Ugandan men’s legs and our other Ugandan secrets

Last week, a war broke out between the East African Community, okay, there was a South Sudanese, a Kenyan and a Ugandan. The war was about the bag. The Ugandan man (you should guess who) had failed to carry the woman’s bag. Then came a Nigerian man, he offered to carry not just one but two women’s bags. Now the war extended to West Africa. What is this thing with Nigerian men and playing service above self? Do they know our issues with women’s bags?

There is this satisfaction women have when men carry their bags. It is like a win, a big win, a transfer of power. But then, there is this inherent fear in every man as he imagines himself carrying a woman’s bag. What could fall out? What am I losing? What grounds have I ceded? Every man has a phobia associated with carrying a woman’s bag. But not a Nigerian man. Why on earth would this Nigerian man muster the courage to carry not one but two bags? Until now, the battle of whether to carry or not to carry is still raging. It has become a lacuna!

But then came someone, another elder that said in the African society, there is no lacuna. On this very basis, DNA is attempting to create a lacuna out of thin air. Paternity tests have never been our issue. We have always had our ways, not the ‘western ways’. We could tell by simple features, by the heads, by the toes, by the behaviour. If one family is known for loving the bottle and the child grows up to the contrary, we need no further confirmation of belonging.

We could be in a struggle of ascertaining if we are the real father to our children only to realise that we may not be the child of our father. It can get complex. We are opening a can of worms; one we may never be able to close. Because if you traced everything back to origin, you would find that we belong to different tribes, different fathers, some could even belong to different mothers. The rule has always been clear, what you do not know should not harm you. Ignorance is bliss.

Ignorance is bliss, that is why I have a problem with men and revealing their legs. A man’s legs should only be revealed in the confines of the bedroom. They are a cacophony of coral reefs, plateaus, valleys. In statistics, you could call this leptokurtic. Against this background, where do men find the courage to wear everything short? Do you see those hairy spikes? Do you see the risk you bring to the male gender? We are dealing with numerous threats only for you to add this horror of the men’s legs. God must have had something against men. Now it gets worse with men who go to the gym. You bulk up in all the other places, only to forget the legs. Have you seen that unbalanced equation? An improper fraction! When it comes to secrets, men’s legs should be added to the list. Dear fellow men, do not reveal this secret of ours.

Speaking of more secrets, have Ugandans revealed their economic secrets? How do Ugandans do it? I know we all follow Professor Eddy Kenzo. That is why we spend more than we make. You see, every Ugandan earns a salary. But they spend and invest more than they make. No one tells you how they do it. That is their secret. Ugandans will never reveal how they balance this equation. Somehow everyone knows, but no one can mention. How are people organising pompous weddings? Building marvellous houses, driving fuel guzzlers, all on such skinny salaries. If this is not a miraculous secret, then what is it?

Everything in this country is a secret. The network in this Kampala is a secret. Who is dating who, who has dated who? We are all related in this country. In one way or another, by some process, by some theory of connection. That is why we should never open the can that is Uganda’s secrets. Like all Ugandans, I have not read Obbo’s book, but I suspect it alludes to these kinds of secrets.

And speaking of more secrets, someone last week revealed even a bigger secret. They accused me of not fitting the East African archetype. Apparently in East Africa, there is a signature forehead. That we are all united by our foreheads, our true passport. My mother used to call my miniature forehead; ‘kyenyi bukuku.’ It thus turns out that in one week, I have had an African war, been cast to West Africa and I have stumbled on the secret of East African foreheads. No more secrets to reveal!

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