The plagues have hit Kampala: What a Ramadhan!

Everything that could happen, has happened. The night is no better than the day. The clothes cannot keep on. I check the temperature, it is at its lowest. When did 30 degrees become the lowest? I check the rest of Uganda, there is only one place to run. Kalangala. That is the place you find the lowest temperature now.

Air conditioning was a luxury, now I am mooting the idea. Of owning my first AC at home. This could be a business opportunity. Sell fans, install ACs in home. Remember that song. Yes, I want to drop it like it’s hot. But the mind cannot even think straight. At night, I am attacked by the temperature and the mosquitoes. I have tried everything against Kampala mosquitoes. These chaps are hardened.

The citronella candles work no more. The wall plug works no more. I am afraid, I will have to retreat to the mosquito net. The mosquitoes have succeeded in imprisoning me. If only they could save me from the sounds. I hear, it is to do with my blood group. No wonder, I cannot gain weight. Gain which weight when mosquitoes feed on me every night. Now the temperature has entered the mix.

As I deal with that, my girlfriend drops the famous question; ‘hun, mum asked about you. Mbu when are you going to see her?’ Eish, as she guilt-trips me on that, I look for a ka-quick 50K to bribe her. You know, it is all about small bribes. She knows the game. I know the game. Money answers all. But does it? I cannot sleep at night, mosquitoes and temperature. During daytime, it is potholes and the dust. You cannot even loiter around in this sunshine. I should return to the swimming classes. It is hard to learn things when you do not pay tuition. My brother must have given up on teaching me. At least I have a signature style, I can comfortably do the back float. I can swim-signal.

As I deal with this, I remember that I am now an entrepreneur. I must keep setting up the meetings. And say nice things to people, tell them the things they need to hear. Hype up their businesses. Show them the potential, so they release funds. Anti-consultancy. Let me stop here lest the editor thinks it is a kalango.

Then comes the TikTok nights, that war, Simanya Jenkins and Spice Diana. I remember Spice Diana. Her song introduced me to my first night life. Those days, I sneaked out from home and went to Victoria bar or whatever in Kireka. They played that ka-song. ‘Baby boy onsanula.’ I later learnt the girl was Spice Diana. Fast-forward, she has dusted herself. She drives a Range Rover. And Jenkins mbu is hating. I am following the TikTok war, I keep shifting sides.

My Muslim friends are bold beyond compare these days. Not even a ka-hiss, that our friend, come let’s have some Ddaku. Twabakola kki? My late grandest father, Hajj Bwana of Lukuli used to give us lusaniyas every evening, it did not matter. But you people of these days, what has happened? Are you protesting? But does any one still understand Uganda?

I check my WhatsApp, and there is a new wedding group invite. Banange, do not take me speed. Hold that thought. Hold it for some time. I have nothing wrong with legalising romance. But eiish, you see even MK movement is going mpola mpola.  But I have a clever thought; I think Kampala is the new Egypt. God is trying to lead his people home. You know we have like these different plagues all hitting us at once. The potholes, the dust, the heat, the confusion, the people jumping from one relationship to another. The only thing working right now in this city is Baraka and Etania. Okay, even your dear columnist is working. You know, only two exceptions. But which people is God leading home? Will God find any people to lead home in Uganda?

There is one other thing working – that Azawi song. I think Azawi foresaw these times. She spoke of ‘masavu atte nga gookya.’ She had this Kampala weather in mind. Everything is scorching away. Sometime back, it was cloudy, and misty from morning to evening. Now it is hot. There are so many potential businesses, like a public cooling point, one can sell perfumes, this is also the time to become a climate activist.

But in all this suffering, I cannot contemplate the life in Najjera. Why would God hate this one segment of people to such an extent? Potholes, apartments where you see into another person’s bedroom, and that ka-bar that never closes. If you wish to practice for Hell, go live in Najjera. Me that ka-place I have never understood it. I pass it only for reminders, to know that although I am suffering, there are people in Kampala that have it worse. Najjera noooo!

Twitter: ortegatalks