{UAH} À day with Ugandas departed
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A DAY WITH UGANDA'S DEPARTED
Written by Dr Jimmy Spire Ssentongo
It is always busy, every time news sets in that there is a new arrival, especially a big one.
Everyone among the departed wants to catch up with what transpires in the country after their departure. Some are not really keen to know; they are bored with their bodiless selves, and simply want to have some fun. Even those that had literally looked forward to milk and honey realised that the two delicacies meant nothing without sensation.
A friend of mine passed away at Kiruddu hospital last week. If his body accompanied him to where he is, it must have arrived with a frown. Clearly, if his life and that of many other nobodies meant a thing to those that manage the taxes that were collected from him without his consent all his working life, perhaps he would have left earth forty years later.
While I was pondering about his early death and those of many other poor Ugandans, sleep reported to duty. But the brain refused to shut down. Instead, it took me where my friend had gone, where it seemed as though I was among them for a long day. Perhaps my mind could not produce a post-life incorporeal scene; so, it brought it to me in earthly form.
The main gate was one and crowded with arrivals. Most of those arriving from Europe, America, Canada and Australia were too elderly to walk themselves through.
They were assisted by much younger arrivals from Africa and some parts of Asia. Many more from Africa would have been in position to help these elders, but a couple of them arrived with broken limbs from road accidents, wars and murders. They also had several infants to carry through; those that had died at birth.
There was another group on the side, holding placards. My friend whispered to me that they were African 'dignitaries'. They had refused to use the same crowded gate like everyone else.
One of the placards carried a huge inscription scribbled with the blood of one of the arriving boda boda victims, "We need a VIP gate". One of them beckoned me with worldly authority, "Come here, young man". He wanted me to help him climb onto a stool where he would be more easily recognised – perhaps so as to be given a befitting reception with trumpets.
I tried to support him up, holding his monumental stomach with both my hands. Obviously I could not bear a weight that was meant for a grader. We landed down together, him below me. I smiled behind my palm as he screamed. I thought the abdominal exhibit had burst. In any case, our intentions were different. I had planned that once he was up the stool, I would then shout out: "Thief, thieeef…"
The fall was not enough punishment, for his contribution to the number of others arriving early. When he had privilege of speech down on earth, he chose not to speak for the majority that were suffering due to poor services. It is the same exaggerated sense of importance and selfishness that was giving him the audacity to demand for special treatment in the afterlife.
He could not believe that both those who had been buried in ornamented graves and those whose bodies had been eaten by vultures in the wilderness were to use the same passage before determining where they were to go next. He could not imagine rubbing shoulders with those who had died in their little village houses, crying for paracetamol.
He had no lead car or truck of soldiers to chase the rest of us out of the jammed road. The expensive suit in which he had been buried did not mean any difference from Maama Apio's rags. His lot that were protesting at the gate were soon picked by huge dragons and dropped into a uterus pit, where they were only picked when their turn reached. They came out shivering and sensitised.
Inside the gate, we met Afande Felix Kaweesi, Muhammad Kirumira, and Ibrahim Abiriga, still demanding to know if reports of their assassination were out. I wanted to tell them that those are not answers to get under this reg... Halfway the thought, my not completely dead instincts reminded me to dream responsibly.
We advised them to ask Jacob Oulanyah, who was standing behind us watching Sheikh Nuhu Muzaata's engagement with Col Shaban Bantariza. We imagined that, having been closer to the powers that mattered, maybe Oulanyah had an idea. However, he seemed to be clueless too. In the real house of power, he was a backbencher.
Sheikh Muzaata was still taunting Bantariza, asking why he doesn't send someone to bring him his three big guns. Bantariza just laughed, explaining that if he knew then what he knows after death, he would appreciate that pride in guns is just worldly vanity. He wished he could send a messenger to some young general back home. There was no prize for guessing.
Amin is still a charming fella. He greeted me in Luganda: Oli otya ssebo? Before I responded, he asked: 'Is it true that Ugandans miss me now?' I simply smiled, which could have invited his sarcasm: 'I hear that my State Research Bureau is still active. Do you know Kakwenza?'
Obote found us at this point and laughed hard, choking on his vodka. When he managed to talk again, he whispered in my ear: 'How is UPC doing?' Oulanyah heard him and quipped while adjusting his cute bow-tie: 'Mzee, when did you last get updates? It is now Uganda People's NRM'.
Obote looked at him sternly, before standing up to leave. As he left, he muttered: 'Then stop complaining about the scavengers that have taken advantage of your death". Oulanyah didn't respond. He was quiet most of the time, mostly observing and contemplating. When I woke up, the budget of his funeral was being adjusted for the third time.
jsssentongo@gmail.com
The author is a teacher of philosophy.
--
Disclaimer:Everyone posting to this Forum bears the sole responsibility for any legal consequences of his or her postings, and hence statements and facts must be presented responsibly. Your continued membership signifies that you agree to this disclaimer and pledge to abide by our Rules and Guidelines.To unsubscribe from this group, send email to: ugandans-at-heart+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com
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Written by Dr Jimmy Spire Ssentongo
It is always busy, every time news sets in that there is a new arrival, especially a big one.
Everyone among the departed wants to catch up with what transpires in the country after their departure. Some are not really keen to know; they are bored with their bodiless selves, and simply want to have some fun. Even those that had literally looked forward to milk and honey realised that the two delicacies meant nothing without sensation.
A friend of mine passed away at Kiruddu hospital last week. If his body accompanied him to where he is, it must have arrived with a frown. Clearly, if his life and that of many other nobodies meant a thing to those that manage the taxes that were collected from him without his consent all his working life, perhaps he would have left earth forty years later.
While I was pondering about his early death and those of many other poor Ugandans, sleep reported to duty. But the brain refused to shut down. Instead, it took me where my friend had gone, where it seemed as though I was among them for a long day. Perhaps my mind could not produce a post-life incorporeal scene; so, it brought it to me in earthly form.
The main gate was one and crowded with arrivals. Most of those arriving from Europe, America, Canada and Australia were too elderly to walk themselves through.
They were assisted by much younger arrivals from Africa and some parts of Asia. Many more from Africa would have been in position to help these elders, but a couple of them arrived with broken limbs from road accidents, wars and murders. They also had several infants to carry through; those that had died at birth.
There was another group on the side, holding placards. My friend whispered to me that they were African 'dignitaries'. They had refused to use the same crowded gate like everyone else.
One of the placards carried a huge inscription scribbled with the blood of one of the arriving boda boda victims, "We need a VIP gate". One of them beckoned me with worldly authority, "Come here, young man". He wanted me to help him climb onto a stool where he would be more easily recognised – perhaps so as to be given a befitting reception with trumpets.
I tried to support him up, holding his monumental stomach with both my hands. Obviously I could not bear a weight that was meant for a grader. We landed down together, him below me. I smiled behind my palm as he screamed. I thought the abdominal exhibit had burst. In any case, our intentions were different. I had planned that once he was up the stool, I would then shout out: "Thief, thieeef…"
The fall was not enough punishment, for his contribution to the number of others arriving early. When he had privilege of speech down on earth, he chose not to speak for the majority that were suffering due to poor services. It is the same exaggerated sense of importance and selfishness that was giving him the audacity to demand for special treatment in the afterlife.
He could not believe that both those who had been buried in ornamented graves and those whose bodies had been eaten by vultures in the wilderness were to use the same passage before determining where they were to go next. He could not imagine rubbing shoulders with those who had died in their little village houses, crying for paracetamol.
He had no lead car or truck of soldiers to chase the rest of us out of the jammed road. The expensive suit in which he had been buried did not mean any difference from Maama Apio's rags. His lot that were protesting at the gate were soon picked by huge dragons and dropped into a uterus pit, where they were only picked when their turn reached. They came out shivering and sensitised.
Inside the gate, we met Afande Felix Kaweesi, Muhammad Kirumira, and Ibrahim Abiriga, still demanding to know if reports of their assassination were out. I wanted to tell them that those are not answers to get under this reg... Halfway the thought, my not completely dead instincts reminded me to dream responsibly.
We advised them to ask Jacob Oulanyah, who was standing behind us watching Sheikh Nuhu Muzaata's engagement with Col Shaban Bantariza. We imagined that, having been closer to the powers that mattered, maybe Oulanyah had an idea. However, he seemed to be clueless too. In the real house of power, he was a backbencher.
Sheikh Muzaata was still taunting Bantariza, asking why he doesn't send someone to bring him his three big guns. Bantariza just laughed, explaining that if he knew then what he knows after death, he would appreciate that pride in guns is just worldly vanity. He wished he could send a messenger to some young general back home. There was no prize for guessing.
Amin is still a charming fella. He greeted me in Luganda: Oli otya ssebo? Before I responded, he asked: 'Is it true that Ugandans miss me now?' I simply smiled, which could have invited his sarcasm: 'I hear that my State Research Bureau is still active. Do you know Kakwenza?'
Obote found us at this point and laughed hard, choking on his vodka. When he managed to talk again, he whispered in my ear: 'How is UPC doing?' Oulanyah heard him and quipped while adjusting his cute bow-tie: 'Mzee, when did you last get updates? It is now Uganda People's NRM'.
Obote looked at him sternly, before standing up to leave. As he left, he muttered: 'Then stop complaining about the scavengers that have taken advantage of your death". Oulanyah didn't respond. He was quiet most of the time, mostly observing and contemplating. When I woke up, the budget of his funeral was being adjusted for the third time.
jsssentongo@gmail.com
The author is a teacher of philosophy.
--
Disclaimer:Everyone posting to this Forum bears the sole responsibility for any legal consequences of his or her postings, and hence statements and facts must be presented responsibly. Your continued membership signifies that you agree to this disclaimer and pledge to abide by our Rules and Guidelines.To unsubscribe from this group, send email to: ugandans-at-heart+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com
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You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Ugandans at Heart (UAH) Community" group.
To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to ugandans-at-heart+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.
To view this discussion on the web visit https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/ugandans-at-heart/46406FB8-8FBE-441E-9842-6DCCFB2DE7B1%40gmail.com.
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