A tipper is a truck. It’s not very big or pretty or impressively shaped. It also has nothing going in the way of ambition. If it remains unhampered in its duty of ferrying clumps of dirt from some abandoned plot to a building site, a tipper will live a life filled with whatever passes for good cheer and complacence in vehicles.
The elections have however come and shaken things up for these unassuming vehicles.
Where it was once a thing of note to have all sorts of dents and bumps on their bodies, many tipper trucks will now not allow to move in public without a veneer of posters of some airbrushed political hopeful. They simply won’t work , dead ignition and everything. If you’ve never experienced this with your tipper, its because your truck resents you and is living a secret life that you know nothing about.
Now that they’ve been prettied up and shown what it is to have people running along side them screaming verses of Stamina and My Miss, they might not be too comfortable about being made back into unglamorously grimy transporters of dirt. Trying to write about a day in the life of a discarded tipper truckproved too taxing and we at plan B don’t encourage the overuse of mental energy, mostly when it’s to be used for anthropomorphizing boring inanimate objects like tipper trucks.
So here’s a rant about all those silly trucks packed to capacity with screaming adults who are almost fully clad in poster-paper. These are the reasons why they are the most annoying thing since the messages that have been spamming our phone inboxes, urging us to vote for some sixty year old rapper:
The din: Ugandan music has done well for itself, so well that even the cool kids don’t mind shaking their legs to it in swanky bars. What these campaigning people have done is they’ve set our local music industry back by a whole bunch of years. Nobody wants to be seen dancing to Angela anymore.
The look of them: they don’t look that bad. It’s just that you don’t expect to see that many tipper trucks in one day, unless you’re in the construction business. There’s also all that black smoke that they belch, with lots of help from those generators they carry to power their noise making machines. This acrid smoke gives us colds. The grosser your cold, the more patriotic you are.
The people in them: They have whistles and for that reason they’re to be hated. The gusto with which they blow, the creepy faces that they make at you, the empty look in their eyes which makes you think that anytime they’re going to launch themselves at your head, smash it then run away cackling to themselves like some girl named Byoma.
The Vendetta: which is to relieve you of your legs. Not only do they announce their passage with enough aggression to make your ears want to disappear into themselves, they attract boda boda people. Now its no secret that these motorcycles are instruments of death. Slow and agonizing death. When they come at you, full speed just as you cross the road in Kitintale, you have to run back and jump into the heap of rubbish that you have been avoiding with that smug look on your face.