{UAH} M7 meets the teachers union!
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1:25 AM |
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Filbert Baguma and his outfit of UNATU is not a joking subject. That's what the grandson of the Bachwezi discovered the other day when he ordered them to appear at State House to answer charges of education sabotage. The UNATU delegation went through trials and tribulations that day.
It started at the gate where the security detail frisked them to their scrotums, groping and pressing their manhoods and womanhoods to ensure that everything there was soft flesh, not round, hard, metallic amour. They were trained to think that there is no difference between the harmless organs of regeneration and the deadly instruments of death since both of them are spherical, so they also groped at the female delegates' hips and mammary glands and they were not doing it gently, either.
Filbert Baguma who was at the head of the delegation was ordered to stand with his feet wide apart before an aggressive SFC female soldier thrust her cast iron fingers between his legs, pressing and squeezing his manhood, looking for God knows what. The same process was repeated on every member of the delegation, including the women. They were then told to walk to the far end of a vast hall that appeared to be one kilometer long; it was entirely empty of human presence, so they walked in between the tables and the chairs neatly arranged in rows and columns towards the back end which was poorly lit with nobody to guide them. As they approached the big table at the back with chairs that had been carefully counted to match their number, a human figure suddenly materialized in front of their eyes, seemingly from nowhere. It was seated at the head of the table, looking like a sorcerer, silently reading from a notebook. It did not welcome them, but it gestured with its hand inviting them to take their seats. Filbert who was at the head of group almost fled in fear, thinking they had encountered a ghost, for he was thinking about the Bachwezi and the Batembuzi, but he was not given time to continue with his supernatural reflections: suddenly and without warning, the room was flooded with light as if an invisible demon had flipped the switches somewhere; everyone had involuntarily thrown their hands up to shield their eyes from the glare; the room had erupted into life with armed soldiers entering from everywhere through doors and windows and even ventilators that had lain hidden in the darkness. They were wielding ominous looking weapons of different shapes: cylindrical guns with nostrils like those of a porcupine, machine guns with flaring mouths like those of fiends, pot-bellied grenades that looked like pregnant harlots in the brothels of Nakulabye and Kasubi, and much more. It is only then when they realized that the figure at the head of the table was their host. He neither spoke to them, nor looked at them. He continued reading his notes then he groped with his right hand for a cup on the table which he brought to his mouth, from which he sucked in its contents noisily and they could hear the sound of his gullet as he drunk his coffee like a hippopotamus guzzling water.
They were shortly joined by three ministers: Janet, who appeared polite and humble as usual, but whose scorpion sting was familiar to all of them, then Moriku Kaduchu whose persuasive pompousness they were not ready to listen to and Muruuli Mukasa whose Burulian cynicism they were not ready to tolerate. The discussions started and Filbert spoke down the microphone for a long time, finally concluding with the words, "…we felt disappointed by the divide and rule tactics, Your Excellency, and the Arts teachers being taken for granted for so long, so…" before he was interrupted. "That's not true," said the ancestral spirit, "we told you that resources cannot allow us…" Filbert did not hear the rest of his words because something strange was happening to him. These were Ssabalwanyi's first words since they entered the hall and he felt an icy hand snaking through his spine. Surely, he thought, this fellow must be supernatural but he was not given time to examine this sentiment because the delegate from Wakiso had also interrupted the Mutembuzi. "But sir, Your Excellency, with all due respect, Mister President, sir…" before he was also interrupted by the man he was addressing, "Come to the point… By the way what do you teach?" The fellow was taken by surprise. He swallowed and his eyes glowed in alarm and confusion before Filbert spoke words of encouragement to him. "Answer the question, comrade," said the gentle Kikiga voice, but the fellow looked left, right, in front and behind. He seemed to be on the verge of running away, but was brought back to his senses when a soldier's gun accidentally fell down with a clang. The Muchwezi turned to the direction of the falling gun with eyes radiating nuclear particles; the soldier hurriedly picked up the gun, whipped it to his shoulder, stood ram-rod like a pillar of granite and saluted like a robot. The commander-in-chief rose to his feet and walked over to the fellow; he extended his hand and spoke in Kiswahili, in a voice that sounded like acid dropping on the eyeballs, "Mupatiye silaha yetu, askari," which the soldier did with two extended hands before snapping back to attention and saluting his tormentor. As he was coming back to the table, the ancestral spirit spoke to the walls: "Kamata mujinga huyo alafu fundisha yeye dasturi yetu ya mapinduzi!" It was like flipping an electric switch; there was an explosion of activity and the unfortunate man was lifted into the air like a pair of scissors, each SFC boy holding a limb, as they run out with him through a side door.
After settling on his chair, he asked: "Where were we? ... Oh yes. I was asking the man from Ssingo what subject he teaches." This time, there was no hesitation. "I am a teacher of Civics, sir." Their host cried out in bewilderment, "You mean, there are people who still teach Civics in this country?" He picked up his cup and sucked noisily as if to annoy the Civics teacher. He directed the next question to the UNATU delegate from Masaka District, "And what do you teach?" The man did not give it a second thought but just ejaculated, "Luganda!" The man at the head of the table opened his eyes wide, exposing the white parts, then he pushed them two inches out of his skull and rotated them around the room, first towards Baguma to left, then towards his ministers at his side, then to the SFC soldiers guarding him to the right and finally to the UNATU delegation in front of him. The Masaka delegate felt his spine crawling with fear, but their host finally brought his eyeballs under control; then he broke into a sputtering laughter of a man who is afflicted by stammering and cannot laugh like other people. The Luganda teacher from Masaka was visibly offended so he asked angrily, "Why are you laughing at me, sir? Is it wrong to teach Luganda?" But Filbert again stepped in with Kikiga smoothness, saying, "All right, my friend. We are here to negotiate for better remuneration of people like you, so calm down." The storm passed.
The host wiped tears from his eyes, but the mirth still lingered in his twinkling eyes as he asked the delegate from Iganga to state his subjects of specialization. The Musoga was equal to the challenge. He stood up, pushed his chest forward and stated, "English Language and Literature in English." Their host clapped his hands in mock appreciation, but nobody joined him. The Musoga cut in with a slicing voice like a butcher's knife, "It goes without saying, sir, that the likes of me deserve a higher salary than any science sonofabitch…" He caught himself and said, "Sorry, Excellency, I meant any science teacher, sir, the reason being that I am the fulcrum, the axis on which all education rotates. I am the one who empowers the science teacher, the engineer, the medical doctor, the nuclear physicist, the agriculturalist, the industrial chemist…all the riff-raff of the so-called agents of development: I am the one who gives them the ability to understand and internalize the subject matter of their profession because I teach the language of education in the British Commonwealth, which is English." The three ministers looked at each other silently; they were impressed. The host, however, cleared his throat and reminded this firebrand from Iganga that when the floating vegetation was blocking the turbines at Kiira Dam, it was not reading Shakespeare's poems that solved the problem but innovative engineering of the UPDF Engineering Brigade; that the locusts were not chased away from Karamoja by people who spoke English through the nose; that the landslides in Bududa were not stopped by people who teach Civics. All these were solved by scientific knowledge and innovation.
The delegate from Iganga refused to take it lying down. "Sir," he ejaculated, "science cannot solve the bigger questions of the day such as rampant corruption, poverty, immorality, injustice, tribalism, nepotism, oppression and exploitation. It is George Orwell's satirical fable, 'Animal Farm' that will help us to answer these questions because it is talking about Uganda. Let me illustrate: Squealer in the book is actually Ofwono Opondo who has convinced everybody that politicians and MPs do not benefit from their fat salaries, but the poor voters for whom they buy coffins when they lose their loved ones." His host snorted and said, "All right. I have read the book. So tell us: who is Napoleon in Uganda?" The man from Iganga was rendered speechless; he felt trapped and there was panic written all over his face; beads of sweat stood on his trembling lips and when he spoke, there was a spider inside his voice. "I will not answer that question, sir." There was palpable tension in the room and the host's mocking voice penetrated his idling brain and woke him up, "I thought you had balls, but apparently you are just like the rest…"
All Literature teachers by training are combative. The derisive, mocking voice of the host stung the Musoga and he came back with a rejoinder. "To the contrary, sir, because I have to tell you that we are consulting with the National Curriculum Development Centre and we are in advanced stages of having Rukirabashaija's novel, 'The Greedy Barbarian' included in the A level syllabus in 2023." That's when all hell broke loose.
Their host sprung to his feet, opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no words came out; however, he kept wagging his index finger at the delegate and his contorted face spoke louder than his voice could ever do. Everybody had stood up and the soldiers were now converging on them from all directions, but their host gestured with his hands ordering them to back off. Then he said loudly, "There shall be no salary increment for the Arts teachers till next financial year." He paused and then in a menacing voice he said quietly, "Now get out of here."
The UNATU delegates ran blindly towards the door and out of State House; they kept glancing over their shoulders to see if anyone was pursuing them; they only felt safe when they reached Kampala Road and it is only then when the delegate from Masaka felt a pang of regret. As they had sat in the great hall, a delicious aroma of frying chicken had penetrated his nostrils and he had looked forward to enjoying fried chicken for lunch. He had not tasted chicken or meat for a whole two years since the Covid-19 lockdown of March 2020 due to economic hardships. But now, look at what has happened! This squinted-eyed Musoga has bungled it all. That's why his kith and kin are afflicted by jiggers year after year. He fished out his handkerchief and moped his sweaty face as they walked towards the Teachers House on Bombo Road.
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It started at the gate where the security detail frisked them to their scrotums, groping and pressing their manhoods and womanhoods to ensure that everything there was soft flesh, not round, hard, metallic amour. They were trained to think that there is no difference between the harmless organs of regeneration and the deadly instruments of death since both of them are spherical, so they also groped at the female delegates' hips and mammary glands and they were not doing it gently, either.
Filbert Baguma who was at the head of the delegation was ordered to stand with his feet wide apart before an aggressive SFC female soldier thrust her cast iron fingers between his legs, pressing and squeezing his manhood, looking for God knows what. The same process was repeated on every member of the delegation, including the women. They were then told to walk to the far end of a vast hall that appeared to be one kilometer long; it was entirely empty of human presence, so they walked in between the tables and the chairs neatly arranged in rows and columns towards the back end which was poorly lit with nobody to guide them. As they approached the big table at the back with chairs that had been carefully counted to match their number, a human figure suddenly materialized in front of their eyes, seemingly from nowhere. It was seated at the head of the table, looking like a sorcerer, silently reading from a notebook. It did not welcome them, but it gestured with its hand inviting them to take their seats. Filbert who was at the head of group almost fled in fear, thinking they had encountered a ghost, for he was thinking about the Bachwezi and the Batembuzi, but he was not given time to continue with his supernatural reflections: suddenly and without warning, the room was flooded with light as if an invisible demon had flipped the switches somewhere; everyone had involuntarily thrown their hands up to shield their eyes from the glare; the room had erupted into life with armed soldiers entering from everywhere through doors and windows and even ventilators that had lain hidden in the darkness. They were wielding ominous looking weapons of different shapes: cylindrical guns with nostrils like those of a porcupine, machine guns with flaring mouths like those of fiends, pot-bellied grenades that looked like pregnant harlots in the brothels of Nakulabye and Kasubi, and much more. It is only then when they realized that the figure at the head of the table was their host. He neither spoke to them, nor looked at them. He continued reading his notes then he groped with his right hand for a cup on the table which he brought to his mouth, from which he sucked in its contents noisily and they could hear the sound of his gullet as he drunk his coffee like a hippopotamus guzzling water.
They were shortly joined by three ministers: Janet, who appeared polite and humble as usual, but whose scorpion sting was familiar to all of them, then Moriku Kaduchu whose persuasive pompousness they were not ready to listen to and Muruuli Mukasa whose Burulian cynicism they were not ready to tolerate. The discussions started and Filbert spoke down the microphone for a long time, finally concluding with the words, "…we felt disappointed by the divide and rule tactics, Your Excellency, and the Arts teachers being taken for granted for so long, so…" before he was interrupted. "That's not true," said the ancestral spirit, "we told you that resources cannot allow us…" Filbert did not hear the rest of his words because something strange was happening to him. These were Ssabalwanyi's first words since they entered the hall and he felt an icy hand snaking through his spine. Surely, he thought, this fellow must be supernatural but he was not given time to examine this sentiment because the delegate from Wakiso had also interrupted the Mutembuzi. "But sir, Your Excellency, with all due respect, Mister President, sir…" before he was also interrupted by the man he was addressing, "Come to the point… By the way what do you teach?" The fellow was taken by surprise. He swallowed and his eyes glowed in alarm and confusion before Filbert spoke words of encouragement to him. "Answer the question, comrade," said the gentle Kikiga voice, but the fellow looked left, right, in front and behind. He seemed to be on the verge of running away, but was brought back to his senses when a soldier's gun accidentally fell down with a clang. The Muchwezi turned to the direction of the falling gun with eyes radiating nuclear particles; the soldier hurriedly picked up the gun, whipped it to his shoulder, stood ram-rod like a pillar of granite and saluted like a robot. The commander-in-chief rose to his feet and walked over to the fellow; he extended his hand and spoke in Kiswahili, in a voice that sounded like acid dropping on the eyeballs, "Mupatiye silaha yetu, askari," which the soldier did with two extended hands before snapping back to attention and saluting his tormentor. As he was coming back to the table, the ancestral spirit spoke to the walls: "Kamata mujinga huyo alafu fundisha yeye dasturi yetu ya mapinduzi!" It was like flipping an electric switch; there was an explosion of activity and the unfortunate man was lifted into the air like a pair of scissors, each SFC boy holding a limb, as they run out with him through a side door.
After settling on his chair, he asked: "Where were we? ... Oh yes. I was asking the man from Ssingo what subject he teaches." This time, there was no hesitation. "I am a teacher of Civics, sir." Their host cried out in bewilderment, "You mean, there are people who still teach Civics in this country?" He picked up his cup and sucked noisily as if to annoy the Civics teacher. He directed the next question to the UNATU delegate from Masaka District, "And what do you teach?" The man did not give it a second thought but just ejaculated, "Luganda!" The man at the head of the table opened his eyes wide, exposing the white parts, then he pushed them two inches out of his skull and rotated them around the room, first towards Baguma to left, then towards his ministers at his side, then to the SFC soldiers guarding him to the right and finally to the UNATU delegation in front of him. The Masaka delegate felt his spine crawling with fear, but their host finally brought his eyeballs under control; then he broke into a sputtering laughter of a man who is afflicted by stammering and cannot laugh like other people. The Luganda teacher from Masaka was visibly offended so he asked angrily, "Why are you laughing at me, sir? Is it wrong to teach Luganda?" But Filbert again stepped in with Kikiga smoothness, saying, "All right, my friend. We are here to negotiate for better remuneration of people like you, so calm down." The storm passed.
The host wiped tears from his eyes, but the mirth still lingered in his twinkling eyes as he asked the delegate from Iganga to state his subjects of specialization. The Musoga was equal to the challenge. He stood up, pushed his chest forward and stated, "English Language and Literature in English." Their host clapped his hands in mock appreciation, but nobody joined him. The Musoga cut in with a slicing voice like a butcher's knife, "It goes without saying, sir, that the likes of me deserve a higher salary than any science sonofabitch…" He caught himself and said, "Sorry, Excellency, I meant any science teacher, sir, the reason being that I am the fulcrum, the axis on which all education rotates. I am the one who empowers the science teacher, the engineer, the medical doctor, the nuclear physicist, the agriculturalist, the industrial chemist…all the riff-raff of the so-called agents of development: I am the one who gives them the ability to understand and internalize the subject matter of their profession because I teach the language of education in the British Commonwealth, which is English." The three ministers looked at each other silently; they were impressed. The host, however, cleared his throat and reminded this firebrand from Iganga that when the floating vegetation was blocking the turbines at Kiira Dam, it was not reading Shakespeare's poems that solved the problem but innovative engineering of the UPDF Engineering Brigade; that the locusts were not chased away from Karamoja by people who spoke English through the nose; that the landslides in Bududa were not stopped by people who teach Civics. All these were solved by scientific knowledge and innovation.
The delegate from Iganga refused to take it lying down. "Sir," he ejaculated, "science cannot solve the bigger questions of the day such as rampant corruption, poverty, immorality, injustice, tribalism, nepotism, oppression and exploitation. It is George Orwell's satirical fable, 'Animal Farm' that will help us to answer these questions because it is talking about Uganda. Let me illustrate: Squealer in the book is actually Ofwono Opondo who has convinced everybody that politicians and MPs do not benefit from their fat salaries, but the poor voters for whom they buy coffins when they lose their loved ones." His host snorted and said, "All right. I have read the book. So tell us: who is Napoleon in Uganda?" The man from Iganga was rendered speechless; he felt trapped and there was panic written all over his face; beads of sweat stood on his trembling lips and when he spoke, there was a spider inside his voice. "I will not answer that question, sir." There was palpable tension in the room and the host's mocking voice penetrated his idling brain and woke him up, "I thought you had balls, but apparently you are just like the rest…"
All Literature teachers by training are combative. The derisive, mocking voice of the host stung the Musoga and he came back with a rejoinder. "To the contrary, sir, because I have to tell you that we are consulting with the National Curriculum Development Centre and we are in advanced stages of having Rukirabashaija's novel, 'The Greedy Barbarian' included in the A level syllabus in 2023." That's when all hell broke loose.
Their host sprung to his feet, opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no words came out; however, he kept wagging his index finger at the delegate and his contorted face spoke louder than his voice could ever do. Everybody had stood up and the soldiers were now converging on them from all directions, but their host gestured with his hands ordering them to back off. Then he said loudly, "There shall be no salary increment for the Arts teachers till next financial year." He paused and then in a menacing voice he said quietly, "Now get out of here."
The UNATU delegates ran blindly towards the door and out of State House; they kept glancing over their shoulders to see if anyone was pursuing them; they only felt safe when they reached Kampala Road and it is only then when the delegate from Masaka felt a pang of regret. As they had sat in the great hall, a delicious aroma of frying chicken had penetrated his nostrils and he had looked forward to enjoying fried chicken for lunch. He had not tasted chicken or meat for a whole two years since the Covid-19 lockdown of March 2020 due to economic hardships. But now, look at what has happened! This squinted-eyed Musoga has bungled it all. That's why his kith and kin are afflicted by jiggers year after year. He fished out his handkerchief and moped his sweaty face as they walked towards the Teachers House on Bombo Road.
Copied!
Sent from Gook's iPhone
--
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
---
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/68F6D19B-B5B5-420A-9D76-202BA212504A%40gmail.com.
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