More Transport Tales from Kampala

The bodaholics and taxi lovers that I connect with on social networks sent me such a nice collection of stories that I had enough material for a second Stiletto Point article. Big thanks to everybody who contributed. First of all, y’all saved me from having to write that Sunday. Secondly, thank you for helping me paint a picture (wordpicture?) of what it is like to use public transport in this our chaotic and often funny city.

Kampala, home of organized chaos  From Kabiza.com

Kampala, home of organized chaos
From Kabiza.com

Akech: I once boarded a taxi from Gayaza to town. When one lady got off off at Kubiri , the conductor started to call for people to come in. Unfortunately, that woman had thrown up all over the back seat. Passengers of course refused to sit there. The conductor then said, “Whoever accepts to sit there will pay half price.” In unison, the whole taxi shouted, “yiiiyyiii?!’

Laura: A taxi I was once in stopped to wait for customers in a sunny spot. When a lady sitting next to a window complained that she was getting sunburnt, the conductor said, “Woviira mu waliwo umbrella?” – meaning “Is there an umbrella at your stop?”

Notice that there is a guy behind the boda guy? Where is he resting his feet?

Notice that there is a guy behind the boda guy? Where is he resting his feet?

Kyakyo: One time, I flagged down a boda along Acacia Avenue. He was wearing a helmet.  It was around 9pm. I didn’t bother negotiating and  just said “stage” and he grunted. I hoped on. As we approached the now Mish Mash area, he reached back and touched my thigh! Indignantly, I shouted, “excuse me!” but he insisted on touching me. When I told him to stop the bike, he took off his helmet and that is when I noticed that he was Indian. I just told him to scoot on.

Kumbuka: In my O’Level at Mwiri college, I was once sent home for school fees. Fare from the Jinja park to home had always been 2500/=. All through the journey, I sat confident that I had enough money, not knowing that fare had been increased to 3000/= . When I paid, the conductor asked for the 500/=. I didn’t have it.  I explained that I was just from school and didn’t know about this increment and even started faking tears but the man wasn’t having any of it. He said,”Mwe kusomelo temusoma mawulile?” Meanwhile, he was taking my shoe!

kla247

Achetun: Yesterday evening, I boarded a taxi near Mulago hospital. As soon as we joined the main road, a Police bike followed us. Two officers ordered our driver and conductor to get out and sign in their book. They then issued a fine demand note. When they asked see the driver’s permit, he claimed to have left it in town. It was when the police unleashed another ticket that the conductor started to complain bitterly, saying they had received three other tickets that day. Altogether they had been charged over 800K in one morning. We were chased out of the taxi and it drove off via Yusuf Lule road.

Ntezi:  I always have conversations with my boda men, especially when we’re travelling long distances. Also in the unusual or ungodly hours I find myself sharing real life experiences with them. This is my way of ensuring I am humanized in their minds, so that they abandon any evil plans they might have. Hasn’t failed me yet.

Osweri: I’d always wondered about people in taxis who make a spectacle of themselves over 500/- until I boarded some taxi to Ntinda (1500). I told the tout I was disembarking in Nakawa. Translation: I’m paying 1000, right? Long story short, my beautiful leather handbag is sans a shoulder strap now. I’m mad and mournful, but without an ounce of embarrassment. I need to stop talking and just buy that scooter already!

Bodaholics

Bodaholics of Kampala

I’m with Marvis. I spend so much time and money on boda bodas that it would be a super smart move if I bought a scooter. Perhaps I would even hire a rider.

Do leave a story of your own in the comment section.

See you next Monday.

Advertisements

Lend me your tear tales and I’ll give you mine.

I’ve been doing a bit of reflection lately and that has come with much weeping. Much? No. A WHOLE LOT of crying. Everywhere and damn near all the time. I’ve been crying roughly as much as Kampala’s sky (it has only beaten me in the hailstone department).

During a particularly wild, juddering, snot-on-blouse, veiny eyed session, it occurred to me that crying can be good, even funny fodder for stories if well documented. Now whenever I notice that I am pulling a new style of crying, I grab a pen and write a line or a paragraph describing it. Some of those are really good.

How big or small a crier are you? Have you cried in public before?  Have you mastered the art of crying without tears (where you swallow the tears instead of letting them roll)?  Hi-five me if you’ve done the Chester Bennington scream!

Hi-five yourself if you’ve done the scream without the sound.

What makes you cry? Books? Lost love? A promotion? A demotion?

Losing to your arch nemesis?

And how do you cry? I’d like all of your spicy tear-tales for a short story.

Or maybe a Stiletto Point article. I don’t know yet.

Comment or email mildredwriterchick@gmail.com with some?

Thanks!

I will attribute, of course.

If you want.