Stranded at payment time
Apr 24, 2005
Museveni and I believe in justice. We would have grounded Okello had there been such a name at the Movement Secretariat linked to any missing panties or pens.
Museveni and I believe in justice. We would have grounded Okello had there been such a name at the Movement Secretariat linked to any missing panties or pens. We also believe the killer of Luweero peasants should be rested six feet under as soon as it is established who it was.
And that this ‘American’ girl –– the one who pissed all over my car seat, remember? –– should pay back for the specific and general damages.
Actually, she has been insisting on compensating me and I got worried. It meant taking her out to negotiate the paying terms, which always ends up eroding claimants’ wallets. And you know how the Movement people have let fuel and electricity disobey gravity to dangerous levels where even the Rover is forced to ponder; another beer and I walk home or a litre of thirst and I drive home.
When Glory, for that is her name, called to warn me that her time in Uganda was expiring, I invited her to Kembabazi’s Catering Centre in Naggulu.
This lovely place is upper class, clean, spacious and stylish –– one that gives an impression of being expensive but is really affordable. The name on the perimeter wall cannot be missed. You enter from the alternative gate because the main gate is under reconstruction to add value to the place. (I hope VAT people don’t run there). There are four ... (should I call them huts?) forming a diamond in the compound centre, each containing a bar.
Their muchomo is delicious. It goes for sh4,000 a plate. The spacious compound is rented for parties of more than 500 people and there is a built dais at one end of the green. On the other side, the grass beckons you to drink with your bum in contact with mother earth. Gloria loved the place and declared me romantic. She started asking me women questions like “how do I look?
I know women generally do not think of their looks in the same way we do. Take me for instance, I formed an opinion of how I look like in nursery school, which, back then, was the wilderness –– tending cows and playing ‘dad-mum’ with daughters of parents stupid enough to send their girls to graze cows or goats with us. I have stuck to that image and unless I am arrested for shoplifting or replace Pope Ben XVI, I don’t see chances of changing this image. Most men, I believe, think of themselves as handsome even when their name is Kasujja, the ex at the electoral commission who claimed his face can cause stampede in cattle at a range of 100 metres.
Obviously, I could have said she could look better but I said ‘great’ and she said I was lying. I insisted her eyes were like two shining stars and if she had been a house fly, it would be more like 2,038 shining stars –– that is me; very creative when there is a beer in my hands.
But she did not like the compliment. And what followed must have been a direct consequence of this comment.
You see, there was a birthday party on our left, full of only Dot Com youths dressed like Amanda’s Moonlight Angels and speaking the English of the future. They were in advanced stages of intoxication and fun, shouting, laughing, hugging and kissing each other as if there was no parent (me) around. Several puked in our clean loos forcing the workers to put on gloves and cleaning gear to unblock pipes –– working in pubs can be stressful!
At first I thought their fun would compel Glory into some form of competition but instead, it became an attraction. When I went at a distance to answer Mrs Rover’s phone questions about midnight and my location, Glory joined the Movement leaving me alone in FDC. When I returned, she was downing their Bond 7 whisky in non-stop gulps with her unbelieving age-mates cheering in unison.
I was disgusted because that meant another pissing in my car. Worse still, it also meant that I was boring her. She wanted a madder company.
Ends
And that this ‘American’ girl –– the one who pissed all over my car seat, remember? –– should pay back for the specific and general damages.
Actually, she has been insisting on compensating me and I got worried. It meant taking her out to negotiate the paying terms, which always ends up eroding claimants’ wallets. And you know how the Movement people have let fuel and electricity disobey gravity to dangerous levels where even the Rover is forced to ponder; another beer and I walk home or a litre of thirst and I drive home.
When Glory, for that is her name, called to warn me that her time in Uganda was expiring, I invited her to Kembabazi’s Catering Centre in Naggulu.
This lovely place is upper class, clean, spacious and stylish –– one that gives an impression of being expensive but is really affordable. The name on the perimeter wall cannot be missed. You enter from the alternative gate because the main gate is under reconstruction to add value to the place. (I hope VAT people don’t run there). There are four ... (should I call them huts?) forming a diamond in the compound centre, each containing a bar.
Their muchomo is delicious. It goes for sh4,000 a plate. The spacious compound is rented for parties of more than 500 people and there is a built dais at one end of the green. On the other side, the grass beckons you to drink with your bum in contact with mother earth. Gloria loved the place and declared me romantic. She started asking me women questions like “how do I look?
I know women generally do not think of their looks in the same way we do. Take me for instance, I formed an opinion of how I look like in nursery school, which, back then, was the wilderness –– tending cows and playing ‘dad-mum’ with daughters of parents stupid enough to send their girls to graze cows or goats with us. I have stuck to that image and unless I am arrested for shoplifting or replace Pope Ben XVI, I don’t see chances of changing this image. Most men, I believe, think of themselves as handsome even when their name is Kasujja, the ex at the electoral commission who claimed his face can cause stampede in cattle at a range of 100 metres.
Obviously, I could have said she could look better but I said ‘great’ and she said I was lying. I insisted her eyes were like two shining stars and if she had been a house fly, it would be more like 2,038 shining stars –– that is me; very creative when there is a beer in my hands.
But she did not like the compliment. And what followed must have been a direct consequence of this comment.
You see, there was a birthday party on our left, full of only Dot Com youths dressed like Amanda’s Moonlight Angels and speaking the English of the future. They were in advanced stages of intoxication and fun, shouting, laughing, hugging and kissing each other as if there was no parent (me) around. Several puked in our clean loos forcing the workers to put on gloves and cleaning gear to unblock pipes –– working in pubs can be stressful!
At first I thought their fun would compel Glory into some form of competition but instead, it became an attraction. When I went at a distance to answer Mrs Rover’s phone questions about midnight and my location, Glory joined the Movement leaving me alone in FDC. When I returned, she was downing their Bond 7 whisky in non-stop gulps with her unbelieving age-mates cheering in unison.
I was disgusted because that meant another pissing in my car. Worse still, it also meant that I was boring her. She wanted a madder company.
Ends