The Meeting

I’ve heard your pals claim that they found me in pubs, bars and the occasional kafunda, but come on, I’ve got more class. It has been my experience from time immemorial that our first meeting usually takes place in bed. People wake up to me. Sometimes, in very inexplicable circumstances, I have competition in the form of a male or female that came home with u and is now looking at you like you spiked her drink.

Okay, I may turn up in some unsavory places like ditches or Mama FIna’s Sips and Swallows, but I can’t be held responsible for your taste in accommodation. To be fair, I’m not as demanding as the broad or dude that’s trying to kick us out.

The start of something special

For the most part I lay dormant, even after you open your eyes and profess to the world that you don’t know me. It’s not so much that I can’t be arsed to fight for recognition, I just happen to believe that good things come to those who wait…so I wait. Then finally, I come with reasonable fanfare, usually accompanied by nausea and a headache. I didn’t ask for this entourage, but surely if you’re okay with the Ewww De Toilet that you’re giving off, my crew shouldn’t be a big deal.

Relationship status; Complicated

For whatever reason you decide that you don’t want me around, don’t you love me anymore? Or is this you playing hard-to-get? I think I get it, you have heard stories from your friends about how we were intimately involved and now you can’t believe you’ve got me. Don’t let that come between us; we have a good thing going. How many people are as comfortable with an open relationship as I am? Go on, do your thing, I’ll be here. Whoa, that was brief.

The break up

I don’t know whether I should feel insulted or flattered that you have no problem discussing me with my Exes. Actually, when I hear you ask how they got rid of me, I have a clearer picture of how I should feel. If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have me. Let’s face it, we are both adults, you knew what you were getting yourself into. For some reason you think I’m hydrophobic and attempt to flash me out with water. I don’t know who insinuated that I’m a vegetarian, but for whatever reason you really took to that chicken soup like preventing the rapture depended on it. Don’t get me started on Katogo.

Let’s just be friends

Fine, fine, I finally relented and left. Sure it took a while, but I thought we may have stood a chance. I wonder whether you ever think about me, whether you feel bad when your friends talk about me. Do you miss me? I don’t have to wait long for an answer, I guess, because we both know you will come looking for me again.

You’d think moving to a new place would mean a fresh start, right? You’d think wrong. See, my lifestyle may have been upgraded somewhat, but my immunity’s still a bitch.

How was your Christmas Day? 

I got off to a decent enough start. You know, the sporadic load-shedding that suggests someone at the power company is sending you signals by Morse Code.  Apparently you can’t sue ‘em because of something on every bill that indemnifies them. I think it’s the bit at the bottom where they tell you they will disconnect your power supply if you have not paid up by the time the silly uniform has walked through your gate

Then there was the rain.

Whoever goes around blessing the rains down in Africa has not experienced a Christmas shower in Uganda… or is some sick perv. I’ll let you think about that for a bit before you pass it on to the Red Pepper’s Hyena as one of your own. 

I woke up to bad weather, but it was okay. Sometimes Christmas means more than that.

Then it kept raining, like someone was trying to prove a point.

And then, just in case I couldn’t take a hint, it rained some more.

I felt a little, I don’t know, off-ish, so I skipped the beer and the wine, figuring I’d go see the doctor and follow through with my traditional self diagnosis thing…

It didn’t work. 

I thought I had Malaria. I didn’t.

They thought I may have Typhoid. I did.

It’s been called the poor people’s disease and I think that’s a pretty dumb thing. (Oh MJ, why did you have to go??)

I asked the doctor what options were available, secretly hoping that there was an injection that they could administer that would magically make it all go away. Seriously, I didn’t care where that needle was going to be stuck, provided I was fit for thirty first (yeah, take that one too).

There was an injection, but it was one of those intravenous (read; drip) things and I would;

1. 1- have to endure about 15 minutes of drip drip action (thing is, they’d said that my blood test results would be ready in 10 minutes, then proceeded to walk the dog and bring them back after 30. Clearly they were liberal with their minutes, there was no telling how long I would be in union with syringe)
2. 2- feel very very nauseous after all that. I’d gone to bed feeling like if I put my mind to it, my walls would be covered in a new coat of ewwww.

So we settled for pills. Actually, that’s a lie. The lady with the certificate really wanted to give me the injection, but I politely declined. Even her pleas that I take one “starter dose” was met with a well practiced, soon to be perfected shake of the head.

She said it was alright and proceeded to write out a prescription for me. Between you and I, I’ve been to pharmacies that stock less drugs than the stuff that was on that slip os paper.

Oh, and it would take me way past New Year’s day. Naturally, I asked the most pertinent question at the moment…

“So, can I drink?”

she: drink what?

Me: alcohol

She: what alcohol do you usually drink…

I paused for a bit here. I have never thought of myself as a rigid drinker. Do I infact have one particular poison?

Me: oh you know, er, uhm… *cough cough* beer… whisky… the usual

She: You can drink wine

Me: Huh.. what?

She: What’s wine made out of?

Me: Er… fruit

She: There you go

{what the heck is sambucca made out of… isn’t one of these drinks made out of jackfruit? You know the one… the thing that tastes like funny scented glue}

I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong. Come on, you saw THAT coming.

The lady in charge of dispensing the drugs made a show of the whole thing, it felt like I was back in primary school;

“This one is 1 times 2. Strictly after meals”

This was, in fact, written on the little medicine pack.

“You take one, eh. Two times a day. After you have eaten food.”

I think that’s what the pack had written on it, but shit, what do I know? I have Typhoid…and a pair of eyes.

“So, if you take one now, you take the next one after 12 hours… after food.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Does that then mean that I should take 1 two times a day after meals?

The math lesson went on with all the drugs and a part of me felt really bad that none had to be administered with every bowel movement. I’d have wanted to see how graphic she would get. 

“Kati, let me go to the toilet and then come back and swallow this medicine…you get?”

Obviously, I sought a second opinion.

My other doctor, the one I would have called Dr. Favourite if I was Carrie Bradshaw or one of those happy males that watch Sex & The City, said I was on the right track. Except for the Ibuprofen (whoa! I got the spelling right, bring on the Spelling Bee). 

Apparently, my stomach was going through enough shi… stuff as it was, throwing in a drug that had some acidic tendencies was NOT going to do me any favours. So I asked whether I could take my personal favourite; Zerodol. (How is it that Microsoft Word gives these things the green light, but is quick to throw squiggly red lines under Eid?)

Oh, and as to the question to end all questions, yes, I can drink one or two beers. After all, I need my fluids, right?

Man, I love the Hippocratic oath.

So anyway, the black out…

When I was moving in, I carried the notion that this side of town had ministers and such, so I wouldn’t have to worry about the forces of darkness striking. I was wrong.
The reach of Minister’s Village is limited…and ministers have generators and inverters.

I relied on the light from my phone, as it kept dropping hints, suggesting its calling did not extend to illuminating my life. It’s battery was not so charitable. Where my phone merely implied that it didn’t want to help me, the battery realised what was going on and chose right then and there to quit.

Fortunately, I found candles. Long blue, icky-feeling candles . . . that smelt oba-how. They also had an annoying habit of blacking out after a while. The housemate later told me that they are insect-repelling candles. I guess candle lit dinners have got that going for them.

Speaking of…

The housemate does exist, just not often enough. It’s been suggested that I might have actually fabricated the whole thing. That I have a beautiful mind and he is a figment of my imagination. The thing is, it is sort of true. I do have a beautiful mind, but I know he exists and intend to issue proof of some sort as soon as he gets back.

Evil in diapers has since taken a sabbatical and won’t be bothering me for a while. I really don’t know where he went, but I’m not one to question a good thing. I now know the meaning of peace and quiet…and it’s no thanks to the new pillow. I’ve tried to break it in, but it seems to be having the upper hand in this fight.

My neck can’t take this stuff anymore.

Not because I can’t do it myself, but because I don’t have the time, I had someone bring some cleaners over. They did a so-so job with the clothes {I suspect if I’d left them out for a couple of days, the combined effort of the rain and the wind would have done a better job ridding them of Friday’s sweat (no one sweats before that. FACT)

Also, I think the cleaners used my toothpaste. Scratch that, the thought conjures up images of some random person using my toothbrush as well.

Let’s say they ATE my toothpaste.

Meanwhile, I’m in the market for cheap food. Cheap as in, ‘inexpensive’. I’m tired of contributing towards the take-away next door’s paint job, I need something else. Their food is not bad..as such, but my fries seem to be going through a rough patch or generally react badly to cooking oil.

Does anyone in the Ntinda massive know a kikumi-kikumi joint I can put on retainer?

I’ve briefly considered fluking meals at my friends’ place in Ministers’ Village, but getting a hold of them is just too much work. I miss the old days, when people walked to school and showed up unannounced at your doorstep during mealtimes.

Man, I miss the 90s.

My housemate has not been in since I got there. I think he was picked up and taken to the home for crazy people. I thought it might have been a business trip, but let’s be honest, which business trips go on for more than 3 days? A pleasure trip, maybe? Nuh, not likely. In these harsh economic times you can’t even enjoy pleasure trips that go on for the whole night… I mean nights out on the town…

There’s {'there are'… stupid autocorrect} other things that suggest that he might have been crazy. Like the sim card. There’s an abandoned sim card lying somewhere in the kitchen. That’s not the part that worries me. Sim cards are abandoned all the time. Thing is, this particular one is shaded blue…violently.

At first glance I thought maybe he was trying to save a contact’s number with considerable difficulty, but as I tried to make out name and digit, the truth came at faster and harder than a Ugandan pothole; he was trying to switch to another network!

I suppose I would have felt betrayed if I didn’t feel sorry for him. Maybe that’s why the people in the uniforms came and took him away…wait, do Butabika staff wear uniforms? Do they have a little van that goes weeeewoooooweeeewoooo as it comes to pick up people? Can we afford stuff like that?

The gatekeeper is extremely helpful and eager to please… too diligent even. When I was moving in, I made the mistake of leaving the movers (read; rogues) with my ‘balance’ or ‘change’ as I went round back to lock up the house. When I came back, gate dude had oh-so-helpfully let them out. Leaving me in a very Uganda government situation a’la No change. Guess who will not make it to my facebook friends list.

Of course, I felt the need to share this bit of misery with someone. All I got for my efforts was a Ugandan interpretation of the philosophy, “Karma’s a bitch”. Thanks. Two more strikes and you too will be unfriended. This time I will go easy on you, I won’t give you a Christmas card. {Hey, neat, Microsoft Word knows to turn the ‘c’ in Christmas into an uppercase letter. Does that work with eid…nope. Damn thing doesn’t even recognize the word. Infidel! You will pay for your deceit}

{Hang on, Ngoni are still around? I’ve just noticed that Luzinda Desire was tagged in a poster for their zouk performance at club 9 degrees… Zouk? 9 Degrees? Why don’t they just go over to Congo and put a nail in that career’s coffin. And yes, Luzinda Desire and I are Facebook friends. This was way before I realized that she was friends with at least 5000 other people. She probably won’t even read this}

So anyway…

New place has a kitchen, but the landlord’s either a cheapskate or has a morbid fear of electricians if the dead ‘bulb holder’ is anything to go by. Housemate told me that the landlord has vowed to get that fixed…along with the shower handle…and the doors and the other sockets, but for some reason he hasn’t gotten round to it. I don’t get how you can possibly mess up a ‘bulb-holder’ with this level of precision.

It actually looks like someone took some time to **** this up. We are talking, buy a ladder and a metallic file kinda time. Your best bet with the state this thing is in would be to employ someone to hold the bulb in place as you walk on by or invest in some electro-friendly superglue. It beats my understanding that Word has no issues with the word Electro-friendly, but it will dare throw ugly red-death squiggly lines under Eid.

On the day I moved, the neighbor’s kid came over to help me carry things into the house. In hindsight I think the little devil may have schemed with the movers to make off with my change, but I digress. Evil In Diapers must have thought that this made him and I buddies and that if he was willing to help out with grown up stuff, I would reciprocate and pitch in with kiddie games such as, throw dirt into the washing water as adult did his laundry. This is clearly a relationship that’s got no future.

Especially if his grammar does not expand to allow more words into his life. How long can a person live on ‘look at this one’ as conversation fodder? I should trade words with his teachers or whoever it is that gifted him with these almost patronizing and entirely annoying four words.

During the day time, I noticed it, but it took coming back home late to fully appreciate just how annoying it is to have a gate door ‘this’ small. No, really. I could kneel in an attempt to go through and still manage to bump my head. Granted I have a big head, but THAT’S a small gate! Only Evil in Diapers can walk through unharmed. I suspect even the gate can’t be arsed to deal with him.

There are two routes to my place, both with their share of potholes. When I’m asked to give directions I go with the more scenic hunger inducing route, “It’s near two pork selling joints. Call me when you get to either. It’s advisable that you order some pork as you wait for me. Pork”

The Boda-boda guys haven’t gotten with the program yet and still think that they can get away with charging me like I’m going upcountry yet all I’m doing is going up the road…then down, then up the road again. Its like a bad Chaka Demus and Pliers song/experience.
 

You may not believe this, but I went to Primary School once. I think it’s what people on the other side of the ocean call Elementary School, but, moving on. I went to primary school and I too had the privilege of sitting for my Primary Leaving Examinations…and, as it is now, my generation of candidates also had the system fuss over them. Looking back one question looms in the recesses of my steadily greying grey matter.

It’s not so much, why did I need to learn how to arrange stuff in Alphabetical order. I really think that may come in handy some time. It’s not even, ‘why exactly did I run away from that girl when all she wanted was for us to hold hands?’ And it is not, believe it or not, “were they real?”

Far from it. My question, my bane of contention is, ‘what was the big deal?’

If you have had the opportunity to traverse through this great nation’s education system, you know that on the days that ‘candidates’ sit to do their Primary Leaving Examinations a strange thing happens. It’s probably not a big deal, but on those two days, time.stands.still. Everyone else is barred from going to school.

Well, they would be barred if they really gave a shit about studying. So let’s call it what it is, a holiday.

It’s also an anomaly, but that’s a story for another day.

So for two days out of the whole year, P.7 candidates run the show. They are given the keys to the… whatever you want to be given the keys to when you’ve got all that power in your hands. In their case, to the DH/Lunchbox?

I seriously don’t understand why life has to come to a standstill just because kids have exams. Don’t get me wrong, before P.7, I was grateful for the two days off (less grateful for the stupid homework, what’s the longest river in Uganda? Are you kidding me? That ain’t mental stimulation, that’s bar talk!) But looking back, what the hell was that about?

Let’s be honest, P.7 kids no matter how old they are (and they can be pretty old) are not that important. They are not going to fight for world peace, they certainly won’t pioneer stem cell research in Uganda and they will not lead this country…neither will a couple of 40 year olds, no matter what stage of their academic journey they happen to be traversing.

This stuff’s a recipe for disaster. You hand over such self-important sentiments, there’s no way a person won’t move around with an oversized ego. Shit, business doesn’t come to a standstill when he releases an album, but look at Kanye.

At this age, the biggest concern falls along the lines of, “where will I find a Nintendo PS3 or Xbox 360”. Is this really all it takes to earn people their freedom? Going to the bush doesn’t even get the rest of the country a day off. A day!!! And here we are celebrating TWO days?!

These are the guys that will absolutely eat-up a trans-day disco (my understanding of this is that it’s basically a party that goes on from 11am deep into the early hours of the afternoon) so clearly, they can’t be accused of being that old.

Is it because these guys are the most susceptible to ‘cheating’? Is that why the whole school is cleared? We wouldn’t want junior to be told what the longest river in the world is, would we? Come on! I know grown-ups that have a hard time helping kids out with their homework. It’s absolutely safe to leave them lurking around in class. Heck, I’d sooner clear the schools for O’level and A’level exams.

You can’t claim there’s suddenly a need to give people some time out. Anyone can attest to this, holidays just keep getting shorter. So clearly it’s not an act of benevolence… the crappy homework you’re sent away with on your little holiday proves this.

If you’re going to make them feel this important you might as well give them all the protection they need when they cross over to secondary school (or drop out) and start taking the piss just because they (think) they can.

We have an explanation for why cooked food should not be given to kids in school. We have very flimsy reasons for the whole ‘girls should not have long hair as they study’ thing, but no one has explained why P7’s can run the show during examination season and every other candidate has to make do with TERM X.