Hanging on by a dress

It was one of those days when some insignificant thing that someone else thought was a matter of life and death kept me late in the office. But as a good employee and team player, I happily obliged to put in the extra hours to get the job done. Several tweets and Facebook posts later, and of course after receiving the email that my late night offering had been accepted, I contemplated heading home.

Thus I proceeded to fish out my wallet from my voluptuous handbag to check how much money I had. To my disbelief, all I saw was a crumpled brown note and a gold coin. My heart sank as a quick glance at the laptop clock revealed 10.45 pm. It was too late for me to safely walk to the taxi stage…

Still in disbelief, I proceeded to empty the contents of my handbag hoping and praying that a stray coin or two would fall out. The contents splattered all over my desk only to expose my lipstick, lip gloss, super glue (that’s another story), cell phone, a bunch of keys, hand cream, scarf and wallet. But no coins. A heavy sigh escaped from my lips as my shoulders sank.

The ugly truth sinks in

It was final; all I had was 1,500 shillings, just enough for a taxi and bodaboda home. So I stole  another glance at the time; it was getting late, and I couldn’t postpone my journey home any longer. I purposefully rose from my seat, smoothed my flimsy purple polyester dress over my hips and placed the contents of my handbag back into that receptacle, then marched out of the office into the dark of Kampala night.

The cold air traversed my nostrils, assaulting my lungs and squeezing a little cough out of me. As my skin shivered, fear set in, completing my goosebump look. Yes, I was petrified of standing on the pavement in the dead of the night, scared of any thugs that might nab my bag or booty, whichever took their fancy.

So I half ran, half walked past the bushes around the bend in the road, straight to the taxi stage marked by a huge tree. Mercifully, a beat up taxi pulled up, so I hurriedly hopped in, brushing my flimsy dress against a loose nail sticking out of the passenger’s seat. 

Shortly after I sat down, my phone rang. To my delight, it was an old friend that I hadn’t heard from in ages. This launched me into a series of platitudes, much to the chagrin of my fellow passengers. Their irritated looks fueled my gregariousness, so I grew louder with every response.

For all my annoying display, little did I know that the joke would soon be on me. My stage drew near so in my most obnoxious tone, I threw my fare at the taxi conductor and yelled at him to stop the taxi. He shook his head as the vehicle came to a jarring halt and promptly held the door open for me.

Nailed it

Suddenly, I heard a strange ripping sound and felt a gust of wind on my backside. Perplexed, I looked back to be sure it wasn’t a fart. It was much worse; the hem of my dress dangled on a nail affixed to the passenger seat.

”Oh, my dress! My dress!” is all I could say; my cheeks were burning as the breeze cooled my backside. At that exact moment, I regretted neglecting to take my panty out of the crack of my butt earlier. This little oversight left my right butt cheek properly exposed to all and sundry, much to their amusement.

Oddly, my former victim, the taxi conductor, became my saviour. He leaned over and gingerly lifted my dress off the nail. Before he could utter a word, I sped off into the embracing veil of darkness, leaving behind my change and shame.

Fork falls from bra

I was in Form Five, my first term in a new school. In the first weeks I spent all my pocket money buying food from the canteen. I was simply too broke to buy chips for supper!  All I had was a crumpled Shs 1,000 note tucked away in my metal box, to last me till Visitation Day which was still two weeks away. 

Anyway, I settled down to eat my beans and posho. Carefully I pushed the beans infested with weevils off my plate and placed a piece of posho in my mouth. It tasted cold and rubbery and the bean soup was equally not tasty.

Before I finished my supper, the bell for evening prayers rang. I got up, poured the food into the bin and ran to the field. The religious prefect started the prayers while holding onto her rosary. Round and round over the beads went her hand till her forefinger touched the little silver cross.

Afterwards, she coolly said: “Those who are going to Radio Maria tomorrow please come and see me immediately.” As soon as the last word was out of her mouth, the crowd dispersed and I rushed to class for prep. Each, students would visit Radio Maria, a local station, and pray the rosary on air. This meant that the group would forgo supper, and an hour of prep.

Praying the rosary on air was more scary than saying it anonymously at school evening prayers. However, there would be an alternative supper waiting for you. Sweet potatoes and ground nut stew, this was a welcome break from the routine beans and posho.  This treat would be left in the capable hands of the mess prefect. She did not have a list of names of who genuinely went to Radio Maria. Therefore this little loophole gave birth to the La Ligas.

La Liga is Spanish meaning the league. It is the soccer league of Spain. In school students who ate after the official supper were known as La Ligas because they were a specific team that specialized in sneaking away from prep to eat an extra supper.

They crept from their classes during evening prep and joined the Radio Maria group to feast on groundnut stew and sweet potatoes. Amazingly, my desk mate, Emily, heard my tummy growl as I lay my head on the desk. I regretted having thrown away my food because hunger hit me so hard I could not concentrate on studying. 

Emily proposed that we could join the La Ligas and eat better food. A frown spread across my face and I told her that I would not do that. It would be embarrassing if we were found out and people would call us “Greedy.’’

Despite my worries of being caught, the growling in my tummy convinced me to join the bandwagon.  We agreed that Emily would leave the class first and wait for me outside the door, to avoid suspicion from our classmates. It worked in our favour!

However, there was still a problem of hiding the forks from our class mates. Emily confided in me that she usually hid the fork between her breasts in her bra. I burst into laughter which was silenced by the prep master’s warning glance.

Eventually I agreed and put the fork in my bra. Emily walked out first. I followed and as I was about to turn the door knob, I breathed out and the damn fork fell onto the floor! My heart was racing as I quickly opened the door and stepped out. I could hear the raucous laughter behind me. Emily asked what happened and I frantically told her that I dropped my fork.

“Well, go get it,” she screamed. I told her I couldn’t. She quickly opened the door, stuck her head in and grabbed the fork. As we entered the class, returning from eating, the entire class screamed: “La Ligas First Class Honours!”
Our reply? OMG!



This article first appeared in The Observer.

Vernacular in The workplace

A few days ago I found myself left out of the loop when my colleagues and boss decided to speak Luganda during an official meeting. At first, I was taken aback by the insensitivity (I don’t speak a stitch of Luganda), then dismayed at the lack of professionalism. In a protest, I rudely scraped my chair and childishly marched to the bathroom to passively scream my disgust into the mirror.

By the time I graciously returned to my seat, everybody around the boardroom table was still conducting the meeting in Luganda. After a while, one of my colleagues—concerned why I, the writer on the job, was not writing anything—queried my resigned attitude. By then, screams into the bathroom mirror had done absolutely nothing for my temper; everything inside me wanted to scream, “I cannot write in Luganda!” at this jolly paunchy specimen in front of me. 

However, my angelic more poised self took over and I nonchalantly replied, “Translation please.” To be honest, I think it was the fear of certain joblessness and not composure that directed this succinct response. Nevertheless, at that point they all swiftly switched back to English, leaving me wondering how a non-Luganda speaking foreigner would have coped in such a situation. “Perhaps,” I thought, “people do not understand the impact of speaking a language that not everyone understands.”

Bad etiquette
I have always thought that it is generally in poor taste and a thorough display of lack of good upbringing (or education) to speak to someone in a language they do not understand; it could be an indication that you are not confident or conversant in your language skills. Sometimes, when I read the emails people send around, I shake my head in pity. “This must be a vernacular speaker who hasn’t had enough time to build prowess in English,” I usually utter to myself. Then I proceed to try and decipher the hidden meaning behind their gibberish.

The funny thing is, my counterparts can narrate stories of being beaten for speaking vernacular in school (obviously the beating did not work), yet they babble in their native tongue incessantly as hapless foreigners look on.

Tribal divisions in a neutral zone
Unfortunately, when one hears a language they can not comprehend, they naturally withdraw from the conversation and gravitate towards a place they can express themselves. In my travels and in my life, I have seen this happen a million times. So I have no beef for Luganda or any vernacular for that matter. It’s the divisive factor that I detest. That poor soul who doesn’t understand the conversation coils into a corner and stays there.

Our country is already riddled with tribalism. Do we have to bring into the workplace, which ought to be a neutral ground for thinking, hardworking members of society?
Just because one finds their tribesmate does not mean one must exclude the rest, particularly in a group setting. If you want to express yourself in your language, go ahead; but make sure everyone around you speaks the same language too.

Suspicion and Gossip
In medieval Europe, foreigners would be stabbed because people thought they were plotting their deaths. Yes, it makes the listener uneasy and they immediately suspect you are talking about them. This breeds misunderstandings and quarrels.

Looking back, I should have made my dismay known instead of passively screaming into a bathroom mirror in my mother tongue (which sounds very jarring and harsh to the ear). It is only good manners if we all speak the same language and respect the forum, particularly if it’s a public one. I admire foreigners who come to a new country and struggle to speak the local language.

As you contemplate about speaking vernacular in the office, please consider the person who does not understand your language. In the meantime, I’ll be brushing up on my Luganda.