One night in a kafunda

“Ngenda kutta ekiro ky’aleero [I will kill you tonight]” a man roars from across the room.
Startled, I turn only to behold two men grunting as they take handfuls of each other’s clothing and attempt to wrestle each other to the ground.
The taller one, with a bottle in hand, strikes the other, who is momentarily stunned and drops to the ground.
Unfinished, the taller one follows. However, six pairs of hands roughly seize him. With a little gurgle, he is escorted out staggering.
It is 12.37am on a Saturday and all this is playing out in a dingy bar near Wilswere Hostel in Kyambogo, a Kampala suburb.
Blood flows profusely from the injured man’s forehead as he is helped to his feet and ushered through the wide exit.
“They are fighting over a woman,” mutters an old man seated next to me. He grins, and puffs a cigarette.
“See that woman over there,” he adds, pointing at a skimpily dressed curvaceous woman standing at the counter.
“They thought they would take her home, Hahaha… the idiots.”
He suddenly chokes on the smoke from the cigarette amidst the laughter, starts coughing endlessly before he too, exits the room. I am left in the corner with a bottle of beer for company.
Outside loud music blares; the speakers have been placed outside to attract customers.

A feel of the place
Old men and women and a few youth, stream in and out, some in couples, others single.
I nervously shift in my seat, beginning to feel out of place not only because of my age but also the realisation that I was over dressed for the night.
Clad in a blazer, tight fitting black long sleeved shirt and jeans, I huddle in my corner unnoticed by the bulging crowd.
The people I am seeing are not the usual corporate smartly dressed gentlemen and women in places like Panamera or Club Venom.
Rather, the fashion here is shabby, ragged and pretty much what you would consider the downtown merchant fashion.
This probably explains the large number of boda bodas parked outside the bar.
At one point, a heavily dread locked man – probably a Rastafarian wannabe – walks in smoking, and within minutes a strange scent fills the already stuffy room. He’s definitely not smoking a cigarette of the tobacco variety.
There are about 15 people in the small room seated on benches while others are on plastic chairs.
A few pace up and down with beers in hand, while the older ones slump in their chairs, with several bottles of booze on their tables and sip from large alcohol mugs.
For a moment, I am taken in by the scene; the dreadlocked man at the counter, the couple in the secluded section, the laughter, drinking games, and the lady across whose loud voice peaks above the loud music.

Company comes calling
“Hello, can I join you?” echoes a voice from behind me, startling me.
It is the beautiful woman from the counter. She eases into the seat next to mine, left vacant by the old man earlier.
“My name is Esther. I noticed you were alone so I thought I could join you,” she says sweeping her black hair over one shoulder. She then turns to me staring me right in the face with a smile.
“No problem. Please do,” I respond, also introducing myself as Sam – a fake name of course – since I dread revealing my real identity.
She lolls her head to one side, pursing her red lips just a little. She is not drunk yet but I presume, by her demeanor, she likes to give the impression that she is.
She has a dark complexion and gleaming lovely eyes.
“Sam, can I have a drink please?” she whispers.
I am taken aback by her boldness, however, as she is the only lady that has held her own alone this night. I concede to her request.
“Yes, of course you can,” I say. She signals an attendant to come over.
She twiddles her hair and giggles before ordering a half bottle of Uganda Waragi. I am immediately slapped with a Shs12,000 bill which I pay hesitantly.
Baffled by her audacity, I wonder at what kind of person she is. I had heard stories before, of young women that prostitute themselves in such places. I silently pray that she is not that kind of woman.
“So, where are you from Esther,” I ask.
“I am a student at Kyambogo University, studying for a Procurement degree.”
The thought crosses my mind; ‘this procurement student will procure things till my pockets empty tonight.’
I smile at the irony of her course and my prevailing fears
It seems she had practised drinking with allure and mastered the art of seduction.
She always made sure that with every sip on the waragi glass she turned to me biting her lower lip in a slow enticing way.

The dance floor
Suddenly, there is a loud thud at the counter which takes my attention off the mysterious Esther; it is a drunkard making an order.
“Hey!” he calls, “Mumpeku ka, ‘iskey. [Give me a Whiskey].”
I excuse myself to use the washrooms. The bartender directs me to a small toilet on the outside which I find so dirty, that I decide not to use it.
‘I can hold on till home,’ I reassure myself.
As I walk back to my corner, I stumble upon a pot-bellied man, with the loud woman. They have taken to the dance floor. She wiggles her waist as they dance to Jose Chameleone’s Wale Wale song.
She then kicks her right foot forward, exposing her big feet in sandals, pulls it backward before kicking out the left foot, like she is kicking an imaginary football. The pot-bellied man follows suit as they dance to the beat. It is as hilarious as it is fascinating.
“You like dancing?” inquires Esther as I return to my seat. She pulls out a cigarette from her bag and lights it.
“Yes I do,” I mutter quietly.
The smoke she exhales form curls in the gloom, illuminated by the speckled bar lights.
Unfortunately, being a non-smoker, I usually quickly get uncomfortable around people that do.
“Esther, I have to go, it is getting late,” I note as I get out of my seat.
“No, no, no… Please do not go. It is still too early. It is just 2am,” she pleads, tagging at my left wrist. She looks shocked and frightened by my sudden action.
“I’m sorry dear but I have to. I have work tomorrow,” I re-assert and pull away.
“Can I at least come with you?” she says.
“No dear, maybe next time,” I add, scared I might draw a harsh response. She however lets me go and bids me farewell in a sad tone.
As I exit, I notice the dance floor is like an accident scene. There is tiny bottle shards everywhere leftover from the earlier altercation and subsequent shoddy cleanup.
There is a stench of beer everywhere from the spilled alcohol drink. I steal out of the hot room, with beads of sweat running down my face.
It is 3am, and the cold night breeze couldn’t have been more welcome, than it is at this moment.
The kafunda may not have an ideal ambience but its liveliness was a break from upscale spots that tend to be a little too formal. Now I know where to go for a dose of drama in the night.

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