Ian Ortega
Part 1: Seeking a political party
I am on a hunt for a political party. I have a checklist; I seek a political party embedded in the realities of the country. I do not want my political party to pretend about anything. I want everything to represent the rawness of Uganda. For example, in that political party, it should be legal to bribe, to tell lies to voters, and to bring in family and friends into key positions. Although every other political party seeks to take over the big office, the one I desire should ask for only one thing – a piece of the cake. “Ffe bwebatuuwa akaffe” they can take the rest. All we want is our share. My political party should not espouse a grand ideology. Just one simple slogan – ‘Ono alya, n’oli alya…’ In this party, I desire a crude party president. One who does not beat about the bush. We could even establish a voting market, with the ability to trade votes around contestants. But that will come down to my party president. If anyone has leads to this political party, I would like to belong. No more platitudes. Just a raw political party. Okay. No curation.
Part 2: Woe unto the romantics
I would have swallowed all the ills and flaws of Kampala, but the one I cannot fathom is that it is not a city for romantics. I am talking about the good old romance, the one that gives those slow burns, the one that is born of yearning. We have about nine romantics in Kampala, six of those do not cut it because of their skewed interpretations. That leaves only three romantics in Kampala. It is the three of us who have been left to bear the burdens of this city. We are the place that holds broken hearts. We are the strawberry moon that gazes at the lovers’ clasped hands. Where others speak of flowers, we speak of the petals, the crests of the Dahlia petal. To be a romantic is to have both a gift and curse.
Where does romance live in Kampala? Nowhere else but in our hearts. In those late-night calls, where we promise each other positions in government and then dare the other to switch off first. We are those slow breaths, we are those playful people zigzagging on streets, painting the gift (is it the curse) that we hold. Again, since the money has come, the government needs to allocate something to the romantics. At least, the romantics should be exempted from paying taxes. We must be protected; the romantics will soon be extinct. See that man’s album (it is a crime to talk about it), it has everything, but it lacks the touch of romantics. It lacks intimacy, the soul. It is bland.
Part 3: Functional depression
In my other world as a psychologist, I have come to some conclusions. The men in Kampala, are experiencing a quiet desperation. It is one borne of a deeper suffering, of the functionally depressed. You see, the men in Kampala wake up, rush to work, then they seek the big releases. And then they are back to an obsession, then hiding in a bottle or a skirt. Not that the bottle or skirt has an answer, but it is the hiding place. Now, these 'your' men in this city are functionally depressed. It is the slow realisation that they will never hit their true peaks. Which man hits their true peak in Kampala? They disguise this with some Hilux. Well, every man in Kampala peaks with a double cabin and a village or resort project.
Beyond that, nothing. Other men choose the route of the official side chic. But I argue that it is all escape, it is all functional depression. There is a ka-void. People will say men do not talk. But Kampala men talk, they talk but there is no way out of their talk. The only way out is to hide further. A bigger double cabin, pork ears, an upgrade of the whiskey and some new house party theme. I have a challenge, tell me just one Kampala man, just one that you can argue, has fully peaked. The curve for Kampala men just never gets there, the arc faces downwards so early. It is that slow, quiet desperation, that functional depression, that endless hiding. The Kampala men are not angry people; something has pushed down on them.
Postscript: Why is it that everyone these days is chasing nonchalance? Do they not know that cringe is the beginning of new worlds? That to be cringe is to be human, to be undiluted. Why is everything for curation these days? Even the homes. Bring back the homes where the children have used crayons on the walls. Homes that have human flaws written somewhere. You can even see ko an ant in people’s homes. And then the old money aesthetic, mbu quiet luxury. These things cannot be bought off the shelf. They are embodied identities. Slow down, that aesthetic cannot exist in Kampala. For ours is new frightened money, it is panicky.
You see, the men in Kampala wake up, rush to work, then they seek the big releases. And then they are back to an obsession, then hiding in a bottle or a skirt. Not that the bottle or skirt has an answer, but it is the hiding place.
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