Good, bad and ugly of the maiden flight

First, the grammar bit. Passenger (supposedly a noun): a person who gets excited about a chance to dine with the Class of 86 but later cries foul.
We don’t mean the one who knelt down and invoked the majje upon the nation only to cry that mafia had her in the crosshairs.
However, just so not to give ideas that we know so much about her, lest some overzealous cops might think we are the ones holding the alleged dreaded nudes. Substitute majje lady for excited chaps onboard the plane who take photos of the soiled cabin and share on social media.
Anyway, until Tuesday, we didn’t want to use that word, passenger. But now it is out for all to feel, like passing wind at the dining table. You can’t hide that, even if you fart in instalments. Just like we couldn’t hide that historic puke.

For all I care, the English noun ‘passenger’ has its origin in Old French adjective ‘passager’ – ‘passing, transitory.’ Derived from passage.
After borrowing the French word in the 14 Century, the English turned the second ‘a’ into an ‘e’. Not done, in the 15 Century, they dressed it further with an ‘n’, thus confusing our rookie booking clerk.
It’s their second biggest crime on Uganda after they discovered Source of River Nile that we had known since Abraham impregnated his maidservant.
We are lucky the poor chap who drew up that boarding pass didn’t spell Bombardier as ‘bobadia’.
“The plane is going to start running, she is saying fasten your seatbelt,” said the chap next seat as he indicated that a flight attendant was speaking.
Trouble is that many first-timers don’t want to be noticed. They gel with camaraderie and make it look like they have helipads in their bathrooms. That is how nobody paid attention to those things of showing ‘passangers’ how to buckle up, use the envelope, the oxygen mask or even floaters. It was all selfies and merriment.
I have to confess that it was also my first time flying Uganda Airlines or a plane for that matter, although I once fell victim to witchcraft by boarding a bus that was made to fly.
Kagame is clever, he named the buses ‘Airbus’ to give an impression of something dope. And dope, we would go. I didn’t mind. I have roots in Nebbi where the culture of Abiba is well documented. People fly, so why not buses?
When the Rwandans decided to fly the bus in the air, I didn’t object since I was curious to know what a bird’s view of a typically well shaped Nyaru damsel would look like, not that I had seen them from earth view anyway.
Anyway, like in the Jaguar Airbus, I saw chaps refuse to fasten their seatbelts. When the pilot said something that translates to “at ease,” the big man of the occasion came into the kayola section to mingle with bazukulu.
“Ndugu, I hope she is not with us,” someone said. It was a government official whose seatmate was sulking in his isle seat for not being in ‘first class’ section of the ‘Bobadia’.
‘Who?” a voice called back.
“Man, that girl of UTL and mafia talk. She might ask for audit of this plane and the seats before we land.” Someone laughed. I didn’t.
Then they started serving. And that is when it happened. No, not the puking.
“Mumaaso awo, Ssebo,” shouted a lady. She will sue for defamation if we empty her identity here.
Everyone stared at her. It was like that moment when a respectable suited potbelly man is seen fleeing from Butabika with mental therapists on his heels. As if to confirm what she had said, the lady added: ‘Gwe conductor, naava awo. I can’t sit here anymore, it’s like a bar full of waragi. My God doesn’t allow this.”
By the way, I was in Jinja when all this didn’t happen.