Truly The Flipside

Enkosi Tata Madiba

2013-12-07T07:31:00.002-08:00

As a little Amakwerere* girl who grew up in post-apartheid South Africa I owe a lot to Nelson Mandela and the other freedom fighters. I was raised in Umtata (still lovingly spell it that way not Mthatha) a few kilometres away from Qunu, Nelson Mandela’s ancestral home.

Let me start with my education: I was fortunate enough to attend the best schools South Africa had to offer and not barred from them because I was black. This enabled me to have a good head start in life: it shaped my thinking and who I am today. It is a privilege I would have been denied had I been born a few generations earlier but thanks to Nelson Mandela’s struggle to end apartheid I was accorded this privilege.

In 1994, the year Nelson Mandela took power I was in grade four at Transkei Primary School. The best primary school in Umtata which had been previously reserved for white children but with the end of apartheid had to accept black children. I felt very special to be admitted to such a prestigious school and be taught by the best teachers in the town. It was a heartwarming feeling to know that I could belong to such an elite and exclusive class.

Through my exceptional performance at Transkei Primary School I was able to go to one of the best girl schools in South Africa: Clarendon Girls High School based In East London. I recall the drives from Umtata to East London that my family would undertake as an outing. Every time we passed the sign post that bore the Clarendon name and emblem I would say to my Daddy: “That’s my dream school. I want to go there for high school”

You can imagine my joy when in 2002 I was granted a position at the prestigious Clarendon Girls High School. This granted me the chance to interact with children from different walks of life and colours, which enriched my life and taught me acceptance of all people.

Even the chance to study in English not Afrikaans as the apartheid government had wished is a blessing. This I have to thank not just Nelson Mandela but the freedom fighters too who died for my right to study in English. Although I studied Afrikaans as a second language, it was a choice not a command.

I owe not just my sound education and the opportunities it has brought me to Madiba but my identity too. I am Amakwerere. Nelson Mandela fought for a rainbow nation that accepts all peoples. He fought against white domination as well as black domination.

It is so painful that as an Amakwerere girl I experienced black on black racism. Some people resented me because I worked hard to get good grades and went to the finest schools. Others disliked me because I did not know the playground games well or speak Xhosa fluently or just because I had an English first name. It would puzzle me as a child and I hated to be called Amakwerere on the playground.

Then I grew up and learnt to let it go. When I was young I could not fully comprehend why Nelson Mandela was revered by the whole world then I experienced xenophobia and it took an enormous amount of strength to forgive and let go. Then I understood why it is amazing to forgive people who took away 27 years of your life.

One of my most profound moments came just before I left South Africa for Uganda, during a life orientation class, the teacher was filling in a survey on the diverse backgrounds of the class. She was also handing out ‘Proudly South African’ badges at the same time. I declined the badge but my Xhosa friend understanding only too well why I refused the badge told me that in the rainbow nation there’s a stripe for me too. She said I belonged to South Africa as much as she did. My world changed suddenly the burden of being Amakwerere was lifted and the sting was lost.

That’s the South Africa Nelson Mandela fought for so that an Amakwerere girl like me can be afforded the opportunities that I have and for that I am grateful. Thank you Tata Madiba.

*Amakwerere is a derogatory Xhosa term for a black foreign national from Africa.

The Big Chop

2013-11-27T06:10:00.002-08:00

In a bid to save money I decided to skip salon visits and wash my treated hair myself. So after my shower I settled into the task of washing the threads I call hair. You know how the ritual goes, wet hair and lather shampoo, rinse and rinse. In the midst of the ritual, I hear a sound that is not water slopping about my wet hair. It’s the sound of giggling: a child’s laughter to be precise.

I brushed it off as a passerby walking past my bathroom window. My house’s back wall was so low with a high verandah that a person could stand on it and merrily peer into my bathroom. I toyed with the idea of getting a curtain but I thought no one would be so crass to peep. Little did I know that is exactly what one cheeky little boy had on his mind.

To my dismay the giggling continued and grew more raucous drawing my attention. With soapy water streaming down my face I glanced up to see snot faced brat staring deep into my eyes and amused by nakedness. In my horror I screamed.

‘’Go away’’ I scream as I try to wash the shampoo out of my stinging eyes in a useless effort because my damp straggly hair keeps a stream of water droplets flowing onto my face and into my eyes. My blood is boiling and I want to strangle the little peeping Tom who is frantically giggling at my misfortune.

With an enormous effort not to slip on the wet floor I grab a towel from where it hangs and rub my face aggressively till it stings a little. My eyes burn from the assault of the soap and tear a little but that does not thwart me from pursuing my little tormentor.

Towel firmly wrapped around me, I dash out of the house to where the peeping Tom stood.

To my disgust and sheer anger, he had vanished into the dusty rubbish strewn street. Upon closer inspection I noticed the stone my Peeping Tom stood on. I flung it into the gutter overflowing with refuse in different stages of decomposition. Then with a shrug I proceeded to the house to get ready for work.

After a long hard look at my straggly hair then at the row of my hair products I’d accumulated to make it grow properly. The thought struck me,’ Why not just cut it all off.’ After all, my hair had been reduced to auburn threads.

That evening with my love holding my hand, I embraced the scissor and cut off all my relaxed tresses. Thus began my dreadlock journey.

Chasing the ghost of my father

2013-11-25T06:04:00.002-08:00

Recently I read an article ‘The parent who is left behind’ by Mildred Apenyo. It was a moving piece that reminded me of my loss and sorrow. What about the children that are left behind? How does the grief process affect them? I can only tell you mine.

There I sat in the still of the night, waiting for him to come to me. Praying that he’ll scoop me in his arms one last time then maybe I’d be ready to say goodbye. But I sat and sat. And the only thing that was surrounding me was darkness and the engulfing loneliness that accompanies it.

The realization that I was alone and the world as I knew it had turned upside down. The moon outside was blood red bleeding out as my aching heart did. Then in that moment for the first time I stared grief in the face.

He was gone.

My dearest Daddy was not going to come fetch me again. There would be no more kind words egging me to go on with my life or congratulating me on my shiny report card. The silent figure that sat still in the big old armchair was gone, gone forever.

A knot formed in my tummy slowly rising from my bowels into my throat and choking me till lurched forward. A part of me died that night. The twinkle in my eye extinguished forever as his flame was snuffed out leaving a burning hole where my passion used to be.

Eight years later, I loom in the darkness wandering about in search of him, longing for the part of me that died that night. I cannot sleep; I cannot go on because I am trapped there: a 19 year old Daddy’s girl waiting for him to come to me, to pick me up like he did when I was little.

Once I was accidentally locked out of the house at night. I banged my little fists furiously against the door and cried till Daddy came to fetch me. Within seconds he was there, scooped me in his arms and wiped my tears. Immediately I felt snug, warm and protected. He was going to be my hero forever.

Then when I was a little older he would shuffle his feet, putting his one good leg forward and dragging the bad one with a grimace. He was my shuffling hero who hobbled and gingerly maneuvered himself into a seat to clap for me at a school award assembly. With one leg stretched out and his crutch gently resting on his good knee, he would smile at me from across the school hall.

I remember the card he gave me when I was awarded first position in my class “I am proud of you” it read. A beautiful peacock with a magnificent display of feathered glory stared back at me. An image I’d carry for the rest of my life. My father was proud of me! My insignificant little bit of work in the third grade: being first in class made him the happiest man. My little heart was bursting with pride.

That was when I knew that I was special. I had value in a man’s eyes.

But the bubble burst then the moon turned red and the rivers turned poisonous. Reality pierced the daydreamer’s heart. There was no more protection. No more love. No more patience. No more sustenance.

I tried to search for him in the arms of men but failed miserably. In a mangled heap at the edge of sanity, bleeding out, I conceded: I was left behind. Alone.

Kampala 101

2012-11-28T01:07:00.000-08:00

“A s-t-t-o-n-e in my laptop bag,”I shakily said to my towering boss (double my height and weight too). At that point, I felt a ‘little tail’ burst out from my behind and ‘long floppy ears’ emerge from my head—I felt like a complete ass. Seeing my visible distress in my swollen eyes, he shrugged his shoulders, rolled his eyes and walked away leaving me with the question, “How could this happen to me?”

Then I scurried to my desk with my tail tucked firmly between my legs. I stared at the empty space that my laptop used to occupy and my eyes started burning with tears again.

Breaking news: Trudy lost her laptop

My colleagues were just dying to know what happened to the laptop. I could see the question lingering in their eyes and in their half open mouths as they tried to form the words. One ‘nosy-guised-in-concern’ soul veered towards me and charmingly pried the information out of me. As soon as the tale was told, she hurried back to her desk to disseminate the information with a little seasoning, of course.

Seeing the futility of my presence at work without a laptop to work on, I gingerly flung my bag over my shoulder and marched out of there, to the comfort of my home. All the while as I walked home, I recalled the unfortunate events that led to the loss of my laptop, phone and wallet.

Breaking it down: How it happened

“Why did I get into that damn taxi?” The question reverberated in my mind. Then I remembered that I was too broke to grab a boda boda home after attending my friend’s wedding meeting. My poor financial state led me to opt for a taxi instead, and I was too exhausted after a long walk from the National Theatre to Nando’s. Plus my luggage weighed me down and added to my fatigue.

It was several minutes before a taxi skidded to a jarring halt in front of me; suddenly, my phone rang, so I fished it out of my handbag and hobbled toward the taxi with said phone in one hand, laptop bag in the other, and my handbag dangling over my forearm. Unexpectedly, the taxi conductor insisted on holding open the front passenger door for me instead of the back passenger one. I made my displeasure known because I am a midget and detest flinging my stubby little legs high to reach the seat, while risking a chance of missing it. (Besides, it is unladylike to lift one’s leg.)

Begrudgingly, I hastily hobbled into the taxi. The front seat passenger eagerly stretched out his arms to assist me. However, I declined his offer and with one great heave, I hurled my booty and luggage onto the seat. With great care, I placed the laptop bag on my lap and tucked my handbag into my right armpit, then resumed my phone call.

Part 1: Laying the trap

Thus we set off on our journey towards Luzira. Approximately 10 metres into the journey, we were met by a traffic jam near a roundabout. The crafty taxi driver swerved with so much force that I was flung forward and struggled to hold on tight to the laptop. We had veered off our straight course and taken a left turn in a northerly direction, towards the National Theatre. “Back to square one,” I whispered to myself.

At this point, I exclaimed in Luganda out of sheer shock. The conductor reassured me that it was a shortcut to avoid the traffic jam. He then requested that I adjust the front side mirror. Thinking myself sweet lass, I placed my phone back into my handbag and obliged. Thus, I stretched my left hand out the window and proceeded to fidget with the front side mirror. After several fruitless attempts, I realized the damn thing was not moving, so I gave up. No sooner had I had expressed my failure than the damned door flung open! A little shriek escaped my lips as I held on tightly to the doorframe.

Part 2: Trudy Enters The Trap

‘Reassuringly’, that sneaky human being who calls himself a taxi conductor advised me to hold on tight to the seatbelt as he held the door in place. Foolishly, I obeyed, not seeing the sheer stupidity in holding a seatbelt in attempt not to fall out of the taxi.

At this point, my mind was only set on self-preservation, not protecting my little property. All thoughts of minding my handbag and laptop had flown out when the door flung open. With adrenaline pumping through my veins and a silent prayer (“Oh, God please do not let me get hurt!”), my ordeal soon ended.

Shortly after, we passed the Jinja Road roundabout then, casually and inexplicably, the conductor informed me that we are no longer heading to Luzira. He proceeded to open the front door, causing a cold gust of wind to assault my lungs. Rudely, he told me in broken English to “Get out.” As I was not moving fast enough, the passenger next to me hastily shoved me out and threw the laptop bag at me, leaving me with my gaping mouth in utter disbelief as the taxi sped away.

Part 3: A shocking realization

Standing on the pavement shivering, I reach into my handbag to retrieve my phone. “Oh my God! Where’s my phone?” I shrieked as I frantically searched my handbag and emptied out my pockets. It dawned on me that I must have left it on that blasted taxi. But that’s only the good part.

Little feet met paving stones as I took off after the taxi: breasts flapping wildly, laptop bag balancing on my fat bottom. I ran as fast as my little legs and heaving chest could allow. 20 metres later, common sense prevailed and I realized the futility of my pursuit. Big fat tears started to roll down my face. “It’s gone; my new Nokia Asha 305 smartphone is gone!” I hopped onto a boda boda(which is what I should’ve done in the first place) and wailed all the way home, much to the chagrin of the rider.

He took pity on my sobbing heart and did not charge me for the ride. Upon arrival at home I proceeded straight to my bed to mourn the loss of my sweet Asha.

Part 4: A Final Blow

After somewhat recovering composure, I fell into a deep sleep because I needed to rouse early the next morning. Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed after barely sleeping a wink all night and hurriedly dressed up. Before dashing out, I grabbed the laptop bag and thought it was a bit heavier than normal; so I proceed to open it. To my shock, horror and dismay: “A s-t-t-o-n-e in my laptop bag!”

Dear 24 Year Old Trudy,

2012-11-26T08:26:00.005-08:00

This is the older more mature version of you writing to give you some hope and tidbits of advice from the future. This world is a hard place, but keep going; be patient and persevere. I know this is not what you want to hear right now, when you are young, pretty, energetic and dying to “live the life”.

On Career

You will never be paid enough for the work you do – As long you are not the boss, your salary will never be worth the work you do. So if you want more money, moonlight or start a business. Who knows, by the time you are my age, you will be able to afford several of that Christian Louboutin shoe you admire on Pinterest everyday.

Bosses exist to make you feel stupid – That’s why he’s the boss; he has earned the right to keep telling you what’s up. (Sometimes in not so nice ways.) He also paid his dues in his rookie days and learned the lessons the hard way. You will too, someday.

It’s not what you earn, it’s what you learn – Ignore that pittance they call a salary and focus on acquiring as much skills as possible. The difference between you and that coveted higher-up colleague who parades herself in Prada and drives a Mercedes is experience. Get some!

Take criticism and botches in your stride – You are young and there is a lot of room for you to learn. Yes, you will mess up, sometimes you will get a slap on the wrist; other times you will have your balls castrated and hung up on a cross as an example for all the rookies (excuse the analogy). Take it in your stride; this criticism is strengthening you. One day you will tell your survivor stories to other rookies. If you mess up, ‘fess up and suck it up!

The workplace is a jungle – Every kind of animal is present in the corporate jungle. There is the lion, i.e. boss who will snap your neck if mess up. There’s the hyena, always lurking around him, waiting to eat his leftovers. Hyenas think they got power but they don’t. They are usually noticeable by their sinister laughter and appetite for gossip and all other things rotten. Snakes are just as nasty; they bite just because they can…bullies!Let’s not forget the peacock who does not work but prances about looking pretty. Busy bees are always up and about but have no work as evidence of their busy schedules. Then there is the owl who does all the work, burns the midnight oil but gets no recognition. Decide what animal you are and beware of your natural predators.

You will be judged by your work, period – Everything else is secondary, your opinion, your wealth or lack of thereof, your background, your clothes. This is where the world becomes a bit fair; do your job well it will soon out-shadow all your other deficiencies.

Beware of office gossip – It might seem like harmless chitchat over lunch, but this is potentially dangerous to you. Those who are so eager to talk about others are the ones most likely to backbite you too. Remember the snakes and hyenas; this bunch are malicious just for the sake of it.

You will always have friends who are more successful than you – That’s just life, sorry; there will always be people who are doing better than you as you hustle along. Don’t rush to ‘unfriend’ them on Facebook, but learn from them. Forget the nugu, just work harder because after all there is another friend who is admiring you.

Cover your arse (CYA) – Very important. There are always snipers who want to see you jobless, hungry and singing your “if only…” Watch out for this bunch by doing the right thing and being great at your job. Don’t let anything slip, never ever give them fodder for their canons.

Always keep transforming – Learn a new skill, read more and offer to do more at work. The master of re-invention guarantees survival for himself. Or herself, as the case may be.

On Money

Girl, you are gonna go without… – A car, designer perfume, iPad, iPhone, snazzy house and those Christian Louboutin pumps. Place whatever you love the most in that empty space and get ready to do without it. Yes, you will admire it on other people because all pretty young things love pretty things. Newsflash: it is not forever! When you are my age, you will smile at these possessions and remember the hustle it took to get them.

Save and invest – You are going without because you need to save money and invest in the future. This is painful, but your savings will help you out on a rainy day. Trust me, I know how a little wad stashed under the mattress has saved me from certain pennilessness.

You will never, ever, have enough money – Stop whining and thinking your boss will quadruple your salary overnight. Don’t sit with the pathetic who are always complaining the money is not enough, because there are people who have done a lot more with far less. Move away from those ingrates and hang out with the hustlers; their hope and ‘never-say-die’ attitude will rub off on you.

On relationships

There is always a man better than the one you have – Yes, there is a man willing to do what you want, but are you willing to do what he wants? It all boils down to choices, love does not happen, you choose. Everyday you make a choice to stay or to go. If you choose to stay, it’s because you want to, not because you are scared you won’t find someone “like him”.

Flowers, chocolates, perfumes and cars do not mean he loves you – These are just gifts, materialistic goods bought with money. Look deeper and find what is within; don’t judge a man by his ability to shower you with gifts. Yes, we all love to be spoilt and we live in a very materialistic age, but don’t succumb to this.

Don’t let a man (or anyone for that matter) choose for you – You are a grown-ass woman capable of making your own informed decisions. You will regret giving that power to someone else.

There will only ever be one Daddy – Daddy was the first man in your life - to wipe away your tears, carry you, fuss over you, treat you like a princess, spoil you with chocolate and care for your every material need. He tried his best to provide, protect and love you, but at some point he knows his princess has to become someone’s queen. Have you ever heard of a queen being babysat by a king? That’s right, your husband can never be your father. Ever. There are things your husband can do that your father cannot. Steer clear of an Oedipus Complex.

Your heart will break, but it will mend – Your lovers will flee, your friendships will break and you will fight with your family and friends. This is part of the growing process. You will feel so alone and lonely, but you will survive. All those that seemed to stand with you won’t always be there, and the world will torment you; but never ever give up.

OK, enough with this pep talk; you’re gonna be alright, kiddo!

Love,

Older Trudy

The crying game / A sole for a soul

2012-11-21T09:26:00.004-08:00

Sometimes I feel like breaking down and crying myself into a puddle of tears. This morning was such a time. It all began when that dreaded contraption called ‘the alarm’ went off at precisely 4.00 am, signaling time to rouse from my hard earned slumber. If I had my way, which I usually don’t, I would have squeezed a few more hours of sleep and made a dash for work at the last minute.

Nevertheless, this was a special morning because it was my day to play mummy to my baby sister, Anna. So as the good parent figure I am, I had to escort to her first day at University. This involved, among other things, waking up at an ungodly hour to get Anna ready so that she would not miss her bus to Bushenyi. As would be expected, she was fraught with nerves and anxiety. I noted this because of her frequent trips to the bathroom which were succeeded with rambling, sighs and yet more rambling. Every time she would emerge, her chubby dark face was streaked with tears; she would open her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. I understood only too well: she was terrified.

I tried to take her mind off the imminent journey to this unknown town so far from the comfort of home and the bosom of mummy (the real one). So I launched into my ‘happy-go-lucky’ self and forgot for a moment that I should be the stoic, serious and mature one in the family(read cold like a stone, and as funny as one). She had to feel ‘good’ about the situation; after all, it was a big achievement and I wanted her to remember it that way.

However, my attempt at humour failed to make an impression and was completely lost on her. Then it dawned on me when I saw the ‘Funny-Dunny’ looks she cast my way as I tried in vain to make her laugh: her blank stares warranted a change in strategy, so I resorted to reminiscing about our childhood. At last I saw a little spark in her eyes that I had not seen in a long while. You see, when we landed in Uganda, a small part of us died. We left it behind in the rolling hills of the Transkei, that je ne sais quoi – the love to play, the desire to remain young. So you can imagine my delight when I saw just a glimmer of it in my sister’s previously dead eyes.

I recalled the days when we rolled in grass without a care in the world; bake mud cakes, chase puppies, and fight. She was more than my playmate; she was a faithful sidekick in mischief, a reliable confidante and above all, my best friend. More often than not, she was also my voice of reason, there to stop me dead on my tracks before I launched into a diabolical plot that would get my behind whipped silly by mummy. In spite of her protests,I would always drag her wherever I went. I would often look behind to be met by those big, black eyes, set in a chubby face, staring back at me. We were inseparable in mischief and in love.

But today, I had to bid her farewell and will courage into her failing spirit. At that very moment, I saw those big, black eyes set in her childlike face again. It was worth the hustle I had gone through to get to the the bus park.

It is not an excuse, but responsibility is a relatively new concept to me, particularly having to care for another human being. Due to my irresponsible ways, I forgot to make the necessary arrangements on the eve of Anna’s departure. Simply put, I had not called the cab guy to book an appointment for the morning. Fortunately, my aunt intervened and the cab guy called me to make the necessary preparations. So it was all systems go and operation ‘Get Anna to Bushenyi’ was finally on; except that I (again) neglected to buy airtime to confirm directions and time with the cab guy. Whoops!That would only be the first boo-boo in a series of events leading up to my nasty morning.

Shortly after I received the call from the cab guy, sleep overtook me. So I told Anna to serve supper because I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer (possibly the subtle effects of the beer I had consumed in copious quantities earlier). And the night went on smoothly: we ate, gossiped a little and then I nodded off to dreamland.

4.00 am sharp, and Anna sprung out of bed like the Energizer Bunny as I hugged my blankets closer to myself. She was up and about in no time, whizzing from room to room, busying her hands with this and that. An hour and half later when I fully roused, the house was spick and span, which awakened feelings of shame at my laziness. How I wished I could be as domesticated as she is, but that is a story for another time.

I begrudgingly hit the shower and then threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Dear reader, I add this seemingly trivial bit of information because the carelessness in which I dressed made me neglect my choice of shoe. Soon after, my phone started to ring incessantly, breaking the already little concentration I was giving my dressing-up routine. I promptly answered because I didn’t want to miss the cab guy’s call (no airtime, remember?), but as Lady Luck would have it, he hang up before I could say a word.

Now this is where whoops number 1 came back to haunt me. There being no airtime on either my phone or Anna’s to call the cab guy back, guilt hit me as Anna’s big black eyes bore into me: “I told you to get airtime last night.” So to save face and to give the impression of a responsible adult, I grabbed the nearest pair of shoes I could find, then my handbag, and dashed out of the house at 5.40 am precisely to hunt for airtime.

Inwardly I was hoping the damn cab guy would call again and ask for directions. But he didn’t, so I trudged on the dusty long path toward the shops. As soon as I reached the crook of the road leading to the shop, a boda-boda zoomed past leaving me perplexed in a cloud of dust.

All the way to the shop I was cursing the silliness that me made fall into a drunken stupor instead of getting airtime. I finally made it there, only to be accosted by early morning drunks exhaling fumes of stale beer on me and inhaling my perfume in return. Their yellow teeth glistened in the daybreak light; their beady eyes, heavy with lust, bore right into me. I was ready to judge them harshly, until I remembered that I was at the shop at that ungodly hour because of my love for tipple, just like they were.

Fortunately, Super Auntie came to the rescue again. Her unexpected call was a godsend: she had the wayward cab driver at her residence. So I hopped onto to a boda-boda to fetch him and direct him to my house.

Eager to end this early morning saga, I egged the cab driver to go faster. Then in the same spirit of haste, I harassed Anna into getting her property into the boot faster than she could keep up with. As is her nature, she was moving slowly… way too slowly for my new-found enthusiasm, so I grabbed her suitcase and hobbled to the boot. In no time, we were off; down Mutungo Hill, through the Kitintale ghetto, into the empty Central Business District and to the New Bus Park to deliver my precious cargo, baby Anna.

I suspect the cab driver was also looking forward to getting rid of this neurotic pair of sisters, so he promptly offloaded the property (and us) then sped off before we could say goodbye. I, in turn, was equally eager to get Anna on the bus and on her journey. So I did the babysitting thing and hand-holding thing, then said my final goodbye.

No sooner had I left the bus park then it started to rain. First, a drizzle, so I kept on walking. When it began to pour, I ducked under the nearest street vendor’s umbrella, only to be met with a rude rebuff in Luganda. Need I say I had forgotten to carry my trusted umbrella? When I say “rebuff”, I actually mean she barked what loosely translates to: “You woman, what do you want here?”, much to the amusement of the do-nothings lurking about her. My cheeks burned as these strangers stared at me as she prodded me, pushing me away from the shelter of her umbrella and into the pouring rain.In my attempt to flee this humiliation, I stepped into a puddle and felt the grimy liquid in my shoe, tickling my toes.

Upon look down, I realized that my cheap shoe had given way. And there, I lost the will to stop a big fat tear from rolling down my cheek. My accession to this overwhelming emotion was only met with a chide from a nameless onlooker: “But you mama, crying also…”

I couldn’t take it anymore. So I dragged this now gaping shoe all the way across town and safely into a taxi bound for Bugolobi, my workplace and solace; away from the early morning prying eyes of strangers. In the comfort of the office loo, and now more relaxed, probably exhausted from my morning tribulations, I slowly removed the offending shoe, whipped out my trusted tube of Superglue from the bag and proceeded to repair the sole.

Perhaps my sole was also weeping for Anna as did my soul.

Hanging on by a dress

2012-10-29T01:55:00.000-07:00

It was one of those days when some insignificant thing that someone else thought was a matter of life and death kept me late in the office. But as a good employee and team player, I happily obliged to put in the extra hours to get the job done. Several tweets and Facebook posts later, and of course after receiving the email that my late night offering had been accepted, I contemplated heading home.

Thus I proceeded to fish out my wallet from my voluptuous handbag to check how much money I had. To my disbelief, all I saw was a crumpled brown note and a gold coin. My heart sank as a quick glance at the laptop clock revealed 10.45 pm. It was too late for me to safely walk to the taxi stage…

Still in disbelief, I proceeded to empty the contents of my handbag hoping and praying that a stray coin or two would fall out. The contents splattered all over my desk only to expose my lipstick, lip gloss, super glue (that’s another story), cell phone, a bunch of keys, hand cream, scarf and wallet. But no coins. A heavy sigh escaped from my lips as my shoulders sank.

The ugly truth sinks in

It was final; all I had was 1,500 shillings, just enough for a taxi and bodaboda home. So I stole another glance at the time; it was getting late, and I couldn’t postpone my journey home any longer. I purposefully rose from my seat, smoothed my flimsy purple polyester dress over my hips and placed the contents of my handbag back into that receptacle, then marched out of the office into the dark of Kampala night.

The cold air traversed my nostrils, assaulting my lungs and squeezing a little cough out of me. As my skin shivered, fear set in, completing my goosebump look. Yes, I was petrified of standing on the pavement in the dead of the night, scared of any thugs that might nab my bag or booty, whichever took their fancy.

So I half ran, half walked past the bushes around the bend in the road, straight to the taxi stage marked by a huge tree. Mercifully, a beat up taxi pulled up, so I hurriedly hopped in, brushing my flimsy dress against a loose nail sticking out of the passenger’s seat.

Shortly after I sat down, my phone rang. To my delight, it was an old friend that I hadn’t heard from in ages. This launched me into a series of platitudes, much to the chagrin of my fellow passengers. Their irritated looks fueled my gregariousness, so I grew louder with every response.

For all my annoying display, little did I know that the joke would soon be on me. My stage drew near so in my most obnoxious tone, I threw my fare at the taxi conductor and yelled at him to stop the taxi. He shook his head as the vehicle came to a jarring halt and promptly held the door open for me.

Nailed it

Suddenly, I heard a strange ripping sound and felt a gust of wind on my backside. Perplexed, I looked back to be sure it wasn’t a fart. It was much worse; the hem of my dress dangled on a nail affixed to the passenger seat.

”Oh, my dress! My dress!” is all I could say; my cheeks were burning as the breeze cooled my backside. At that exact moment, I regretted neglecting to take my panty out of the crack of my butt earlier. This little oversight left my right butt cheek properly exposed to all and sundry, much to their amusement.

Oddly, my former victim, the taxi conductor, became my saviour. He leaned over and gingerly lifted my dress off the nail. Before he could utter a word, I sped off into the embracing veil of darkness, leaving behind my change and shame.

Fork falls from bra

2012-10-18T05:31:00.002-07:00

I was in Form Five, my first term in a new school. In the first weeks I spent all my pocket money buying food from the canteen. I was simply too broke to buy chips for supper! All I had was a crumpled Shs 1,000 note tucked away in my metal box, to last me till Visitation Day which was still two weeks away.

Anyway, I settled down to eat my beans and posho. Carefully I pushed the beans infested with weevils off my plate and placed a piece of posho in my mouth. It tasted cold and rubbery and the bean soup was equally not tasty.

Before I finished my supper, the bell for evening prayers rang. I got up, poured the food into the bin and ran to the field. The religious prefect started the prayers while holding onto her rosary. Round and round over the beads went her hand till her forefinger touched the little silver cross.

Afterwards, she coolly said: “Those who are going to Radio Maria tomorrow please come and see me immediately.” As soon as the last word was out of her mouth, the crowd dispersed and I rushed to class for prep. Each, students would visit Radio Maria, a local station, and pray the rosary on air. This meant that the group would forgo supper, and an hour of prep.

Praying the rosary on air was more scary than saying it anonymously at school evening prayers. However, there would be an alternative supper waiting for you. Sweet potatoes and ground nut stew, this was a welcome break from the routine beans and posho. This treat would be left in the capable hands of the mess prefect. She did not have a list of names of who genuinely went to Radio Maria. Therefore this little loophole gave birth to the La Ligas.

La Liga is Spanish meaning the league. It is the soccer league of Spain. In school students who ate after the official supper were known as La Ligas because they were a specific team that specialized in sneaking away from prep to eat an extra supper.

They crept from their classes during evening prep and joined the Radio Maria group to feast on groundnut stew and sweet potatoes. Amazingly, my desk mate, Emily, heard my tummy growl as I lay my head on the desk. I regretted having thrown away my food because hunger hit me so hard I could not concentrate on studying.

Emily proposed that we could join the La Ligas and eat better food. A frown spread across my face and I told her that I would not do that. It would be embarrassing if we were found out and people would call us “Greedy.’’

Despite my worries of being caught, the growling in my tummy convinced me to join the bandwagon. We agreed that Emily would leave the class first and wait for me outside the door, to avoid suspicion from our classmates. It worked in our favour!

However, there was still a problem of hiding the forks from our class mates. Emily confided in me that she usually hid the fork between her breasts in her bra. I burst into laughter which was silenced by the prep master’s warning glance.

Eventually I agreed and put the fork in my bra. Emily walked out first. I followed and as I was about to turn the door knob, I breathed out and the damn fork fell onto the floor! My heart was racing as I quickly opened the door and stepped out. I could hear the raucous laughter behind me. Emily asked what happened and I frantically told her that I dropped my fork.

“Well, go get it,” she screamed. I told her I couldn’t. She quickly opened the door, stuck her head in and grabbed the fork. As we entered the class, returning from eating, the entire class screamed: “La Ligas First Class Honours!”
Our reply? OMG!

This article first appeared in The Observer.

Vernacular in The workplace

2012-10-15T09:49:00.002-07:00

A few days ago I found myself left out of the loop when my colleagues and boss decided to speak Luganda during an official meeting. At first, I was taken aback by the insensitivity (I don’t speak a stitch of Luganda), then dismayed at the lack of professionalism. In a protest, I rudely scraped my chair and childishly marched to the bathroom to passively scream my disgust into the mirror.

By the time I graciously returned to my seat, everybody around the boardroom table was still conducting the meeting in Luganda. After a while, one of my colleagues—concerned why I, the writer on the job, was not writing anything—queried my resigned attitude. By then, screams into the bathroom mirror had done absolutely nothing for my temper; everything inside me wanted to scream, “I cannot write in Luganda!” at this jolly paunchy specimen in front of me.

However, my angelic more poised self took over and I nonchalantly replied, “Translation please.” To be honest, I think it was the fear of certain joblessness and not composure that directed this succinct response. Nevertheless, at that point they all swiftly switched back to English, leaving me wondering how a non-Luganda speaking foreigner would have coped in such a situation. “Perhaps,” I thought, “people do not understand the impact of speaking a language that not everyone understands.”

Bad etiquette
I have always thought that it is generally in poor taste and a thorough display of lack of good upbringing (or education) to speak to someone in a language they do not understand; it could be an indication that you are not confident or conversant in your language skills. Sometimes, when I read the emails people send around, I shake my head in pity. “This must be a vernacular speaker who hasn’t had enough time to build prowess in English,” I usually utter to myself. Then I proceed to try and decipher the hidden meaning behind their gibberish.

The funny thing is, my counterparts can narrate stories of being beaten for speaking vernacular in school (obviously the beating did not work), yet they babble in their native tongue incessantly as hapless foreigners look on.

Tribal divisions in a neutral zone
Unfortunately, when one hears a language they can not comprehend, they naturally withdraw from the conversation and gravitate towards a place they can express themselves. In my travels and in my life, I have seen this happen a million times. So I have no beef for Luganda or any vernacular for that matter. It’s the divisive factor that I detest. That poor soul who doesn’t understand the conversation coils into a corner and stays there.

Our country is already riddled with tribalism. Do we have to bring into the workplace, which ought to be a neutral ground for thinking, hardworking members of society?
Just because one finds their tribesmate does not mean one must exclude the rest, particularly in a group setting. If you want to express yourself in your language, go ahead; but make sure everyone around you speaks the same language too.

Suspicion and Gossip
In medieval Europe, foreigners would be stabbed because people thought they were plotting their deaths. Yes, it makes the listener uneasy and they immediately suspect you are talking about them. This breeds misunderstandings and quarrels.

Looking back, I should have made my dismay known instead of passively screaming into a bathroom mirror in my mother tongue (which sounds very jarring and harsh to the ear). It is only good manners if we all speak the same language and respect the forum, particularly if it’s a public one. I admire foreigners who come to a new country and struggle to speak the local language.

As you contemplate about speaking vernacular in the office, please consider the person who does not understand your language. In the meantime, I’ll be brushing up on my Luganda.

What you learn is more important than what you earn

2012-07-19T09:07:00.005-07:00

Recently, I read Ogilvy on Advertising by David Ogilvy in a bid to improve my copywriting skills and I stumbled on this phrase; “what you learn is more important than what you earn”. It struck a chord in my heart because my first job’s remuneration is pathetic.

Like most fresh graduates on the first official job, my experience is limited and there is no place than my income statement that clearly shows it. Er, except of course in the office where I am surrounded by professionals with half of my lifetime as experience. Basically, little experience and limited skill equals little bargaining power.

Though I must admit when I was negotiating my remuneration the thought of a couple of hundred thousand shillings excited me. (It slipped my mind that those shillings must pay for all my living expenses and fun too.) The moment the managing director mentioned the figure I eagerly agreed.

Reality bites into my wallet

A few months on the job, I realized that my income statement was nothing to write home about. Let alone send a stipend to my loved ones, and that is when the end-of-the-month gloom set in. Faced with the depressing reality that I have bills to pay and not enough money, I sank myself into debt. Yes, I sent out a SOS to anyone who cared to listen and give.

It took me no time, to start earning a negative salary and to be in a borrowing cycle. By the last week of each month I was on my knees (literally begging God for a miracle). And to add insult to injury, it seemed my friends and colleagues had lots of money to spend on life’s little luxuries- designer perfumes, new cars, custom made jewelry and trips around the world. The best trip I could give myself was from my office to my home!

My wallet fights back

But, I got out of debt by learning to live on what I earn and accepting my limitations. I started saving and making little investments. So when I stumbled on this book, as Oprah says it was an “Aha” moment. My focus had been wrong. I was consumed with amassing wealth instead of learning. It’s not what you earn but what you learn that counts.

What’s more, you will get more kyeyo deals at better fees. (Yes, if you feel your employer doesn’t pay you enough moonlight! A quote from David Ogilvy.)

Too many fresh graduates are so focused on ‘living the life’ – partying hard, spending money on a whim and showing your swag. Just because so-and-so has a fancy Toyota Rav 4 and you only use a Rav 2(your two feet), doesn’t mean anything!

Well, you would ask about ambition and the multi-billionaires with Mercedes Benzes? Those high flying people in business and the professional world are wealthy because they have amassed skill and experience. It also took those chaps years to accumulate their wealth. I choose to believe I will get there by learning more.

A few tips to keep money in your pocket

Since reading Ogilvy on Advertising my eye is on what I can learn not what I earn. My research on the internet and in financial books turned out these gems:

1. Don’t spend on impulse: plan for whatever you need. It may seem cool to splurge but you’ll it regret when you have to walk home or miss lunch. Budget, budget!

2. Save at least 10- 30% of your earnings. This is very painful for me, because everything seems more urgent so I raid the bank. I kicked this in the butt by getting a fixed deposit account and a standing order to ensure it goes into that account.

3. Pay off your debts immediately. Another painful thing, it is so sweet to receive but payback ain’t nice.

4. Find a housemate: after years of living with your folks or relatives, I know it’s the last thing on your mind to stay with them longer. However, living with family can help you save some money till you are financially stable. Or you can get a housemate to share the rent. Sigh, still struggling with this one because am selfish when it comes to my personal space.

5. Start a business: my best friend got this right she saw she didn’t need a lot of capital to start her snack business. Now she delivers snacks to her work colleagues every morning and makes quite a profit.

6. Cut down on your outings: you don’t have to scrap it, just cut back. You don’t need to club like a Fresher unleashed on humanity or drink like a fish.

7. Watch the little things: you would be amazed to see how much those tiny expenses amount to. I have soft spot for buying airtime daily because it is only 1,000 shillings and I adore muffins. However, I realized that this cost me as much as my rent at the end of the month.

8. Set financial goals: this is my favourite, I love writing down my plans but struggle to execute them. Be real, write goals that are feasible.

9. Spend less than you earn: it sounds logical but it needs discipline. If you spend more than you earn, you don’t need to be financial guru to figure out you will be broke.

10. Be happy. Ok, I did not find this in a financial book I just discovered that if you stay positive, somehow good things come your way.

In a nutshell; learn all you can, do all you can and earn as much as possible.
(These tips were adapted from www.studenomics.com and www.associatemoney.com)

This article first appeared on http://the360network.com/