Hawks and eagles in charge of the chicken shack

“You Basigyi in Kampala, yeah, things could be much worse, yeah! But you will never understand, yeah, for you cry about poverty while you carry sacks of shillings under each arm, yeah, and a bag of rice in each hand, yeah! “You cry about load-shedding, yeah, while your noisy generators and power convertors smile like forgotten spouses in the dark.

Dear Tingasiga:
The rains have let up a bit and the men of Mparo, Kigezi, have gathered again at their favorite watering holes. The women have spent the entire day tilling the land, fetching water from the distant springs, harvesting food, cleaning the homesteads and worrying about their children’s future.

As the Sun rapidly heads west to spend the night behind the giant hill that never smiles, the women quicken their pace, for they must cook for their men, feed the children and prepare to receive their husbands.

The men have had their fill of omuramba, the traditional alcoholic beverage made out of fermented sorghum that weakens the joints, loosens the tongues and blurs the vision. They stagger home through the muddy and treacherous paths, alert to the witchcraft laid in their paths by their creditors, in-laws and imaginary enemies.

The Old Man of Mparo, perched on his wooden recliner, is entranced by the golden glow of the departing sun’s rays. He nurses a gourd of obushera, a non-alcoholic beverage from sorghum, which some Bakiga men consider a drink for women, children and the impotent. He hears a familiar voice of a man singing the blues, and cranes his neck to decipher the words of the drunken poet. Presently, the voice gets closer, louder and clearer, and the Old Man recognises the man orikuteera omurengye (singing the blues).

Had he been born in a country that valued and promoted its musicians, Bitanyagurika Mwene Kabeeshekyere would have been a world class blues shouter, in a league occupied by folks like America’s Blind Lemon Jefferson, Joe Turner, Muddy Waters and Jimmy Witherspoon.

Bitanyagurika, affectionately known as Bits, is a gifted singer, composer, poet and political commentator, one who only needs the help of alcohol to turn on the tap of creativity and oratory that has made him an influential leader of sorts.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” he sings. “People are crying about hard times, yeah, but somebody tell me what they are crying about, yeah! People are wailing about budget re-allocations from hospitals to State House, yeah, somebody tell me what it is all about, yeah!
“You Basigyi in Kampala, yeah, things could be much worse, yeah! But you will never understand, yeah, for you cry about poverty while you carry sacks of shillings under each arm, yeah, and a bag of rice in each hand, yeah!

“You cry about load-shedding, yeah, while your noisy generators and power convertors smile like forgotten spouses in the dark.
“You Baitira who gave me a great wife, yeah, I don’t know why you cry about the economy, yeah, the hospitals and schools, yeah! For if you were like me, yeah, you would have nothing to cry about, yeah, for I have never had anything, yeah! “You cry poverty, yeah, I live it, yeah! You dread the future, yeah, my present is dark and hopeless, yeah!”
“You whine about fuel, yeah, I don’t know what that is, yeah! You cry about money, yeah, I have no debts, yeah, for who would lend a shilling to one who cannot pay back, yeah!

Bits stops singing. The Old Man’s heart quickens as he orders his grandson to hurry to the road to check on Bits. The young lad finds Bits emptying his bladder against the tree that marks the path to the Old Man’s house.

The lad hurries back, and Bits staggers into the compound. He immediately launches into one of his most eloquent commentaries on the state of the nation. “I have been hovering between tears and laughter,” he begins. “I heard from someone that Gen. Salim Saleh, the brother of this country’s ruler, had proposed that the corrupt be forgiven their crime and allowed to keep the loot.

“Had that come from a drunkard like me, I would have laughed it off as the rambling of one under the influence of a potent brew. But coming from one of the chief architects of the fundamental change under the 10-point programme, I fear that Uganda has become unhinged kabisa!
“In this country, a chicken thief will rot in jail. A barefooted pickpocket will be beaten to death. Yet the president’s brother, who may well speak for our ruler, seeks to protect those whose massive greed has denied us the dignity of citizenship.”

Bitanyagurika recites the numerous corruption scandals by the leaders of the fundamental change. “Uganda Commercial Bank, junk helicopters, URA, Valley dams, Congo gold, Copper rivets, Global Fund, Gavi Fund, Nssf/Temangalo, Chogm, OPM…..”

The old man interrupts him. “I cannot believe that you know all these scandals by heart, Bitanyagurika,” the old man says. “I may be poor, but I am not stupid,” Bits replies. “I may be drunk but I am not a fool.”
Suddenly, Bitanyagurika bids the old man goodnight, resumes his blues and staggers into the darkness. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! The hawks and eagles are in charge of the chicken shack, yeah, yeah!”

muniinikmulera@aol.com