Stuck between Kyabazinga’s do and Uganda’s pussy riot

There were days in this Kampala. There were such days that pertained to going to Shimoni Demonstration School. We who went to Shimoni were the equivalent of ‘we who went to Budo.’ We knew we were not ordinary. Shimoni was more than a school, it was an idea, a culture, a movement. You went to Shimoni to learn everything, you learned about the people for they came in all kinds. What would you expect of a kid in a population of more than 1,000 every day? 

It was always a world of chaos and order. But Shimoni kids always triumphed. I meet them everywhere. Sometimes, we meet at the same old spot where Shimoni stood. At Shimoni, we needed no permission to run Kampala. We ruled the golf course, we ruled the parliamentary gardens and every skyscraper building in Kampala. Then the government got the opportunity of the visiting queen and Shimoni was dealt a proper blow. It was the kind that a cow gives off with its hind leg, the one we call – Tonzililanga. 

So why Shimoni? Shimoni features today because as with all systems in life, you need a god parent. It is the god parent that introduces you to rooms where you would otherwise not be allowed entry. The godfather prepares a ka small chair for you at the table. At Shimoni, my god parent was my elder sister, a one Bushirah. And so Bushirah summoned me to Gayaza to play my uncle duties and officially welcome the newborn baby. She suspects this baby will have features of the uncle. From the eye the baby gave me, it is on a plan to even outdo the uncle. Of course, yours truly also got to play the role of muko. And that is how all the trouble began. Because hardly had the muko received his chicken than he was served a bucket load of those products that cause men to reveal secrets. 

But luckily for me, I revealed no secrets. Instead, the gods revealed some secrets to me. Deep secrets. About everything in this country. I could have called myself a ‘mutula ku ngo’ or some other kind of scary name, the ones associated with the great African prophets. But before I reveal these secrets, I will also express my concerns, serious concerns. 
I need an explanation from Busoga Kingdom as to why I have not been found deserving of a wedding invitation. I expected that of all people, I would be at the forefront. Of course, there is the fact that I am a royal, despite my pockets and size creating contradictions. 

But once a royal, one always is. I have also dedicated most of my working years doing nothing but paying taxes in Jinja and nearby areas. If you remember ‘we who went to Eskom’ and ‘we who go to Nyege Nyege’, we deserve the first cards. We could also proceed to claim other things. 
That an invitation to the wedding is also proof of our sojourns with the other beautiful things that come out of Busoga. This is an ultimatum, that if everything fails, if no invitation arrives, Sheilah Gash and I are fluking the wedding. And you know how we turn up people. You know how we do.

Speaking of turn-ups, the country was on fire. On fire over seeing the things we all wake up to cover, except that some few stubborn girls woke up and decided to cover less. Ugandans always get clever when it comes to such topics. We fail at everything, but Ugandans will never fail to make a submission when it comes to how people choose to use their bodies. Every Ugandan always has an opinion, and not just one, but they will even spice it up with good theory. 

A few argued that the events of the weekend were a successive continuation of the good work started by Eva Mbabazi, and Tracy Bora.  
That Karl Marx had prophesied about this contestation between the proletariat and the bourgeoisie. That there would come such a time when capitalism would break up due to its internal contradictions. 
As a Jungian and Freudian, I too agreed that there was more to this brunch. It was not just a brunch; it was a launch of the new torches of freedom. 

When Edward Bernays wanted to create a market for cigarettes among women, he found a way in packaging cigarettes as ‘torches of freedom’ and the rest became history. 
Many years ago, and so recently I have told kikalayi mates that the weapons of the next revolution will not be guns and people going to some dense forest. It was the kind of argument that should have won me something (if only the country had been serious). 

But the events of the weekend have emboldened my upcoming theory, that what is happening in Uganda is, but a replica of what Pussy Riot did in Russia. Ugandans have found new ways to rebel, and perhaps make money while at it. Uganda is in a riot with weapons owned by everybody. It is the revelation of these weapons that is shocking us. Those, my friends, are some of the secrets the gods of the drink revealed to me…

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