- Every Corporate chick without a car has one...
- Boda guys know secrets about their “clients”...
By Edward Nimusiima
Corporate girls are widely renowned for a horde of things; they behave like they are the reason for globalization, like the sun expunges from them.
They eat chips and chicken, and pretend to be allergic to rolexes (what is the plural for a rolex, by the way?) They hang around high-end places even though their wallets tell them not to. They date men, not every man though, but men who know where their lunch is going to come from.
But among other things, these girls use Boda-Bodas (commuter taxis with two tyres) as their main way of transport as they hop from place to place like grasshoppers. Many of these girls have no cars.
Of course they have no cars even though they post pictures of cars on Instagram. Cars cost three kidneys and a liver, and a really good smile. So they opt for Boda-Boda transport.
Every corporate girl without a car has her favourite Boda-Boda guy the way she has her favourite lingerie. A guy she calls when things are tits up (see what I did there). A guy she has on speed dial. A guy she smiles at before smiling at her boyfriend.
These lads are always at their service at the drop of a hat. When they call them, they drive so fast like bats from hell. They moniker them “ninja” names; pilot, Papa, afande Omala et al.
And when they are talking to these girls, they melt and so talk and submit to them. But you really need to cut them some slack, poor mammals!
But how much do they know about these lads? Most girls simply know their nicknames, if they are a tad curious, they will dig deeper and grasp one real name. “Musa, I am these ends. Come and pick me,” they will wail at 2:00 am after clubbing.
But they hardly know their number plates or their next of kin yet they trust them the way you would your close friend. Some of these lads know where the house key is being kept (under a flower vessel, at the window, in the ventilator, under the fourth stone from le et al).
“I have my favourite two Boda-Boda guys; Roger and Alex. One for the day and another one for the night,” quips, Sarah Murungi, a radio presenter.
“For Roger, he went passed being the mere Boda-Boda guy. He is now like a brother. I know his family. These guys are so helpful. They always take me even though I don’t have the money. They always come to my rescue,” she adds.
However, these lads are human; made of flesh and bones and unseen thingamajigs dangling from where the sun doesn’t peek. So, they are bound to do something.
They are bound to bear rabid teeth and bark at their proverbial bosses, you know; like, when things slither south, they seek solace from their bosses (you really need to sit and read between the lines here), which is inevitable really.
For Sarah Murungi, she says her duo of Boda-Boda guys have never bothered to cross the marked line. “No, they have never done anything to me. I guess it all depends on how you carry yourself around them,” she affirms.
Stellah Nimusiima, a Banker, says that she was forced to get a Boda-Boda guy because, well, where she lives, is allergic to taxis.
“I live in a residential area where the taxis don’t reach. One day, I was walking because my dad and mum had already left; I met this Boda-Boda guy. We bargained. Then amidst the way, we chatted a little and before I knew it, we were friends. He gave me his number. He thus became my resident Boda- Boda guy,” she says.
However, Stellah’s Boda-Boda guy is thick-skinned and had the stomach to air out his feelings.
“Last Friday, he asked to take me out for the concert. I refused. He asks me out on pork dates, but I can’t go with a Boda- Boda guy. No, not me.
About love? No, he hasn’t asked me for love, but he likes telling me that I am beautiful.” She says.
These Boda-Boda guys can be really dark hearted, at times. Some of these guys are retired thieves, knackered iron bar hit men, weary rapists et al.
So, when the sun goes to sleep and darkness crawls and covers the earth, the rapist in them raises its dreadful head and tells them to part-time.
Obviously, countless girls have been handed a plate of agony by these chaps. Nalubega Catherine, an IT personnel, narrates her horrifying encounter with her Boda-Boda guy.
“Truth is, I delayed at a house party with my friends. I got drunk a lot and I barely knew what was going on. My friends offered to take me back home but I turned them down. I don’t know why though. Maybe it was the booze. I called my Boda-Boda guy because he has always helped me out in such situations. He came.
As we were about to reach my place. the guy stopped the bike and forcefully tried to rape me. He tried to drag me down; held me and his pudgy hands dug deep in my flesh. I instantly regained my senses and shouted. I pushed him off and ran.
I guess he was scared too because he didn’t bother chasing me. That was the end of him. I saw him after like a month,” says Catherine.
She later distanced herself from these lads because, as she explained, letting them know you better brings with it consequences. They can break into your house, she asserts or do a regrettable thing to you.
The bodaboda guys
I talked to these brave souls. I swung at a Boda-Boda stage down below the navel of Kisaasi. They jabber a lot and crack tall jokes. I noticed him from a distance.
His name is James, as I came to learn. He stuck out because he dressed slightly different from his other three counterparts; smart with an oversized jacket, a well-roomed beard and cropped hair close to his scalp.
Now, James is conversational and acts like a professional, like he has a Master’s Degree in this job. Jason Statham in Transporter comes to mind. I asked him whether he sometimes ferries corporate girls. “Yes, obviously,” came the answer. “I have three girls I always take to Ntinda and Bukoto,” says, James.
Firstly, he said they liked the way he takes himself. Plus, he always delivers what they send him for in time without betraying them. He speaks English as though he had water in his cheeks. His English was limping.
“We always speak in Luganda, but when they switch to English, I always respond,” he says. He doesn’t try hard to impress them. He doesn’t know the spelling of Cologne. Hell, he doesn’t even know what Cologne is. Junk food, perhaps. But still, they like his services.
Maybe it is the way he weaves through the jaded potholes. Maybe it is the way he spews his witty words and serenades them along the darned journey. It could be the sofa-like cushion on his motorbike. Who knows?
These guys are a necessity, yes, the way soap, or salt or shelter is. But then again, take much care as you zero down on choosing who will drop you around as you wait for a car to drop from heaven.