So as i strolled out of the office today, a boda boda rider hooted, probably hoping i was headed in his direction. Living in Uganda,it is a common five second sight to behold. You see they are an easy and flexible means of transport…..thrilling too, given the speed at which they move.
I was agitated by his hooting, and i found it disturbing. I did flag him off and just continued walking at my pace. Internally believing that if i needed one, i would do the signalling myself .
It got me nostalgic though, i remembered my first days in a new town two and a half hours away from the normalcy i was acquainted with. For years and years, the city was my home, and now i had to build my home in another town.
The silver lining was the flat. I am fascinated by storeyed buildings and i have always and still do wish to live in one. Standing in my one roomed apartment,i could view the town roofs and nearby neighbourhoods at leisure……this was my world, it was beginning to unfold. I had my turn around kitchen. I mean by only one turn you had seen it all. The living room and dinning were one piece and the bedroom was a three turn around. My cream curtains brightened up the entire room and my mini bathtub was just enough for shower time. The paint on the wall was fresh and radiating through the empty space.
My dad and elder cousin took me for dinner and cautioned me to keep my door locked at all times. That night i put my feet up. Yes, i literally did on the couch and watched my first solo movie and listened to my first hoots all night long. I just couldn’t get what the problem was, how do all road users just hoot through the night. Is this small town rule?
Lemme paint a picture; here’s a town where i live and the restaurants are just on the next street, which i could see over my balcony. If i counted fifty steps i am right there. I worked directly opposite my apartment flat and the bank was on the front side of the building where i lived, the market was right at the corner. So the hooting sounds were from all directions, and this would be my wake up call. It went on from the wee hours of the night to the crack of dawn. Even the cocks seemed to know their place, for unless it was market day and they were being traded, they were the silent specie.☆☆
One lazy Saturday, i took a night stroll to get a feel of the town. I bought myself some roadside chicken and then it all made sense. The only internal means of transport to the next neighbourhood was a small salon car or a bicycle. The commuter taxi or bus was preferred for the one to two hour trip. So the usual three back seater automobile would fit up to eight people in the back seat, one on top of the other, one pushing to the front while the other leans to the back. The hooting was a signal to those by the roadside that there was still room. The front seat would have three people, and the gear and hand break would end up between a passenger’s thigh. There was no purpose to looking at the rear driving mirror because the only view was a passengers smile or frown, depending on the length of the journey and bumps on the road.
Thursday was the bonfire night, and we all sat around the fire flames and danced around to the music with drinks and meat, only turning down when it began to rain or the serving was closed. As the weeks went by and we got to know each other, it became free therapy as we shared, laughed, danced, complained and argued in front of the fire, it kept burning though, and there was never shortage of wood. Like the conversations, with time we began to take turns to add a log to the fire, it was always a warm evening!
I remember the work visits to the deep villages, where the sight of a car got the little ones all jumpy, giggly and excited as they waved ” bye bye…”. We went and witnessed pain and poverty to their extremes, where a nine year old is heading a home, tending to the garden early enough and making sure his siblings go to school with barely the basic necessitates in tow. I saw what one meal a day families looked like, the places where HIV/ AIDS hit at the speed of a race car, and the bitterness it left behind among those who felt less privileged and abandoned by their country and society. I understood why they called it witchcraft, i mean there was no logically explanation for such misfortune that greatly chose them then and continues to live amongst them. This town that i had learnt to call my home was where it was believed in my local language ; “God put his feet…….” The prison cells were crowded and an unbearable sight, from the” darkness at noon” to the stench that pierced so deeply through ones nose buds you couldn’t miss rubbing and walking out. It is impossible to not expect crime in a bitter society, it is the norm and seeing them resign to call it their normal broke my heart.
It was always a quiet drive back, and when we, like always together had a meal, we understood at a deeper level, the cries of the non- governmental organisations for support of not only the girl child, but the children of the world. We later joined hands and did radio talk shows, helped to give where we could and then we saw more children finish different levels of education.
This town taught me how to hug more, comfort more, listen more and give even the tiniest ray of hope to any soul you meet. ♥♥♥♥
≠RawandReal≠
Raw and Real 