A Glitch?

A Glitch?

Somebody tells me it's called glitching in the cool world when your brain can't comprehend momentarily. And I'm guessing we’ve all experienced that incredibly ridiculous moment when we "glitched". Once, I read the word ‘safes’ as sa-fe-z before realizing they were talking about hidden jewels all along. Not so long ago I saw the word ekidduka on a mechanic's flyer on a taxi window and I was left mystified. Why the aggressive negativity? I wondered. Why refer to people's shops with such viciousness for someone seeking business? Then again, why did said shops need a mechanic? The word was ekidduka though, not ekiduuka.
Maybe you’ve failed to spell the word girl at one point? Or maybe you’ve just failed to fill up a sentence with that familiar term that you use on a daily basis.
It happens all the time and it is even acceptable to have those occassional glitches in brain function. But to altercate with a madman, that is a very curious form of glitching
We call them balalu in my tribe. Whenever someone yells "mulalu" in Lusoga, they do not refer to the metaphorical madman-the friend that loses their mind and wears mismatched Bata slippers. No. It is almost always a certainty that the mulalu reference is directed at the dirt coated, haggard looking mister with peeping bums and unfortunate hair.
So this man I met, he was a mulalu in every sense of the word. He had aimlessly stumbled infront of my boda boda in Iganga town. After a long day on the road from Kampala, I didn’t see the obvious mulalu-ness in him. I almost, almost wished his negligent bottoms had been knocked down as I jumped off the boda boda to save my head. Whoever it was was going to see the end of this. Somehow boda boda man brought his bike to a screeching halt and turned around. Somehow he could tell I was about to embarass myself. Nervously, he smiled and said, “mulalu".                                        “Ofcourse mulalu”. I shrilled. It had to take a mad man to saunter through the heart of traffic at a round-about. But my reference was metaphorical. I still couldn’t register his haggard nature and stunned look. (I effected a stunned look in a madman). He was probably stunned because noone had dared to stop and directly address him. I knew being in Busoga was an advantage to drive my point across; my grievances were going to be understood at all cost. Lusoga it was then.
I’ve seen shock written on the faces of men before but nothing compares to the looks on the faces of the people that had gathered around to witness this spectacle. It was a long minute into my beautifully executed Lusoga tirade before I noticed that something wasn’t right. My boda boda man had whispered the word mulalu a few more times during the diatribe but none of it had hit home. Then a woman on my right laughed, “mwanaiwe mme oyo omulalu katyo...olowoza oti aliitegela nibyolikoba. Wejiile buje.”
And that’s when it came to me. That’s when I realised what was going on. I knew I had only a minute to retrieve my dignity from wherever it had flown to and convince this crowd that I wasn’t insane. They had to know that I was as composed as I looked. The madman blinked at me then, presumably out of his shock, and took a bite of the mango I had arrested at his lips when I launched my speech. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered to him for lack of a better way to rectify the judgement on my sanity. He blinked once more, murmured a few desultory words and ambled right across the round-about. The crowd had quickly dispersed. I never got a chance to redeem myself with them so I merely smiled and bounded onto the boda boda again.

True Hustle: What It Is

True Hustle: What It Is.

The other day I had a very good laugh. The kind of laughter that wells up inside your cheeks and turns you into an embarassing shadow of yourself. The sort that has you behaving incoveniently; banging tables, wiping tears, gripping people's arms and producing animalistic sounds. I was stamping my feet so hard I thought my soles would wear off. I laughed hard because I made a new friend who taught me-in the most comedic way possible-the true meaning of hustling.

When it comes to hustling, you can not simply claim you're a hustler. You can not brazenly start your success story with, "back then I hustled...". First and foremost, think very clearly, have you earned the right to claim use of that word? Do you understand what it is to hustle? Is it a pronoun? Is it a verb?

The new friend I made, a self-professed expert on everything 'hustle' changed my whole perspective on this matter of social import (Im assuming it is) and like a new born being ushered into the world of accurate knowledge, I was educated and I'll pass some wisdom on.
If ever you're faced with one of two choices in the middle of town on a hot Monday afternoon, to either eat too much at the cheapest restaurant so you have adequate energy to foot home or to forego that meal and use the money for transport instead, that is a true definition of hustle.”

If you can effectively bargain and drop a shoe price from Ug Shs 90K to 25K in a matter of five minutes or less and in the decisive moment right before the salesman intones "kale sasula", you realise the extra 10k you thought you had in your pocket was spent on laundry the day before, and it's all you had but you willfully vow that your dignity will leave that street side unscathed-which it does-then my friend, you're a qualified depicter of true hustle.
To hustle is to know when to deliberately-and without suspicion-have lunch at 4.30pm. In the event that evening tea and supper are hard to afford, such wisdom should come in handy.

Hustle is what gets you braving the tropical heat and coming out a shade lighter at the end of it all. It is what has you calculating the equivalent bags of cement in a cute ensemble of cake tiers at a wedding reception.
Hustle is what has Bad Black thriving in her current situation. She made news before prison, promised to make even more news after, came out looking unrecognisable and still kept good on her promise. That is a true hustler.

But if you're the man who, at his own wedding, takes it upon himself to usher guests in and serve food, to mcee and make speeches having done away with groomsmen and bridesmaids, having picked out one of his old suits and a pair of old shoes for the ceremony, having insisted that his bride wear her one-month old pair of middle heeled shoes from kikuubo, having placed a dozen cup cakes at the central table instead of a real iced wedding cake...if you're that kind of man, you are no hustler. You are not deserving of this prestigious term of black men. What you're doing is B.S (Im censoring this word). That is no hustle and that sort of man doesn't deserve a day in heaven.

And apparently, a 5 years' experience in 'hustle' before marriage is an added advantage for the woman or man contending for the position of life long partner, for better or worse. Such experience would guarantee a wrinkle free life, happy children and happier in-laws.”

Quick Thoughts On This Year's Valentine's Day

Quick Thoughts On This Year's Valentine's Day

If you must insist on going with the flowery options then I suggest that you employ an operatically poetic endeavour. You should buy her the rose garden and keep it watered. Do not buy roses or flowers as single bouquets. It is too hot. If you buy roses or flowers as single bouquets, they'll wilt before they ever make the ostentatatious statement  you wish them to make. Before they are an imposing reminder of you everytime she stares at her window sill, the flowers will've become a sad black mass of withered petals. So don't buy flowers. Don't get chocolates either, you'll be sorry. They'll be a melted mess long before they make their way to her. Again, it's too hot. And Valentine's day-the eternal stitch binding love sick hearts together as one-won't survive this heat. The fusing of red hearts with black ones might not, after all, produce instant love, peace and harmony.
Or maybe that's just my pessimistic talk. And apparently, "if you do not honor Valentine's day, then you're not romantic enough. You're not deserving of everlasting flourish in the sparklier gardens of earth...you shouldn't know of the overwhelming love that pours forth from its bosom...you deserve a lonely despair-plagued end...et cetera et cetera."
But Valentine's day is on a Sunday, which doesnt bode well with the working class. What's the point of believing in magic if one can't enjoy it well past midnight? What's the point of a holiday if one can not get a valid day off work?
What's more, seeing as Uganda looks impressively 'war torn' with the UPDF roaming city streets in anticipation of elections, it is a little too intimidating to run around gift hunting-this, by the way, is my excuse to any hopeful valentine out there. It's even much harder to assume the role of someone's valentine when (still blaming the army and heat), your heart can only handle as much pressure as humanly possible, but it is what it is.

So happy valentine's day!
P.S: those flowers are cute, that's all

Of Holidays and Resolutions.

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!

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.

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.

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]