Flash non-fiction: Kampala Heat

I have just arrived in Malawi from Cape Town. It was such a long three-day, boring journey by bus. My feet are swollen from sitting on an uncomfortable seat and my long legs are still burning fire after being bunched up against the backrest of the seat in the front of mine for such a long time.

I am at home now. My mother with her arthritic legs, defies the pain with excitement that her son who lives far away in South Africa has come. She is on her feet the moment I arrive, trying to fix me something to eat. I missed local dishes – (bonongwe) amaranth seasoned with peanut sauce and nsima. Surprisingly, she has ordered my brother George to slaughter a giant rooster from her chicken coop.

‘Mama… why chicken of all the food?’

‘This is to welcome you back home.’

‘I wanted bonongwe.’

‘You can eat some other days.’

‘I’m not staying long.’

‘I thought, you are back home for good now. Look children around here call me Agogo (old woman) now.

‘I am going to Uganda.’

‘To Uganda!’

 ‘Your brother is going to Uganda!’ announces my mother to my siblings. My sister jumps up and down with joy.

‘Are you going by airplane?’ asks my sister.

‘Of course.’

‘My son, are you not scared to fly?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t trust that thing.’

‘I shall go with you to the airport to see you take the plane,’ says my sister.

‘When are you going?’ asks my brother George.

‘Sunday.’

‘What are you going to do there?’ asks my mother.

‘I am attending a writing workshop.’

‘You still write stories?’ asks Mama.

‘Yes.’

***

I hear my sister talking to my mother in the sitting room. I get out of my room to greet her.

‘We must leave early, you know Kamuzu International Airport is very far.’

‘Not that far; it is just 25 km away.’

***

We arrive at Kamuzu International Airport at around eleven. There were lots of stoppages along the way by corrupt traffic officials who extorted bribes from motorists. I hurry to check in and my siblings go to the area where people see off their loved ones. After stamping my passport, going through the security check point, I am at the waiting lounge. The Ethiopian Airline has just arrived, and people are disembarking.

Before long we leave for Kampala via Bole International Airport in Addis Ababa. After a long delay at Bole Airport in Addis Ababa, we arrive at Entebbe Airport in Uganda after midnight. I spot a driver waving an African Writers Trust placard. I walk over to him; he takes my bag and shoves it into the boot. I find another three guys in the car. Then we hit Entebbe – Kampala Express Highway is still under construction. I can see shops still open, bars and roadside stalls and people walking around the streets like daytime.

Thirty minutes later, we arrive at Forest Cottage Hotel. The cottage enjoys a quiet location at the foot of Naguru Hill. We check in and each workshop participant is allocated a cottage. The cottages have spacious rooms furnished with handmade African style wooden furniture, high wood beamed ceilings, and traditional amenities creating an exciting safari ambience. You could hear monkeys chatter in the trees.

Next day, I go into Kampala for an excursion with my friend, Moses from Zambia. The city is so chaotic with traffic and a mass of people milling around like ants. My friend comments on the voluptuous Black women.

‘Look at the beautiful women.’

‘No, look at the men.’

‘You don’t look at men in Uganda.’

‘Why?’

‘The president says you must look at the women.’

‘To know a place, you must look at men’s traits. Look at them, their faces shine with friendliness and humility.’

‘For me women matter.’

We stop at the restaurant to eat. Scanning the menu, my eyes stop at Matoke. Matoke is a staple food in Uganda. It is made from cooking green bananas. I tasted Matoke at the hotel and I loved it, served with peanut sauce and fish. We place our orders. After eating our lunch, we take a boda-boda and ask the biker to drop us off at the Art and Craft Market. It is the biggest art and craft market in the city with almost thirty malls. Stallholders call out to us, urging us to buy their goods. I buy myself a Kaftan shirt, six metre African print fabric for my mother, a pair of sandals for my sister and I love Kampala cap for my brother. My friend Moses buys a bracelet and a batik shirt.

On Saturday, the last day of our workshop, my friend Moses suggests we go into Kampala to drink. We leave soon after the workshop in the late afternoon. We hike boda-boda bikes to town. We wander around looking for a bar. In Shimon Road and alongside the Tanzanian embassy we see a bunch of prostitutes dressed in enticing clothes with thighs and breasts at display. They whistle to us, Moses and I ignore them, we wave them off and enter a nearby bar. We sit down at the table and my friend goes to the counter and buys himself a bottle of Tusker and Fanta for me.

The music is so loud, it is playing Jose Chameleone’s song, Kipepo.

‘I don’t like this place,’ I say.

‘Let us look for a karaoke bar,’ says Moses.

We get out and walk up the street.

Few minutes later, we hear loud music and the noise of people. Then we see a neon sign flashing – Club Xstasy.

 ‘I am going back to the hotel.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s late.’

‘This is our last day and tomorrow we are going home, let us enjoy ourselves and say good-bye to Kampala in style. Look at the beautiful Black women. Look how they are lechering at you.’

‘I am going.’

I walk away and ask a boda-boda biker to take me to the hotel.