KABALAGALA: UGANDA’S LAS VEGAS
Uganda’s Las Vegas, some people call it. Kabalagala is everything it has been hyped to be and then some more. If you think that life is a big superficial party and you want to mingle with hundreds of gorgeous women in a no-holds-barred arena, then this is the place for you to be.
By Titus Serunjogi
Uganda’s Las Vegas, some people call it. Kabalagala is everything it has been hyped to be and then some more. If you think that life is a big superficial party and you want to mingle with hundreds of gorgeous women in a no-holds-barred arena, then this is the place for you to be.
Even in the wee hours of the morning, the streetwalks there will be crawling with women dressed up to the nines. Beware, because many of them are prostitutes.
You had better walk hereabouts like you are cocksure of where you are going. Otherwise, a harlot will offer to show you a rent-by-the-hour kiosk where you can have a quickie. You may even come across a dapper conman who will show you a ‘golden’ wristwatch and sweet-talk you into buying the scrap.
Otherwise, there is always a mouth-watering array of delicacies being sold on the streets — chapati rolls, mchomo, fried fish and roast plantain. And there is always that ill-kempt woman who lurks around the boda-boda stage, selling cannabis and waragi to the cyclists.
There was hardly enough space for swinging a cat in the parking lot. But outside Little Mama, a nightclub, I heard Jose Chameleone’s Maoko na Maoko booming onto the sidewalk. And I just couldn’t resist the temptation of stepping in and shake-shake a bit. Yet I had to wait in a long line just to get past the security. God! The people here were pushing each other and elbowing towards the entrance like wasps on a beer spill.
But it was worth the jostle. For inside, we found three fabulous dancers flitting back and forth amidst the tables.
They were clad in transparent wrappers that left nothing to the imagination; and they strutted their stuff in a most lascivious manner. The poor drunken men! They couldn’t help, but gape at the girls with mad staring eyes.
“Many people come here to see us because we make them horny,†one of the dancers told me later, her breath smelling of Vodka.
She had a pretty childish face, but a full bust and a very curvaceous bottom. She is a student at Kampala International University (KIU). And she is paid peanuts plus lots of booze for strutting her stuff here every weekend.
“Do your parents know you’re doing this?†I asked. “Yeah, kind of. But daddy does not know,†she replied.
This dancer also confided that there are a lot of Kenyan and Tanzanian students from KIU who, fresh from the Gateway Bus, get into Little Mama and drink themselves into oblivion.
Don’t you wonder what these poor students do when they have swilled all their pocket money?
Now forget those uptown pubs where management expects you to sit down in one place and spend lots of money.
Many of Kabalagala’s watering holes turn in large dancing crowds on Saturday night. The chairs and tables are stacked away as patrons fling themselves into the reverberating music.
I got past the jingling slot machines, descended a long staircase and found myself inside a grotto — Capital Pub proper.
With the jockeys churning out cutting-edge beats and garishly-clad girls crawling everywhere, it was a fascinating club experience.
The mood was made even more exhilarating by the motorcycle races that were showing on multiple screens.
Jumping out of the club at 4.00am, I had to fight my way through the throng of cyclists, one nearly mugging me onto his bike. Some of the cyclists so reek of crude waragi that you will just shiver at the prospect of hiring any. However, they have lots of kaboozi on the night lifestyle thereabouts. And believe me, it is just so gross.
I had heard sociologists say Kabalagala is going to the dogs because here extremely rich people mix with extremely poor people.
But I had a hundred questions for this guy who was cycling me back to town:
Why do the toilets at some pubs go decidedly unisex in the wee hours? Why don’t the phone booth attendants ever go to sleep? Why don’t guys hang out here with their real spouses? All the cyclist’s drunken answers seemed to echo one reply: Because Kabalagala is a red light district.’
Ends
Uganda’s Las Vegas, some people call it. Kabalagala is everything it has been hyped to be and then some more. If you think that life is a big superficial party and you want to mingle with hundreds of gorgeous women in a no-holds-barred arena, then this is the place for you to be.
Even in the wee hours of the morning, the streetwalks there will be crawling with women dressed up to the nines. Beware, because many of them are prostitutes.
You had better walk hereabouts like you are cocksure of where you are going. Otherwise, a harlot will offer to show you a rent-by-the-hour kiosk where you can have a quickie. You may even come across a dapper conman who will show you a ‘golden’ wristwatch and sweet-talk you into buying the scrap.
Otherwise, there is always a mouth-watering array of delicacies being sold on the streets — chapati rolls, mchomo, fried fish and roast plantain. And there is always that ill-kempt woman who lurks around the boda-boda stage, selling cannabis and waragi to the cyclists.
There was hardly enough space for swinging a cat in the parking lot. But outside Little Mama, a nightclub, I heard Jose Chameleone’s Maoko na Maoko booming onto the sidewalk. And I just couldn’t resist the temptation of stepping in and shake-shake a bit. Yet I had to wait in a long line just to get past the security. God! The people here were pushing each other and elbowing towards the entrance like wasps on a beer spill.
But it was worth the jostle. For inside, we found three fabulous dancers flitting back and forth amidst the tables.
They were clad in transparent wrappers that left nothing to the imagination; and they strutted their stuff in a most lascivious manner. The poor drunken men! They couldn’t help, but gape at the girls with mad staring eyes.
“Many people come here to see us because we make them horny,†one of the dancers told me later, her breath smelling of Vodka.
She had a pretty childish face, but a full bust and a very curvaceous bottom. She is a student at Kampala International University (KIU). And she is paid peanuts plus lots of booze for strutting her stuff here every weekend.
“Do your parents know you’re doing this?†I asked. “Yeah, kind of. But daddy does not know,†she replied.
This dancer also confided that there are a lot of Kenyan and Tanzanian students from KIU who, fresh from the Gateway Bus, get into Little Mama and drink themselves into oblivion.
Don’t you wonder what these poor students do when they have swilled all their pocket money?
Now forget those uptown pubs where management expects you to sit down in one place and spend lots of money.
Many of Kabalagala’s watering holes turn in large dancing crowds on Saturday night. The chairs and tables are stacked away as patrons fling themselves into the reverberating music.
I got past the jingling slot machines, descended a long staircase and found myself inside a grotto — Capital Pub proper.
With the jockeys churning out cutting-edge beats and garishly-clad girls crawling everywhere, it was a fascinating club experience.
The mood was made even more exhilarating by the motorcycle races that were showing on multiple screens.
Jumping out of the club at 4.00am, I had to fight my way through the throng of cyclists, one nearly mugging me onto his bike. Some of the cyclists so reek of crude waragi that you will just shiver at the prospect of hiring any. However, they have lots of kaboozi on the night lifestyle thereabouts. And believe me, it is just so gross.
I had heard sociologists say Kabalagala is going to the dogs because here extremely rich people mix with extremely poor people.
But I had a hundred questions for this guy who was cycling me back to town:
Why do the toilets at some pubs go decidedly unisex in the wee hours? Why don’t the phone booth attendants ever go to sleep? Why don’t guys hang out here with their real spouses? All the cyclist’s drunken answers seemed to echo one reply: Because Kabalagala is a red light district.’
Ends