The kimenke lurking within every Ugandan

Where do we start? With Uganda Airlines, right? It was a Sunday. The flight was scheduled for 10am. As usual, we did the three-hour drill where you show up earlier. ‘You will board through Gate ummm at exactly 10am, please enjoy your flight.’ Time check? It is 9am. And where is the Airline? Well people, there was a technical issue. The flight would be delayed. Until what time? Wait, it will be delayed until 4pm.

Now if you are looking for a JKIA consultant, speak to moi because I did nothing else but explore every crevice that makes up JKIA.

“Is there no Nigerian among us? How come no one is making some noise?” I mentioned it to a friend.

Well, we became the Nigerians and guess that is how later at lunch, they provided us with some hot lunch. Then the Airbus arrived and we boarded at 4pm. As I write this, I still do not know my reaction. Is it to be more understanding of a young airline? Is it to hold them to a higher standard? I just do not know. And by the way, our muko, Taata Bukedea, shared in this ordeal.

Speaking Cindy and Sheebah. How could my lovely Sheebah fall for the trap? In this life, you never fight on unfamiliar terrains. To prove what? You do it your way. Sheebah should have stuck to her ground. Perform on a CD. Wait, that sounds like a short form for Cindy and the other things that protect Ugandans. 

But is there an abbreviation for Ugandans in Nairobi or perhaps for that syndrome of a Nairobi in Ugandans. Because there is this tendency for everything to become Nairobi this, Nairobi that. What Nairobi? Those Ugandans should just form an association and find an excuse to meet and discuss their syndrome.

Now, I killed another day to check out something, some cool place. I hear it is called ‘Ewa Amo’ until you realise Amo is Amodoi. Ugandans and shortening things. Nakamatte becomes Naks, mbu simanya Muki. Well, as I headed ‘Ewa Amo’ little did I know that Kampala’s potholes come in categories, in stages. The potholes in the Industrial Area must be Stage 4 potholes, the advanced stage. Because they left me traumatised. That is what today I cannot help but say everything. I survived those potholes. They could have swallowed me. Only to reach ‘Ewa Amo’ and she breaks my heart; “gwe that road is fine, it has just been worked on.” Am I going crazy? What is fine about that road? Apparently, they reduced the depth of the potholes. Naye Kasyate! This is how you have confused us.

By the way, I missed something. A traditional wedding of the year, some two chaps, one known as Daniel and another as Maggie. Who is next? Why are people leaving us on the streets? Is this the best way to reciprocate for all the days the streets held us? Some of us are planning to stay here. Because it is safer here. There are no surprises on the streets. You get what you expect.

And that brings me to the thing I planned to say first. Days ago, the Mexicans unveiled some remains of extraterrestrial life. But surely, are we not all extra-terrestrials? Within each of us, there is some alien lurking within, there is a kimenke waiting to be freed. There is a kimenke that occasionally wishes to shout in a meeting; ‘Ezo story za Jabba.’

And there is a kimenke that knows the only way out is to live by the ‘ki-bully’ lifestyle. Because Kampala is about the ki-bully way. You must force your way out in most things. People never allow you to join a road. You force yourself onto a road. Ugandans never queue. Everything is for holding your ground. Because imagine Uganda Airlines had just kept quiet until we insisted; ‘mwe bagundi what’s up?’ Okay, let me stop lugambo. Those people compensated with that ka-waragi.

But do not you all believe if we each released the alien within, we could make some things happen. Like that corporate friend who claims to have built a mansion using their salary savings and a ka loan.  Corporate people and your ‘bi stories’. They do not add up! Or you are about to tell us how you went into duck farming. Ducks really? Apparently, duck eggs are bigger and they are on demand in South Sudan.

I had many things to say. Let me say, the slave farm was still the slave farm. The slave was still the slave. And the master still played master. It did not matter what slave farm you worked at; you were still a slave. Slavery would never end; it would only change form.  Whatever you do, you are still a Ugandan. The only way out is to become a kimenke. Whatever you do with these words, it is about the school you attended. Some of us, we were schooled by a Kigozi at Shimoni. Okay I needed an excuse to kubonga on people such as Kigozi and Buuka. Can all the bimenkes shout aloo…

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