INNOVATIVE EXPERTS

Thanks to Nasser Road and its “innovative team of experts”, I managed to secure a visa to a conference abroad, bid all and sundry farewell and gave away all my clothes, only to be nabbed and deported back to Uganda…
I had eluded my neighbours for two weeks, having secured all the necessary documentation required for my trip to attend the International Labour Conference in Geneva, Switzerland. It is in the culture of potential travelers never to reveal their mission before the final moment. This is to avert any possible evil intentions of human nature precipitated by malice and envy.
During my final year at Ndejje University, I had become an Internet wizard in search of fortune overseas. It was then that I discovered the workshop, which was open to participants worldwide, especially Africans. I planned to travel abroad in the name of attending the workshop, then abscond and remain there, find an odd job and reap the kind of wealth I had seen people getting from odd jobs (kyeyo).
I donated most of the clothes I felt would not match world class standards to my needy friends. I was to attend as an advocate against child labour and abuse, working with a certain NGO as a project coordinator, all courtesy of Nasser Road experts, who are known for forging all manner of documents.
My mother welcomed my idea. Being her first born, I could work and facilitate my two siblings through school, as well support the entire family since mother was only a farmer. She sold part of the family land and catered for all my monetary requirements, she even gave me enough pocket money to support me for weeks in Geneva as I sorted myself out. On my agenda, I was determined to revamp our residential house as a challenge to our father, who abandoned mother for another wife many years ago.
On the day of departure, a few family friends were invited to accompany me, but more importantly to have an opportunity to visit the one and only International Air Port Entebbe. The pickup we had hired from Masulita, Luweero, seemed insufficient as everybody scrambled to come along; who wanted to miss the sight of an airplane taking off the ground? I called whoever I knew to break the news of my departure, since nobody could stop me then. Even those I had always envied for their sophistication at university sounded defeated at my news. It was my first time to visit the airport too, but most importantly, I was travelling abroad.
From the moment I arrived at the airport, I detached myself from the rest of the family and started a conversation with whoever gave me an audience until I was aboard Ethiopian Airlines. It was after takeoff that I remembered I hadn’t even waved goodbye to my family.
We finally landed in Switzerland after several hours and stops at different airports. I was caught off guard when I was summoned by a panel of legal immigration officers for serious interrogation. There were two ladies and one gentleman in suits pinned with immigration tags.
They greeted me respectfully by name, reading from my passport, and assigned me a seat facing them.
The unpreparedness I exhibited in approaching questions exposed my deception in the whole matter – I was ignorant about the child labour situation in Uganda and how successful our NGO was. They were reading from the document I had fabricated at Nasser Road, which described an NGO that was nonexistent! Actually, I hadn’t revised it fully since acquiring it.
The last straw was when they asked about the details of the NGO director, whom they had failed to access on phone several times due to “his number not being available on the MTN network”. Actually, I had faked that phone number but didn’t expect anybody to question it, given the simplicity with which I had received the visa.
When the officers started speaking Swiss, which I didn’t understand, it was signal enough that something adverse was yet to happen. They all left the room and asked me to wait. I realised I was in detention when a police officer came over and handed me a soft drink, cautioning me about my behaviour and movements at the airport before he locked the door.
By midnight, I was back on the aircraft, headed to Uganda via Dubai. I reflected on how much money I had wasted, how my family would perceive this news and reactions from the friends I had boasted about the trip to. When they served dinner on the plane that night, my appetite was AWOL; how was I supposed to face the friends I had given my clothes? The euphoria of securing a visa and my departure had long dissipated; I didn’t imagine ever smiling again. In despair, I looked at the passport which recently had been my most precious possession but had become useless in a matter of hours.
At Entebbe Airport, I called mother and broke the sad news to her, but she asked several times who I was because the Ruth she knew had left Uganda two days before. It was a big blow when she realised the truth, but she comforted me and promised to keep it confidential. We agreed to meet at my uncle’s workplace in Kiyembe and find me a soft landing place to hide and find something to do with the $1,500 I was supposed to have used as pocket money abroad.
I helped my uncle at his shop for one month before he asked me to invest my own money into it. Eight years today, our business is thriving and whenever I go to the village, people think I derived my success from abroad.
I normally encourage friends in challenging moments thus, “What you call the end can really be the beginning.”

NOT ALL THAT GLITTERS IS GOLD

THE JUBILEE POMPOUS FAÇADE: It’s time to call their bluff 

BY EDGAR NAKHGUL OUMA

Power and Voice, MS-TCDC, EAC – 2016

A story is told in my village of a man who went to collect his wife. His name was Wa Kithome, a re-known and respected mason in the area. It must have been an ecstatic moment for him, for I would imagine he had spent agonizing hours filled with anxiety and excitement.

The all – important day came. It was a Saturday. Wa Kithome woke up at dawn. Clad in his Sunday best, he dusted his recently made “akala” shoes, and embarked on the journey to finally acquire a “kitchen.”  

On his way, he passed through Kwa Mutula, our local shopping center;

In the first shop, he paid for two kilograms of sugar, and said he would be back later. In the next one, he paid for two kilograms of “kimbo” cooking fat and left. Then he paid for paraffin in the next shop and strutted out.

At the butchery, he paid for a kilo choice meat, and bounced out, whistling.

Finally, at the “hotel” popularly known as Kwa Mathuva, he paid for tea and mandazi, and promised to e back later, to the consternation of the proprietor.

Mission accomplished, and with a spring in his walk, Wa Kithome melted out of “town” puffing away at his Rooster cigarette. He punched in the air occasionally, fist firmly clenched, like Julius Yego does when his javelin throw nearly clocks 90 meters.

The journey must have been a great success, because by late afternoon, as the sun began to lean over Kyemundu forest, he re-emerged from the far end of the “town” with a striking damsel in tow. They were both glistening from sweltering heat, and a sight to behold.

At this moment, he acknowledged greetings from friends, not missing an opportunity to showcase his latest acquisition. Despite the exhaustion from the long walk, he regained his spring as he waltzed across “town”.

They walked into the first shop;

“Give me sugar!”  He snarled. The shopkeeper quickly did it, and without a word, Wa Kithome marched out, wife in tow.

“Give me Kimbo!” Wa Kithome barked in the next shop. Without questions, he was handed a two-kilogram tin, and walked out, without saying a word.

“Give me chapatti flour!” he roared next, and was swiftly handed a two-kilogram packet.

At a tiny corner shop, he demanded for a packet of salt, and was given one quickly.

Next, he marched straight to the counter of a busier shop. “Give me jogoo!”  A two-kilogram packed was hastily passed on to him. You see, jogoo was unga only for the rich and a status symbol, for the rest of the masses survived y flour from the posho mill.

Then straight to the butchery, “Give me meat!”He demanded. He was handed a package, and was assured it was the finest. He walked out, without a word.

The spree went on, and ended up at the hotel, where he ordered for tea and mandazi to cool off with his wife. To-date I still don’t understand how tea in the afternoon worked to cool off people.

Without a word to the waiter, he beckoned his new wife, and they left the town. She was perplexed by the man she had just married. How powerful can he be, really? She kept thinking, thanking God for his great man, as they walked the aisle towards home.

Before they took a end to lose sight of Kwa Mutula, Wa Kithome cleared his throat loudly, and gazed into the eyes of his newly acquired queen, as a lion would at the fat prey it had earmarked for dinner.

“You see all that town,” he growled, trying to sound as macho as he could gather.

“Yes….” She giggled back, her eyes gleaming and dancing, while lightly caressing the large veins jutting out of his forearms from the weight of the heavy “shopping” in his hands. He was a dream come true.

“All those shops belong to me. And all those attendants you saw are my employees,” he said slowly, mustering the huskies voice he could, a slight smile of contentment breaking out, striving to make it as casual as possible, not to betray anything.

POWER AND VOICE CLASS 2016 LISTENING TO DR MARCOS

She nearly screamed, but he quickly brushed her off, assuring her that there was a lot in store for her. She was exhilarated. Her excitement was palpable.

They finally got home, and she prepared him a hearty meal. I’m certain the night was steamier.

Now, days went by and they slowly began to run out of supplies.

The lady would subtly remind Wa Kithome, and he would mumble something and brush off the conversation. More days went by, and they ran out of almost everything.

Little did the lady understand why her husband couldn’t just walk down to any of his shops and re-stock their supplies?

One evening, she got completely fed up with the excuses he kept giving. She was yelling. If he couldn’t do it himself, she threatened that she would walk right down to town and collects the supplies herself. After all, wasn’t she now the woman of the house?

The thrashing she received that evening was tectonic. It took the intervention of neighbors to save her. And that was the last time the discussion ever came up. The harsh reality sunk in.

 And that’s exactly where we are as a country with Jubilee.

I have seen folks foaming at their mouths as they chant in jubilation, cheering at the juggernaut of a party launched a few days ago, vowed by machinery and investment. Folks who are hardest hit by the meltdown that is slowly crippling every sector of our economy.

I have seen pictures strewn all over every available space online and offline, of the party headquarters, a fleet of fuel guzzlers and merchandise to boot, generating orgasmic excitement.

Yet we have police officers living like vermin in this country. We have patients of cancer for instance, waiting for two years at Kenyatta National Hospital for “chemo.” Dialysis machines are as rare to see as the recent solar eclipse. We witness yet, in this regime open looting of public resources meant for development like the 215 billion Euro Bond, the NYS scandal and more.

Folks, that you splash and brag about out there is your money, used to impress you day and evening, like Wa Kithome.

Who will wake you up from that stupor?

Can Technology be a catalyst for good governance and community participation ?

https://plus.google.com/+SilcoJohn1/posts/Juaq7w8VW81

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