An African Day on Steroids

I love Africa. For Christ’s sake the place made me into the hazardous person that I am! No place on planet earth garners me so little result with so much sweat. No place makes my inner tiger roar more often than is desired, while at the same time leaving me laughing my lungs out. At the pettiness. Irrationality. Waste. You may smile as you read about this day. It’s only in retrospect that I can teeth. Most of my African days mirror it and so I seem to have a reactionary automatic repeat button in my system that literally switches itself on and off when necessary. When I was growing up, I used to be scolded for my restlessness. “Sit and still yourself child.” Interestingly, with no movement, nothing really moves in Africa. Interestingly too, when I sit and focus with my eye on a prize, or while hibernating, I can be almost immobile. Okulemesa, making things difficult, unachievable, insurmountable for others is a common tactic in Uganda. People can be there rolling or ogling their eyes or even smiling, when they know too well that they are making it impossible for you to move.

This one day. I woke up at 5am. Thanks to the leadership of my sister. She is similar to some of my best friends, middle children without whose leadership I would accelerate my own demise. Together, a force.

In Kampala, activity starts at about 7am. In fact, Ugandans are stereotyped as the laziest of the East Africans. There are times when I have been in Nairobi at 4am and people are up working!

My Pappa’s driver arrives. I have business to do in Busia. Tasks to initiate. Complete. “Yes you can take the car.” We have a deal that his Prado is at my disposal, whenever possible. He doesn’t inquire of the destination. The less explaining I have to do, the better: Lord God do I love my independence and to solve my problems, on my own!

I take with me my double slice of white bread, spread with margarine and strawberry jam, and a hot cup of instant coffee. I have this habit of always cornering my breakfast. Eat it in the most unthoughtful style, supposedly to save time. I also take with me my sister’s checkered-blue-red woolen Maasai shawl. I didn’t bring warm clothes to Uganda and I love to controoooooool my body temperature. The guy I may be involving in some projects is in the back seat. He is one of my sister’s favorites. They have a sibling relationship. A decent man with a good heart.

Busia to Kampala is normally a 3 hours’ drive. In 1.5hrs, we are about to make it. I send an sms requesting meetings for one of the projects and to have some documents prepared. Part of this ambush is to catch people unawares. Red-handed as we say. Things don’t always work the same way when one is around, as they do in their absence. On arrival, of course, the results are nothing but disappointing. The status quo was much better. No one is around working. Someone is sitting on money. My blood starts to boil. I go nuts. I go kookoo. My chest gets perky. My shoulders straighten. My chin, uplifted. My silence or presence alone is enough to make one run and hide. Far far away or deep deep under the carpet.

I wanna know the status of the second project. I all of a sudden receive impromptu information I should have received much earlier on to help me make a decision. At the site, I find out that the quote I had initially been given was quite in excess. This is someone I had had at heart, loved, supported. The pace is being set. The documents are taking forever to be found….in fact, it seems like the other party doesn’t realize their importance. People are dragging.

Sometimes, you just feel this aura of kulemesa in the air. This relationship is over. I feel endorphins from my brain and peace in my heart about this decision.

It is about 12noon now.

I have a 5pm in Kampala with some Associates. I, had set the time! I must read in preparation. I need someone to take me to the third project. On the way, I should complete some minor thing. At the store, the lady gives me less of my balance. She thinks I am a fool. A foreigner. I tell her: “please give me back all my money.” On the way to the third project, our escort doesn’t have complete information. Jesus Christ! In most cases, my presence is a liability, but now, I have to take things in my own hands. I have to get out of that Prado.

My Pappa has been calling me. He thinks I am around K’la. A friend of mine is with him. He wants to see me. He has been waiting for a while. It’s about 2.pm. We should be back by 4pm I estimate. After just an hour, we stop for a meal. My travel compatriots have been kind and accommodating. I have had a box of Ceres Mango juice for nourishment. They say no to it. We stop at a restaurant-gas station. They order. I order too on sitting. They start to eat. My order is not here. They finish, we wait. I decide that we leave. I pick up a Coke.

The driver wants to stop at his place on the way back. My chance to finally look at email. The computers are slooow. I have pages and pages of printing to do. I haven’t written the emails either. He is back. My Pappa won’t stop calling.

Where am I?

A lady calls. She has brought the hair-extensions she wanted me to buy. She wants me to see it. “Come tomorrow after I pick out what I like” I say to her. “No” she can’t. I have to buy all the hair. It’s non-refundable

Words, enjaulo–the difference– and also Kataala—cluelessness. My accent and the way I carry myself never help. Upright. Fast. I love generosity, but disrespectful acts of enjaulo based on my supposed Kataala piss the hell out of me!!!

When we have been out, he has used the car to run his errands and I have been fine with it. Now, he tells me that the car has no gas. We are not moving. It is raining cuts and dogs. Pappa won’t stop calling. I am already late for my meeting. I ask him what we should do. He says we need to go and report to the police and then buy some jerrycans to fill in the gas. I tell him “OK, let us go.” Doesn’t he see the flaw in his logic or doesn’t he know that I am actually a bonafide East African? Why would someone need to go to the police, to fill the car with gas? He probably thinks I would get scared and say “here is the money” and then run off myself. He knows too that I am tight on my meeting so it would be a faster-faster-rush decision. I just tell him to “let’s go.” Then he changes. No police. Just the gas station. He has broken my trust. I accompany him to the gas station on those motor bikes (boda boda). I do not hand him any money. I walk in the rain to buy the jerrycans, twice.

And then buy an umbrella too. I pay for his boda boda and then get into a public taxi to Kampala City. We are about 45 minutes away. The conductor of the taxi gives me less balance as well. “Just give me all my money” I tell him.

Still, he doesn’t go all the way to Kampala. Another taxi? Waw! My Associates have called that I no longer have an excuse. How about a taxi? Traffic! A boda boda. Excess. I choose the one who says to me: “let’s go” at regular price. Deep down in my heart, I know that I am going to tip him generously.

My boda boda delivers. We arrive at Serena Hotel. I am wet, dirty, and exhausted, but not mad. Just sorry. My Associates excuse me. We do business. It’s about 9pm by now. I have hardly eaten. A whole Serena doesn’t have a local dish that I want–katogo— a mixture of green bananas and meat or beans. It’s listed on the menu. I decide on spiced milk tea. Chai. To detox.

I have more things to do: take passport photo shots, sign some documents by Close of Business or Close of Day at this rate. One of my associates and I drive off. The traffic is a killer. She needs gas too. We drive around, no gas station has gas. Many cars are scuttling. Scarcity! Will we make it? We reach an internet cafe, the computers are slow. Our documents won’t print. Why didn’t we use the business office at Serena? Hmmm…The owner of the Cafe doesn’t know the problem and he is not so bothered either. A fellow customer helps us out. I sign the documents. We take the passport photos. My sister opens the gate.

“Where have you been” asks my Pappa. “In town” I calmly respond.

Eunice Ajambo is a Consultant with the Strategy and Advisory Unity of the UNDP’s Regional Bureau for Africa. She has published with the Harvard Business Publishing, the Michigan Journal of Political Science, and All Africa Global Media. She was also Editor with the Harvard Africa Policy Journal. Her interests are in organizational and program development, and human capital. She is a “Jeanne Sauvé Scholar, a Public Policy and International Affairs’ Fellow in addition to being an Archbishop Desmond Tutu Fellow.