That man is me. And this is how my most humiliating public incident unravelled.
Dusk was approaching when I crossed one side of Nizam Road in Jinja Town to the other. There is this alley between buildings that I figured could lead me to a shop I was rushing to faster. A panya route of sorts. A few metres into the alley, I saw it.
A nice hijab or sharia or whatever they call that dress for Muslim women, was draped on a mannequin. A matching khimar (headscarf) covered the head of the mannequin.
That’s all I really saw as I approached the mannequin and decided to feel the texture of the cloth. Then I tried to adjust the hijab from the mannequin to see how loose it would be. This way I would tell if it would be modest enough for my PLT (pretty little thing) wife to not look like she is wearing a blood donation tent as an excuse of a garb.
As I loosened it, I felt a panty line and thought, oh, this boutique owner even dresses the mannequin in undergarments. Then my hands moved down the hip of the mannequin. Something wasn’t adding up. This mannequin was soft and fleshy.
Curious, I raised my head to check out the mannequin to confirm that what had happened in the slightly over 20 seconds was real. But I had no chance.
The head I was lifting to check the mannequin’s took in a horrendous slap. There were flashes all over my eyes. I thought I had been struck by lightning and instantly expected a thunder to follow.
It did. The kick caught me on the lower legs. I toppled over. What I had mistaken for a mannequin in hijab was not done. She charged at me more viciously now. And as bad as misery can pile, this time she was joined by two men who appeared to be itching to turn someone into a gym equipment.
Tears welled in my eyes. That was bad enough, only that fate was not done with me for the day. Some idiot appeared to have camped in my head with a whistle that he was blasting like a Dyna truck vending Kadongo Kamu music CDs.
Instinct did the rest for me. I scampered for my dear life.
I emerged into the next street from the alley with a thud. I had tripped on a pumpkin on sale on the veranda this side. But at least this time there weren’t two burly men and an enraged or rather ‘molested’ mannequin of woman kicking me like every kick accounted for a tax and rent discounts for their business.
I darted across this side of the street and once I felt safe, I looked back to be sure the mannequin of a woman was not after me anymore. She wasn’t, only my skin was puffed around the eyes.
I’m a very superstitious bloke. I’m sure my terribly bad day started in Kakira where I had gone to see some other bloke, who was not home. Instead, I saw three genetically challenged fellows.
The first was a man in a kid’s body. Only his face betrayed his adulthood. He was vending tomatoes and looked slightly taller than a male Maltese dog standing upright.
The second was also a man, buying ffene. This one was taller with that body build like for Hubert Totoki Djouna, aka Dokolos, the dwarf dancer in Pepe Kalle’s Empire Bakuba.
The third was a woman. She was on the phone smiling and seeing her after the first two made me fear for the day. Maybe I should have bought tomatoes from the first one, shared ffene with the second and winked at the third to avoid the wrath of the mannequin that turned out to be a Hajjat.
Next time I approach a mannequin when shopping, I’ll be sure to first slap it hard to confirm it’s not another Hajjat baiting me to caress her hips. Or should I stop touching the darn things altogether, perhaps?