Far away in a land called Kiuganda

There is a forgotten land sitting snugly in the middle of nowhere in the heartland of central Africa. I hear stories that trickle out of that place, which neighbours the green, unspoilt land famously referred to as the Pearl. The green land of plenty is my home, the one I know and remember. 

Far off in Kiuganda though, health workers are always on strike and the few people who still care about their jobs are worried that a certain racket is about to steal their hard-earned ka money which they have spent years slaving away to save. 

In that godforsaken place called Kiuganda, robbers have perfected their art. They will waylay you on the highway and if you are not the kind to carry bags of money after dark or refuse to carry cash that can be stolen in a daylight robbery, they take it straight from your bank account. 

Some young people have tried to escape that difficult place but they were stopped at the airport by mean-looking officers who demanded hefty sums of money before they could let them catch a departing flight. Some of them looked on with tears streaming down their cheeks as their only chance at economic salvation flew away.

People in this land often take unpaid vacations to God alone knows where, without alerting their relatives, which causes massive panic. Some of them return with long, unbelievable tales. Others have not been seen since. People, young and old die at the hands of wizards and pastors alike, in what is described as human sacrifice. 

Regardless of how much and how long the citizens of Kiuganda cry out to heaven to save them, this vice refuses to die. Only their people continue to die. Life can be really hard in some parts of this cassava republic. 

Recently some people there were reportedly going without food. There were efforts to send them some relief. Along the way, someone decided they also needed better shelter. Their Parliament passed a budget to provide them relief items but as we speak, there is a massive hunt for the seeds and iron sheets which were meant for the vulnerable people. 

Word on the street is that some of the items could have gone to some already well-to-do officers in a scenario that resembles a plot from the popular Kinauganda movies that have gained quite the reputation in the region. 

Some people in that land have started boycotting the news. They don’t want to read newspaper columns like this one because they say it is causing them depression. They do not want to become part of the millions of Kiugandans who are already suffering from mental illness. In any case, there might soon be no one to treat them because I hear that one of the schools meant to train tutors for psychiatric officers has only three tutors.

I think these people who are dodging the news in Kiuganda are onto something. I may borrow a leaf from them one of these days because I have started hallucinating about the good, old days when schools provided good quality education at low cost and teachers spent more time teaching than striking. 

Once upon a time, Kiuganda was a land of plenty for everybody, not just a few. It more closely resembled its step cousin the Pearl of Africa. The airport of that country was a place of pride, not oppression and the people of that faraway place were not forever looking over their shoulders in suspicion, wondering what man-made calamity was coming at them next. 

Angella Nampewo is a writer, editor and communications consultant     
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