.
Overall, the mood on the streets had steadily drifted from hopeful smiles to exuberant euphoria. Masses had thronged to and filled Namugongo martyr's shrine to capacity the week before. Talk of this anticipatory mood filled our tabloids and national papers and the campaigns were all but relegated to the alleys. Our leaders had warned us of historically delicate times ahead. The police had frightened off the last traces of errant behavior in us. Our general thoughts leaned-rather dangerously I might add-towards the same similar positive angle. The Pope was airborne and most were ready to receive him. No, they were nervous and apprehensive but that's the kind of irrational agitation befitting a visit from a man of His Holiness' station.
Kenya had bade him farewell, H.E Magufuli had diverted another sum of tax payers' shillings to more important, more humane matters, the Pope had arrived. His earlier commitments in Kenya had not tired him out, neither did the 45 minute flight to Entebbe. He was immediately treated to a lyrical composition of notes in a language he could never discern and a string of dance moves to beats he would never decipher but the Pope, we had heard, was a people's Pope. Upon arrival at Entebbe International Airport, he waved and smiled and showed no signs of fatigue. He was 78 years of age, so more than once I was tempted to suspect that perhaps His Holiness was a devoted member of a gym somewhere in the Vatican.
At Namugongo, the Pope might as well have landed at the shrines themselves. The crowd there was beside themselves with rapture the moment live feeds showed the Kenya Airways plane the Pope had opted to use, touch down. And although the Pope wasn't to attend to their needs until the next day, at a holy mass, this did not deter faith filled individuals from hoping that somehow, with His Holiness only a few short kilo meters away from them in their very motherland, blessings would gravitate through the winds and soils towards their pious repentant souls.
The Pope did indeed bring blessings and peace. On mass day at Namugongo, in a rare, never-seen-before moment of political bliss, long written-off foes became friends. H.E Yoweri K. Museveni shook his arch rival's hand, and said rival, Rt. Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye W. Kifeefe smiled bright as he shook back. It was epic, newsworthy, slow motion-worthy. It reminded us, for a fleeting, reality sparked second, that it was still campaign period and our vote would soon be cast.
One or two individuals might have remarked that permitting a few 'Very Very Important Persons (VVIPs)' to use certain purpotedly closed off roads while others trekked miles through foot paths to see the Pope, was a grossly ironic fit for such an event.
But that was not all the quarrel there was. Some further argued that the official broadcaster of the events did not deliver to expectation. They had stayed home to view the Pope's proceedings from the luxury of their sofas but like I've been telling you all along, when a visitor (a richer, exotic, socially better placed visitor) decides to come by your place, you ought to come out and greet in person, body and spirit. You ought to somehow obtain those VVIP invites, beat Kayihura's security men, shake the visitor's hand and with a humble smile say 'how are you?"
I guess I should also mention that men had been working tirelessly to revamp the shrines and make them shiny and new for the Pope. This had been going on for weeks before the Pope's arrival date and there were stories (these we later learnt had been exaggerated) of progress and success but final touches were still being made even as Pope Francis blessed Kenya one last time.
I do not know how he slept, although I'm certain that as a man of God, he had bigger concerns he rather discussed than the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts. He did not say how he slept, I doubt he ever will be inclined to tell, but I can reliably relate that there was the smell of fresh paint and sticky bed posts in His Holiness' bed chamber.
Disclaimer: Nothing written here is to accuracy, believe at your own peril.
It's highly appreciated when you comment and share.
Tuesday, 17 November 2015
I Know My Truth
I Know My Truth
Sometimes I just want to say that I wish I could stand at the tallest point in town and scream, "I know my truth".
You know that vaguely stated line from the movie Couples Retreat? Have you watched the movie couples retreat? It's okay not to have seen it. The movie is a 2009 romantic comedy,so even you can tell that the story is constructed around unlikely romances that ultimately end in happily ever after. One of the characters, Dave (played by Vince Vaughn) gets bruised or scratched-literally-by a shark but he stretches the seriousness of his injuries a bit too far. In a series of 'post-attack' theatrics, Dave victimizes himself and wants his friends to follow that lead, but they are having none of that and the more he insists he's a shark attack survivor, the more his friends attack him for being infantile. At the point when it becomes too much for him, the moment when Dave seemingly realizes that they are right and he's wrong, he repeatedly rants, 'I know my truth'. So that's that. I, too, know my truth.
I've been wearing glasses for so long that I'd forgotten there ever were any stereotypes associated with them. Way back in the earlier 2000's when I fancied specs but couldn't get a pair because my eyes weren't defective yet, I envied the kids that wore them. I especially envied my friend since hers had a brown string attached and she'd attractively hang them around the neck whenever the thought crossed her mind. I also knew that people whispered that everyone who wore specs was brilliant, and I very badly wanted to be a part of the brilliant. I got my first pair of glasses, and several pairs and years later, I'd forgotten what it was like to desire them so badly.
Yesterday I was downtown weaving my way through throngs of people to get to the Ntinda stage in the Old taxi park when I accidentally fell into the vendor's trap. The vendor's trap, here explained, is when curiosity gets you peeping at the vendor's stall, or peeping in the direction of the vendor's stall and the ever attentive vendor assumes your interest in his merchandise. The latter is what I did. I was passing through, I was very tired, there were lots of strangers shouting in my ears or grabbing my arms and I decided to gaze in the direction of a shoe stall. I wasn't looking at Vendor's goods, I was simply glancing in that general direction but Vendor saw his 'opportunity' and jumped up to snatch it (read to snatch my arm). Two minutes later, I had persistently declined several shoe fittings and successfully retrieved my limb, but not before arousing Vendor's neighbour's wrath. Vendor's neighbour jumped out of his seat to attack me for wasting their time, all the while reminding vendor that girls wearing specs, fake or not, do not buy from people like them (??). He said something of the sort, "Naye mwe obuwala obwambala gaago mwaabakyi, kajja wano nekakumalila ebisela nga kakyimanyi tekagenda ggula, mulekele okuja eno ewafe oba temwagala ggula. Musigale ewamwe, Kalabe, genda n'ogenda, genda genda genda."
It all loosely translates to the last few lines above it. Now first of all dear vendor's neighbour, your friend grabbed my arm and wasted two whole minutes of my time, I did not waste his or yours. Second of all, downtown also has the taxi parks, I don't see a closer connection between Mengo and Ntinda. Thirdly, don't call my specs gaago, please don't. Just don't.
With this incident, I remembered a time, not too long ago when again from Mengo, I found myself downtown. This time, the trap landed me with two vendors selling leggings and jeggings. Upon their insistence (mostly me getting manhandled), I looked through the jeggings they presented. One after another I shook my head and when I spoke it was to tell him that I could never wear the yellow bottoms he'd thrust in my face. So he brought me the duller colors, several shades of blue and black but I still declined and started to walk away. "Naye mwanagwe sooka olinde, lindamu katono", he said. "Olabika tolaba n'obwo obugalubindi bw'oyambadde. Ogambye toyambala yellow, netuleta black ne blue oba nazo oziyise yellow?"
It meant, "just a moment, please". The continued italic, "I seriously doubt you can see clearly with your specs on, you said you couldn't wear yellow pants and when I brought you black and blue, you still declined. The specs must make you assume that everything is yellow"
The rest of his words were harsh criticisms of the people that make specs, those that wear them, anyone that sells them and I guess whoever invented the very idea. His friend added some of his own and like the other vendor's neighbor, a very similar reminder of advice once shared; a reminder that girls that wore the coveted spectacles would never shop downtown. His closing remarks as I disappeared round the corner were, "kalabe n'obuuso, kalabe wekatambula, tolina n'akabina"
I prefer not to translate that one but it made my evening.
P.S: I wrote the quotations in the best Luganda I could.
It's always appreciated when after reading, you comment and share.
Follow @sauyakauma on twitter.
Sometimes I just want to say that I wish I could stand at the tallest point in town and scream, "I know my truth".
You know that vaguely stated line from the movie Couples Retreat? Have you watched the movie couples retreat? It's okay not to have seen it. The movie is a 2009 romantic comedy,so even you can tell that the story is constructed around unlikely romances that ultimately end in happily ever after. One of the characters, Dave (played by Vince Vaughn) gets bruised or scratched-literally-by a shark but he stretches the seriousness of his injuries a bit too far. In a series of 'post-attack' theatrics, Dave victimizes himself and wants his friends to follow that lead, but they are having none of that and the more he insists he's a shark attack survivor, the more his friends attack him for being infantile. At the point when it becomes too much for him, the moment when Dave seemingly realizes that they are right and he's wrong, he repeatedly rants, 'I know my truth'. So that's that. I, too, know my truth.
I've been wearing glasses for so long that I'd forgotten there ever were any stereotypes associated with them. Way back in the earlier 2000's when I fancied specs but couldn't get a pair because my eyes weren't defective yet, I envied the kids that wore them. I especially envied my friend since hers had a brown string attached and she'd attractively hang them around the neck whenever the thought crossed her mind. I also knew that people whispered that everyone who wore specs was brilliant, and I very badly wanted to be a part of the brilliant. I got my first pair of glasses, and several pairs and years later, I'd forgotten what it was like to desire them so badly.
Yesterday I was downtown weaving my way through throngs of people to get to the Ntinda stage in the Old taxi park when I accidentally fell into the vendor's trap. The vendor's trap, here explained, is when curiosity gets you peeping at the vendor's stall, or peeping in the direction of the vendor's stall and the ever attentive vendor assumes your interest in his merchandise. The latter is what I did. I was passing through, I was very tired, there were lots of strangers shouting in my ears or grabbing my arms and I decided to gaze in the direction of a shoe stall. I wasn't looking at Vendor's goods, I was simply glancing in that general direction but Vendor saw his 'opportunity' and jumped up to snatch it (read to snatch my arm). Two minutes later, I had persistently declined several shoe fittings and successfully retrieved my limb, but not before arousing Vendor's neighbour's wrath. Vendor's neighbour jumped out of his seat to attack me for wasting their time, all the while reminding vendor that girls wearing specs, fake or not, do not buy from people like them (??). He said something of the sort, "Naye mwe obuwala obwambala gaago mwaabakyi, kajja wano nekakumalila ebisela nga kakyimanyi tekagenda ggula, mulekele okuja eno ewafe oba temwagala ggula. Musigale ewamwe, Kalabe, genda n'ogenda, genda genda genda."
It all loosely translates to the last few lines above it. Now first of all dear vendor's neighbour, your friend grabbed my arm and wasted two whole minutes of my time, I did not waste his or yours. Second of all, downtown also has the taxi parks, I don't see a closer connection between Mengo and Ntinda. Thirdly, don't call my specs gaago, please don't. Just don't.
With this incident, I remembered a time, not too long ago when again from Mengo, I found myself downtown. This time, the trap landed me with two vendors selling leggings and jeggings. Upon their insistence (mostly me getting manhandled), I looked through the jeggings they presented. One after another I shook my head and when I spoke it was to tell him that I could never wear the yellow bottoms he'd thrust in my face. So he brought me the duller colors, several shades of blue and black but I still declined and started to walk away. "Naye mwanagwe sooka olinde, lindamu katono", he said. "Olabika tolaba n'obwo obugalubindi bw'oyambadde. Ogambye toyambala yellow, netuleta black ne blue oba nazo oziyise yellow?"
It meant, "just a moment, please". The continued italic, "I seriously doubt you can see clearly with your specs on, you said you couldn't wear yellow pants and when I brought you black and blue, you still declined. The specs must make you assume that everything is yellow"
The rest of his words were harsh criticisms of the people that make specs, those that wear them, anyone that sells them and I guess whoever invented the very idea. His friend added some of his own and like the other vendor's neighbor, a very similar reminder of advice once shared; a reminder that girls that wore the coveted spectacles would never shop downtown. His closing remarks as I disappeared round the corner were, "kalabe n'obuuso, kalabe wekatambula, tolina n'akabina"
I prefer not to translate that one but it made my evening.
P.S: I wrote the quotations in the best Luganda I could.
It's always appreciated when after reading, you comment and share.
Follow @sauyakauma on twitter.
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
To rant or not to rant
To Rant or Not To Rant
I'm probably going to shoot myself in the toes after publishing this blog; certain issues shouldn't be allowed to see the literary value of ink and paper in this day and age.
I was passing through a restaurant yesterday afternoon as it rained when I chanced upon a program on one of the supposedly better t.v stations in this nation. My intention wasn't to watch initially but one of the segments of the show, an all too familiar fragment of modern television where the public brainstorms on a social problem presented by one of the viewers, caught my attention.
The day's problem: A young woman in dire need of 'our' help to overturn the decision by her husband to throw her out of their married home as she can only bear him daughters, and he wants a son.
Now I ask, what kind of persistent benightedness has rendered us party to these discussions so far into the ages as 2015? This is very disturbing!
Even with the 'government to blame', enough Biology papers have been written and thrown around to further authenticate the X-Y theories and one need only step in S.2 (or there about) to have this important piece of information at their finger tips.
I'd presumed that one of the basic duties of the media is to educate the public and not tolerate all gibberish (sorry troubled woman) for the sake of entertainment but I guess that was simply a silent personal opinion.
And amazingly, the people that wrote or called in with advice similarly mentioned nothing of the facts. The advice varied from short clipped remarks alluding to disfavor upon the woman, to blatant accusations of lack of love on her part to directions to a certain witch doctor on a certain sequestered island. All useless. All more ignorant than the question. As hilarious as they sounded, they only serve to add a touch of comic appeal to an otherwise ordinary one man t.v show.
I suggest that if a genuinely ignorant countryman shows up with a problem of the sort, you call them aside (off air) and whisper some science in their ears. This would go a long way in providing actual solutions to problems instead of confusing desperate victims and embarrassing those that apparently call in to 'advise'.
It also saves me the burden of ranting about it on my blog. I could name 1000 bigger problems that honest viewers have, which could sound catchy to my impatient ears, and this day's problem wouldn't make the list.
If anything, the man, and not the woman should be the one to make the desperate call and seek our wisdom, but I suppose you know these facts already and I suppose you can agree with me that love for one's husband is not implied in the numbers of bouncing, healthy boys one bears for him.
Read, share, comment, follow me @sauyakauma on twitter and go educate the nation.
[presses publish and runs off in search of a heavy gun]
I'm probably going to shoot myself in the toes after publishing this blog; certain issues shouldn't be allowed to see the literary value of ink and paper in this day and age.
I was passing through a restaurant yesterday afternoon as it rained when I chanced upon a program on one of the supposedly better t.v stations in this nation. My intention wasn't to watch initially but one of the segments of the show, an all too familiar fragment of modern television where the public brainstorms on a social problem presented by one of the viewers, caught my attention.
The day's problem: A young woman in dire need of 'our' help to overturn the decision by her husband to throw her out of their married home as she can only bear him daughters, and he wants a son.
Now I ask, what kind of persistent benightedness has rendered us party to these discussions so far into the ages as 2015? This is very disturbing!
Even with the 'government to blame', enough Biology papers have been written and thrown around to further authenticate the X-Y theories and one need only step in S.2 (or there about) to have this important piece of information at their finger tips.
I'd presumed that one of the basic duties of the media is to educate the public and not tolerate all gibberish (sorry troubled woman) for the sake of entertainment but I guess that was simply a silent personal opinion.
And amazingly, the people that wrote or called in with advice similarly mentioned nothing of the facts. The advice varied from short clipped remarks alluding to disfavor upon the woman, to blatant accusations of lack of love on her part to directions to a certain witch doctor on a certain sequestered island. All useless. All more ignorant than the question. As hilarious as they sounded, they only serve to add a touch of comic appeal to an otherwise ordinary one man t.v show.
I suggest that if a genuinely ignorant countryman shows up with a problem of the sort, you call them aside (off air) and whisper some science in their ears. This would go a long way in providing actual solutions to problems instead of confusing desperate victims and embarrassing those that apparently call in to 'advise'.
It also saves me the burden of ranting about it on my blog. I could name 1000 bigger problems that honest viewers have, which could sound catchy to my impatient ears, and this day's problem wouldn't make the list.
If anything, the man, and not the woman should be the one to make the desperate call and seek our wisdom, but I suppose you know these facts already and I suppose you can agree with me that love for one's husband is not implied in the numbers of bouncing, healthy boys one bears for him.
Read, share, comment, follow me @sauyakauma on twitter and go educate the nation.
[presses publish and runs off in search of a heavy gun]
Saturday, 8 August 2015
My Visit to the Dentist
Never let it be said that I didn’t warn you; that I kept all this wisdom in and didn’t advise you. My trip to the dentist was as harsh as they come. I thought I looked sweet and nice enough and that the dentist might forego a full blown assault on my jaws and devise some smoother way to pluck out my molar but that didn’t happen. Oh yeah, this was no routine dental check up. I’m an African who lives in Africa and going to the dentist in Africa almost always literally means plucking one's teeth out.
Ever since I discovered that I might be chewing on one too many sweets and that a tiny hole was warping its way out of my last molar, I'd been putting the whole thing off. Obviously the situation might have been contained with cementing or a much less gruesome procedure if I’d acted earlier but then again, there’s never been a pretty story about any dentist procedures. And at the risk of facing criticism from my medical school colleagues, I stalled. I seriously hoped that by some God given miracle the problem would resolve itself, and so I continued eating sweets (read a whole lot of sweets and a few Cadburys)
Eventually I had to visit the dentist anyway. One more night with that spiteful tooth and I’d die-if you know what I mean. It didn’t go well at all. I mean the tooth is out and currently I have a gaping (although painless) hole at the back of my mouth but in hindsight, I probably should’ve listened more to my pharmacology professor as he went on and on about Lidocaine. It’s possible that somewhere in there he might have mentioned the pain that comes with that injection. Still I’m thinking that nothing in this world could’ve prepared me for this. The anaesthesia was totally effective, I’ll give it that. Nevertheless it’ll take a thousand men to give me that injection again. Hands down, the most painful needle ever!
For someone who prides herself on her mental strength and the ability to avoid embarrassment at all cost, I risked my soul. I couldn’t help crying. My pride, my ego, my guts, my very being, my everything-all lost at the hands of a dentist. You know what, that’s about it. I don’t have the brains to tell any more of this mortifying tale.
The advice: Never, under any circumstance go to the dentist, even the morning after is not all sunshine and happy days. Eat your chocolates, just brush five times a day. Be happily healthy and don't give this advice to anyone.
Tuesday, 21 April 2015
Unique Eats
Unique
Eats
It’s been a while since I wrote anything food
related but now it turns out food is all too mysterious. The other day it rained
fish in a certain place. Another time, a young woman landed, rather unattractively,
in a hot boiler of beans. She got a few burns and that story doesn’t end well.
Let’s not talk beans and fish though, let’s talk unique eats and the unique
peoples that make them happen.
A long time ago, when I was much younger and less cultured, I’d look through small spaces and peep at people. I had a friend,
Grace. Well, to be honest, we weren’t exactly friends but Grace let me peep at
her go about without much resistance. She was a tough girl, and although I knew
she’d have let me watch her make her snacks from a dignified distance, I was
happier peeping through the rails. Grace was tough. Earlier on at the beginning
of that term, I had unwisely questioned Grace about her snacks. Her reply was a
condescending glare before adding, in clipped tones, that she did not absorb
such ignorant questions. I stopped asking and the genesis of my peeping was
crafted.
It has started raining again and today I remembered
Grace’s strange way with grasshoppers, ensenene. In senior two, it wasn’t as appalling as
it seems this 2015 day. We used to gather grasshoppers at the security lights
around our dormitory. Grace, with all the skill in the world, would emerge with
the biggest prize on any given day. It had occurred to me that grasshoppers,
unlike white ants, cannot be eaten raw. I’d often speculate on how Grace
consumed her ‘raw’ grasshoppers in magic time but then one Saturday afternoon I
accidentally walked in on her as she performed her ‘magic’. Magic indeed, I
refuse to take those words back.
Grace would carefully place her grasshoppers
between two sheets of paper and with a little salt and blue band, iron them to
readiness. To improvise for a lack of kitchen and proper equipment, the unique
mind of 15 year old Grace had found a unique way out in those tough times. She’d
open up the upper leaf and check on her meal every now and then. And when
certain of its edibility, Grace would fetch two slices of bread; place the
ready insects between them like the perfect sandwich and iron just a while
longer. Looking at the grasshoppers shoved in my face every day by hapless
vendors, one wouldn’t tell the difference. I can even bet Grace’s ironed
grasshoppers taste much better.
A classmate of mine was excited with the knowledge
that people eat common house rodents and yesterday we were arguing about the
trachea barbecue that is a normal delicacy in Katanga. Both times I’ve smiled
knowingly and thought not yet, nothing
beats Grace yet.
But seriously, why in the world do the people of Katanga grill cow trachea for food?! It’s not hunger; please do not say its hunger.
But seriously, why in the world do the people of Katanga grill cow trachea for food?! It’s not hunger; please do not say its hunger.
 |
| grilled trachea that i picked up online, i assume you can understand my reluctance at flashing my camera in katanga |
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
All Hail The Kampala Thief!
All Hail The Kampala Thief!
My early youth has suffered some calamitous feats. Some unspeakable humans have gone out of their way to make it impossible for me to live, and such times have been a little more than a few, and maybe I’ve had a last laugh on many occasions but this man, he was a thief; a professional little lying thief come to nibble away at the joy of youthhood. Perhaps if I’d met the young man with the fake diamonds a day earlier, or the middle aged woman who claimed that I had accidentally jumped over some juju planted for another, a week before all this, I wouldn’t have fallen prey. I would have been sharper, and ready to fight for the people of this world.
To save face, I was young, probably wild and free too, but definitely young and quite gullible. On one of those rare nights that I craved a nice and cold creamy yoghurt from Tusky’s, fate had other plans. I could estimate that he was in his early thirties and he must’ve mentioned that his name was Moses (I’ll take Moses). He looked lost and he said as much. The road on which we met was deserted but then again, it was just around the corner from the supermarket, and we were in clear sight of many of the shoppers; most presumably I wasn’t risking this precious life of mine, or so I thought. He asked for directions to a hostel I knew and politely, I directed. But as I did so, he ever so reluctantly (‘sagade kugamba bino naye since oli muwala wampisa, let me tell you’) indulged me in a tale of his many exploits in the city and far beyond; of his magic that could smooth rough feminine faces in an instant, of products and cosmetics that were too effective it was beyond anyone’s understanding. Now I’m a curious young woman and it is this curiosity that led me to stand and listen to Moses even when every fiber in my body screamed ‘run’. It is curiosity that made me gladly agree to Moses’ suggestion that we needed to move a few steps further into the darkness from where he could tell me more about the spells and charms that made people rich over night. All I could think of was asking him to try out his stuff on me so that once and for all, I could discover the very tricks that made women and a few weak men bestialize the men of this city. I was a vibrant youth looking to annihilate all the evils of earth. My ego was untouchable and my wit, unchallenged. But the Kampala thief is a cunning one; brave and wily, yet gentle and patient. And he was polite enough to constantly remind me that I didn’t have to pay him until I’d achieved whatever it was that I sought. “Nyabo nze sili mubbi, ndi musawo, sikusaba sente paka nga omazze okufuna kyoba osabye ba jaja”
“But if you think I’m lying I can try it right now” he added.
Rather too eagerly, I said “okay, so you’ll cast a certain spell and money will magically appear in my pockets?”
“Ahh ah, awo ateh mba nnimbye, naye mu 24hours, omuntu agenda kuva eli nga tomumanyi oba nga omumanyi akuwe buwi sente”
I guess this sounds convincing on any day. I wasn’t paying a dime and well, even if things did work and a bountiful stranger handed me free shillings, where in the world would Moses find me for his payment? I was more than athirst for the wisdom behind the much talked about tricks these cheating sons of men use. I told him to start right away. He folded a small piece of paper, put it in my right palm and asked me to close it. He recited some unintelligible incantations over my hand and assured me that the jajas were ready. The paper was supposed to reappear in my left hand for the process to be called successful. Moses went about his recitations for a whole five minutes, wherein he produced a white handkerchief. I opened my palms and my jaws literally fell. “Where’s it?” (I hope I did mention cunning)
There was no sign of paper. Not in my hand and very certainly not on the ground around me. My eyes were open the entire time, so if this was magic, evidently I had chanced upon true magic. He nervously explained that the disappearance of the paper meant that something had gone terribly wrong and it had to be corrected or I’d meet an early death. Correction meant walking back to our starting point alone, without looking back, as he held onto my few possessions. I had to argue with him on this. A more than considerable distance had been moved and I knew with every bit of my humanity that I was being conned but the fear of death has substantial power over mere mortals. I moved a few feet and decided to steal a single doubtful glance back. Moses became so hysterical with rage that he made me restart from the beginning. I said a silent prayer and quite confidently moved away from the man that held my jacket, yoghurt, coins, paper money and my dear, dear phone. (Don’t you dare cringe your face at me reader!) He’d stripped me of all except the clothes that I wore and when,so far away from Moses, I finally gathered enough courage and turned to face my impending doom, he was, indisputably, gone; disappeared into the night leaving me distraught and unbelieving. The anguish that I felt that night and the days that followed after, could very possibly, match the respect that I have for that one thief.
Tuesday, 24 February 2015
Mmm...I love the craze
Mmm…I love the craze
Election period, that’s my topic for tonight, my perfect rant. Alright, that’s a horrendous start! I think I’ve quickly plummeted to rock bottom in the writers’ guild (if such a thing even exists). But true, I love election period. The bands that cram the streets of my little town at unjust hours of the night don’t agitate me one bit. The hordes of students that in these times remember to showcase their love for the university make my otherwise dull evenings come alive. I particularly love the logistics (read obscene amounts of sweets, candy, and more sweets). I anticipate these from months back and when the time is right, my outstretched hands don’t disappoint in the amount of goods they gather.
With that awkward preamble, I’ll start my story <shaky smile emoji>. Last year, I decided to insinuate myself in the political workings of my college. With filled application in hand, a reluctantly issued sum of shillings and logistics, I was ready. A small group of well wishers started my campaign as soon as I was approved and it was quickly obvious that I’d win, or so I was informed by some very polite people. The campaign period was a hectic one that mostly involved long days of incoherent speeches and dishonest manifestos. My camp advised that if every man bought a packet of ice green, the election winning move was to show up stronger, with exotic chocolates or in a worst case scenario, truffles. I chose the latter without a second thought. Exotic chocolates my dusty Musoga foot!
For voting day I wore a brilliant smile and a tight pencil skirt. Like a young office enthusiast, it was pressed uncomfortably to my skin. My logistics were carefully tucked away in the heavy hand bag that I dragged on my arm throughout the entire process. We had made a few placards to entice the very last one of all lingering votes as they made their way to the polling station. The rest of the plan was to squeeze my left eye in a horrible wink all afternoon as I handed out hard earned candy to my enemies.
Every now and then I drew out a handkerchief to wipe sweat. There was no giving up, but that’s the beauty of elections. It reminds me of soccer to say the least; be it your day or not, come rain or sun, snow or hail, one ought to smile and cheer. The boring details of this afternoon culminated in several rounds to the washrooms and eventually a public vote count that all candidates and curious students were allowed to witness.
Let me begrudgingly state that, irrespective of what that your sports-fanatic friend might have shared on a certain long match day, excitement, together with anxiety and uncertainty isn’t the best combination at any one time, on any day. My palms were particularly sweaty as the last of the votes was counted and by this time my brain was entirely vacant. My camp assured me in subdued whispers that all was well. Apparently leadership is God-given and God had gifted me many times before.
I lost, by a single, devastatingly elusive vote. The shock of this rendered me motionless for a humiliating moment until my well wishers went up in a thunderous uproar, contesting the result and demanding for a recount. I rejected the idea. How much more humiliation could a girl handle? If the actual loss was by a landslide, how could I explain away the previous ghost votes?
I bravely stuck around the station for a while to receive some pity messages but sooner than later, sorrow gave way and like a discredited cartoon figure, my shoulders slumped, I bowed my head and slowly made my walk of shame. Away from the haunting, gawking, oppressive eye of the public, I might have cried a few tears.
Winning an election, I was informed, comes with uniquely rehearsed social language and an even more uniquely selected style of dressing. Middle heeled shoes, slightly ill-fitting grey skirt suits and one conservative hair style, are the ideal fashion choice for a political hopeful. My failure to master any of those must have cost me votes.
Election period, that’s my topic for tonight, my perfect rant. Alright, that’s a horrendous start! I think I’ve quickly plummeted to rock bottom in the writers’ guild (if such a thing even exists). But true, I love election period. The bands that cram the streets of my little town at unjust hours of the night don’t agitate me one bit. The hordes of students that in these times remember to showcase their love for the university make my otherwise dull evenings come alive. I particularly love the logistics (read obscene amounts of sweets, candy, and more sweets). I anticipate these from months back and when the time is right, my outstretched hands don’t disappoint in the amount of goods they gather.
With that awkward preamble, I’ll start my story <shaky smile emoji>. Last year, I decided to insinuate myself in the political workings of my college. With filled application in hand, a reluctantly issued sum of shillings and logistics, I was ready. A small group of well wishers started my campaign as soon as I was approved and it was quickly obvious that I’d win, or so I was informed by some very polite people. The campaign period was a hectic one that mostly involved long days of incoherent speeches and dishonest manifestos. My camp advised that if every man bought a packet of ice green, the election winning move was to show up stronger, with exotic chocolates or in a worst case scenario, truffles. I chose the latter without a second thought. Exotic chocolates my dusty Musoga foot!
For voting day I wore a brilliant smile and a tight pencil skirt. Like a young office enthusiast, it was pressed uncomfortably to my skin. My logistics were carefully tucked away in the heavy hand bag that I dragged on my arm throughout the entire process. We had made a few placards to entice the very last one of all lingering votes as they made their way to the polling station. The rest of the plan was to squeeze my left eye in a horrible wink all afternoon as I handed out hard earned candy to my enemies.
Every now and then I drew out a handkerchief to wipe sweat. There was no giving up, but that’s the beauty of elections. It reminds me of soccer to say the least; be it your day or not, come rain or sun, snow or hail, one ought to smile and cheer. The boring details of this afternoon culminated in several rounds to the washrooms and eventually a public vote count that all candidates and curious students were allowed to witness.
Let me begrudgingly state that, irrespective of what that your sports-fanatic friend might have shared on a certain long match day, excitement, together with anxiety and uncertainty isn’t the best combination at any one time, on any day. My palms were particularly sweaty as the last of the votes was counted and by this time my brain was entirely vacant. My camp assured me in subdued whispers that all was well. Apparently leadership is God-given and God had gifted me many times before.
I lost, by a single, devastatingly elusive vote. The shock of this rendered me motionless for a humiliating moment until my well wishers went up in a thunderous uproar, contesting the result and demanding for a recount. I rejected the idea. How much more humiliation could a girl handle? If the actual loss was by a landslide, how could I explain away the previous ghost votes?
I bravely stuck around the station for a while to receive some pity messages but sooner than later, sorrow gave way and like a discredited cartoon figure, my shoulders slumped, I bowed my head and slowly made my walk of shame. Away from the haunting, gawking, oppressive eye of the public, I might have cried a few tears.
Winning an election, I was informed, comes with uniquely rehearsed social language and an even more uniquely selected style of dressing. Middle heeled shoes, slightly ill-fitting grey skirt suits and one conservative hair style, are the ideal fashion choice for a political hopeful. My failure to master any of those must have cost me votes.
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