Kifumbira slum, a melting pot of prostitution, booze and filth
THE drizzle,which occasionally broke out into a heavy rain storm, went on unabated for the best part of the night. And when it rains, Kifumbira is the last place anybody would want to be. Kifumbira is not as well known as other slums like Katanga or Kisenyi yet it is right in the heart of Kampala Ci
KIFUMBIRA slum in Kamwokya never sleeps and thrives on prostitution, cheap brew and video shacks. Timothy Bukumunhe spent a night there and now writes
THE drizzle,which occasionally broke out into a heavy rain storm, went on unabated for the best part of the night. And when it rains, Kifumbira is the last place anybody would want to be. Kifumbira is not as well known as other slums like Katanga or Kisenyi yet it is right in the heart of Kampala City.
The most we see of Kifumbira is from the road that links Bukoto to Kamwokya or from Mawanda Road and even then it is only for a fleeting moment. The slum neighbours Mulago, Bukoto, Kamwokya and stretches all the way down to Kalerwe.
With a sprawling population of close to 1,200, Kifumbira, like most other slums never sleeps and is kept alive by the thriving prostitution, cheap local brew and video shacks.
The low income housing caters for the blue collar worker — the ilk of hawkers, boda boda riders and taxi touts. And while Kifumbira is not supposed to sleep, on this occasion it did because the heavens refused to relent.
Without the rains, Kifumbira is filthy. No, I tell a lie: It is like a rubbish dump. The sides of the narrow pathways are strewn with rubbish — from plastic bags, sugarcane peelings to the odd shoe to matooke peelings.
The drainage systems are clogged with stagnant water; slime that makes breathing almost impossible — not for the residents but for visitors like myself. But that is before the rains. When it rains, Kifumbira turns into hell, perhaps the last place on earth to live.
Life would be easier facing the war lords in Taliban-controlled Kandahar in Afghanistan than living in Kirumbira when it rains. It becomes a quagmire of mud and slime. With every step you take, you are apprehensive about putting your foot down because you are not quite sure of what you are stepping on.
The drainages overflow, spewing out whatever filth they collect and depositing it down the narrow walkways or at the doors of the houses. But life will still go on. Everybody will simply hop over the slime. Nobody seems to care.
Even worse, the fact that there are not enough pit latrines does not seem to bother residents. They only have three public toilets and a few others which are on the verge of collapse.
Further down in the swampy marshland that divides Kifumbira from Bukoto, men can be seen going to the ‘open air toilets’ and doing their stuff in plastic bags. Others do not bother to go that far.
As long as the reeds in the marshland provide some cover, that will suffice. Yet the marshland is not only used as an open toilet but as a source of income for the bricklayers and the women who grow yams.
It is easy to get lost in Kifumbira during the day. At night, it is even worse. It is pitch black and I have no idea where I am. The footpath I am on is so slippery that one mistake could see me wallowing in the filth of the drainage.
Shadowy figures occasionally pop out of nowhere with a lantern, demanding to know who you are. Every homestead is playing music, mostly kadongo kamu while those who are brave enough sit on the little veranda space they may have, willing away the rain by drinking malwa or tot packs of cheap waragi.
Things are not looking up for the prostitutes who are huddled in Blue Corner Club. The rain has killed business. The Kifumbira prostitute is in a different class. They are vulgar, dirty and so ugly that one has to wonder as to what kind of man would want to sleep with them.
Sipping on tot packs, they occasionally shout obscenities at each other or ridicule would-be clients, often boda boda men or askaris by saying: “You can’t afford me†or “you ‘finish’ too fast.â€
When the day breaks, there is still no sign of the heavens relenting.
But, undeterred by the rains, at MJ Pork Joint down Green Valley Lane, the ‘hard-cores’ have settled down to a pot of malwa. The proprietor of the joint is a lady whose girth rivals that of a Japanese sumo wrestler.
To complement her girth she has a bust so large it often appeared to hinder what she was trying to do. Taking up a spot in the corner, she would lie on a mat, getting up now and again to fill the pot with hot water.
The men are not drunk. They are beyond that. Red eyed, they can hardly sit upright on their stools. When they try to walk, they hit the floor, then get up and fall into the slimy mud.
Again, nobody cares because this, after all, is Kifumbira and in here, that display of drunkenness is deemed normal.
When the women wake up and set about preparing breakfast and lunch, it is a sight to behold.
They all have young children and while the children wallow in the filth of the narrow walkways, (which are an open toilet for them and the dogs), life goes on.
If a kid does pupu, the mother will scream, then get a sugarcane peeling and simply push the pupu into the drainage. To clean her hands, she just wipes them on her filthy dress and carries on from where she had left off.
While the food they cook has the most delicious smell, I figure that if I ate it, I would be on the fast track to Mulago with anything from Hepatitis E to cholera to hookworms. I give the food a miss.
Since Kifumbira spans such a large area, I contract the services of Dumba, a boda boda rider to show me the neighbourhood. A good portion of the male residents are hawkers, especially shoe hawkers.
They sit in small dark shacks polishing shoes to mak them attractive for potential buyers. Then there are the dobbi men, washing heaps of clothes, also for sale.
The others, who do not appear to have any sort of meaningful employment either drink malwa or play ludo.
“At one point the idlers used to play o’mweso but now ludo is the in game,†Dumba tells me. And, like in any other slum, ludo here is played with such an intense fever and competitiveness that you have to be made of steel to play along.
The women, if they are not in the cooked food trade, either sell charcoal, matooke or tomatoes. In Kifumbira, nobody buys a sack of charcoal or a bunch of matooke. The matooke, once it is delivered early in the morning is either broken into clusters or individual bananas for sale.
The mud houses are on the verge of collapse with the iron sheet roofs held down by bricks or anything heavy, it is easy to conclude that the average income here is less than sh100,000 per month.
One of the most interesting features about Kifumbira is that during Christmas, it becomes a ghost town. Then, scores of buses line up to take the residents back home for the festive period.
Kifumbira factfile
The name Kifumbira was born out of the number of Bafumbira who migrated there in the late 1950s
The Bafumbira are the dominant tribe with the other main tribes being the Langi and Acholi who migrated there during Idi Amin’s reign
Kifumbira has an area called Acholi Quarters which is predominantly occupied by northerners
Once the Bafumbira come to Kampala, they settle at Kifumbira as a transit stop until they find their feet
Kifumbira has a population of close to 1,200 residents but keeps on growing because of the population explosion
Rent in Kifumbira is relatively cheap, at between sh20,000 and 30,000 for a one room house with no privacy, no running water or toilet
Officials estimate that in the next 10 years, there will be a housing crisis in Kifumbira because of the population growth
Nabbingo Garbage Removers charge residents sh500 to collect their rubbish once a week.
THE drizzle,which occasionally broke out into a heavy rain storm, went on unabated for the best part of the night. And when it rains, Kifumbira is the last place anybody would want to be. Kifumbira is not as well known as other slums like Katanga or Kisenyi yet it is right in the heart of Kampala City.
The most we see of Kifumbira is from the road that links Bukoto to Kamwokya or from Mawanda Road and even then it is only for a fleeting moment. The slum neighbours Mulago, Bukoto, Kamwokya and stretches all the way down to Kalerwe.
With a sprawling population of close to 1,200, Kifumbira, like most other slums never sleeps and is kept alive by the thriving prostitution, cheap local brew and video shacks.
The low income housing caters for the blue collar worker — the ilk of hawkers, boda boda riders and taxi touts. And while Kifumbira is not supposed to sleep, on this occasion it did because the heavens refused to relent.
Without the rains, Kifumbira is filthy. No, I tell a lie: It is like a rubbish dump. The sides of the narrow pathways are strewn with rubbish — from plastic bags, sugarcane peelings to the odd shoe to matooke peelings.
The drainage systems are clogged with stagnant water; slime that makes breathing almost impossible — not for the residents but for visitors like myself. But that is before the rains. When it rains, Kifumbira turns into hell, perhaps the last place on earth to live.
Life would be easier facing the war lords in Taliban-controlled Kandahar in Afghanistan than living in Kirumbira when it rains. It becomes a quagmire of mud and slime. With every step you take, you are apprehensive about putting your foot down because you are not quite sure of what you are stepping on.
The drainages overflow, spewing out whatever filth they collect and depositing it down the narrow walkways or at the doors of the houses. But life will still go on. Everybody will simply hop over the slime. Nobody seems to care.
Even worse, the fact that there are not enough pit latrines does not seem to bother residents. They only have three public toilets and a few others which are on the verge of collapse.
Further down in the swampy marshland that divides Kifumbira from Bukoto, men can be seen going to the ‘open air toilets’ and doing their stuff in plastic bags. Others do not bother to go that far.
As long as the reeds in the marshland provide some cover, that will suffice. Yet the marshland is not only used as an open toilet but as a source of income for the bricklayers and the women who grow yams.
It is easy to get lost in Kifumbira during the day. At night, it is even worse. It is pitch black and I have no idea where I am. The footpath I am on is so slippery that one mistake could see me wallowing in the filth of the drainage.
Shadowy figures occasionally pop out of nowhere with a lantern, demanding to know who you are. Every homestead is playing music, mostly kadongo kamu while those who are brave enough sit on the little veranda space they may have, willing away the rain by drinking malwa or tot packs of cheap waragi.
Things are not looking up for the prostitutes who are huddled in Blue Corner Club. The rain has killed business. The Kifumbira prostitute is in a different class. They are vulgar, dirty and so ugly that one has to wonder as to what kind of man would want to sleep with them.
Sipping on tot packs, they occasionally shout obscenities at each other or ridicule would-be clients, often boda boda men or askaris by saying: “You can’t afford me†or “you ‘finish’ too fast.â€
When the day breaks, there is still no sign of the heavens relenting.
But, undeterred by the rains, at MJ Pork Joint down Green Valley Lane, the ‘hard-cores’ have settled down to a pot of malwa. The proprietor of the joint is a lady whose girth rivals that of a Japanese sumo wrestler.
To complement her girth she has a bust so large it often appeared to hinder what she was trying to do. Taking up a spot in the corner, she would lie on a mat, getting up now and again to fill the pot with hot water.
The men are not drunk. They are beyond that. Red eyed, they can hardly sit upright on their stools. When they try to walk, they hit the floor, then get up and fall into the slimy mud.
Again, nobody cares because this, after all, is Kifumbira and in here, that display of drunkenness is deemed normal.
When the women wake up and set about preparing breakfast and lunch, it is a sight to behold.
They all have young children and while the children wallow in the filth of the narrow walkways, (which are an open toilet for them and the dogs), life goes on.
If a kid does pupu, the mother will scream, then get a sugarcane peeling and simply push the pupu into the drainage. To clean her hands, she just wipes them on her filthy dress and carries on from where she had left off.
While the food they cook has the most delicious smell, I figure that if I ate it, I would be on the fast track to Mulago with anything from Hepatitis E to cholera to hookworms. I give the food a miss.
Since Kifumbira spans such a large area, I contract the services of Dumba, a boda boda rider to show me the neighbourhood. A good portion of the male residents are hawkers, especially shoe hawkers.
They sit in small dark shacks polishing shoes to mak them attractive for potential buyers. Then there are the dobbi men, washing heaps of clothes, also for sale.
The others, who do not appear to have any sort of meaningful employment either drink malwa or play ludo.
“At one point the idlers used to play o’mweso but now ludo is the in game,†Dumba tells me. And, like in any other slum, ludo here is played with such an intense fever and competitiveness that you have to be made of steel to play along.
The women, if they are not in the cooked food trade, either sell charcoal, matooke or tomatoes. In Kifumbira, nobody buys a sack of charcoal or a bunch of matooke. The matooke, once it is delivered early in the morning is either broken into clusters or individual bananas for sale.
The mud houses are on the verge of collapse with the iron sheet roofs held down by bricks or anything heavy, it is easy to conclude that the average income here is less than sh100,000 per month.
One of the most interesting features about Kifumbira is that during Christmas, it becomes a ghost town. Then, scores of buses line up to take the residents back home for the festive period.
Kifumbira factfile
The name Kifumbira was born out of the number of Bafumbira who migrated there in the late 1950s
The Bafumbira are the dominant tribe with the other main tribes being the Langi and Acholi who migrated there during Idi Amin’s reign
Kifumbira has an area called Acholi Quarters which is predominantly occupied by northerners
Once the Bafumbira come to Kampala, they settle at Kifumbira as a transit stop until they find their feet
Kifumbira has a population of close to 1,200 residents but keeps on growing because of the population explosion
Rent in Kifumbira is relatively cheap, at between sh20,000 and 30,000 for a one room house with no privacy, no running water or toilet
Officials estimate that in the next 10 years, there will be a housing crisis in Kifumbira because of the population growth
Nabbingo Garbage Removers charge residents sh500 to collect their rubbish once a week.