Monday, July 28, 2014

BOOK REVIEW. The Third Book of Joe. Wanjui's Life Story Is Also the Story Of Kenya

The 3rd Book of Joe. Published by the University of Nairobi Press
To those who have never met him or read any of his three books, Dr. Joseph Barrage Wanjui, CBS, is this mysterious figure that once ran the mighty East Africa Industries (EAI) and now runs the University of Nairobi. “Mysterious” because few knew what it meant to be chairman of EAI, now Unilever East Africa, or what the job entailed!  Many are those who only know of him as member of a powerful cliché of Kikuyu businessmen who were wildly rumoured as being part of Mwai Kibaki’s Kitchen Cabinet aka “The Kikuyu Mafia” and, more recently, as the first non-president Chancellor of the University of Nairobi. Yet there are those who, believe it or not, will wear blank looks and ask you, “Joe Who?”
Whichever group you fall under, you will quickly realise, once you start reading Joe’s new book of memoirs, that being Chairman at EAI was a most complex and demanding job. In the sixties and well into the nineties, EAI was almost the sole manufacturer of most of the essential commodities around the house. The modern housewife cooked with Kimbo, washed stuff with Sunlight, entertained with Tree Top and bathed with Lux, Rexona, or Cadum, while her husband bathed with Lifebuoy. She spread Blue Band on bread, made tea using Brooke Bond tea leaves, cooked chapattis with Cowbow and went to the office clad in clothes kept bright by “New” Blue Omo with or without power-foam, having left her maid at home to do other things with other equally high quality products from EAI.
Now keeping all these brands on the shelves – not only in Kenya but also in Uganda and Tanzania – and showing a healthy profit, was the ultimate job of the Chairman/ Chief Executive at EAI. A job that was sometimes made extremely complex by dire social-economic circumstances, created by inept political interference and/or restrictions. It was a big, demanding job; and just how big and demanding forms a big part of Joe’s new book, Native Son, Experiences of a Kenyan Entrepreneur.
Dr Wanjui’s earlier books, From Where I Sit (1986), a commentary on African Societies and Economies; and My Native Roots: A Family Story (2009), which narrates the story of his difficult childhood and humble background and traces his lineage. But it is this, his third book that clearly demonstrates what kind of man he really turned out to be: an exceptional Kenyan.
Released last year in paperback and hardcover by the University of Nairobi Press, the book has, not one, but two brilliant Forewords, both by people who have done well in their fields: Roger H. Steadman and Professor George A.O. Magoha.
Before starting a cottage industry that grew into a household name across Africa, and selling it to a Multinational group, Roger – who is Executive Director, Pan Africa Ipsos, worked as Joe’s expatriate Marketing Manager at EAI. Prof. Magoha on the other hand not only has I.O.M., M.B.B.S. (Lagos), F.R.C.S. and F.W.A.C.S after his name, but is also Vice Chancellor & Professor of Surgery, University of Nairobi, and a Consultant Urologist.
Native Son’s 360 pages detail not just the illustrious and fruitful life of one of Kenya’s most eminent sons, but also the thoughts, observations, choices and decisions, that have informed that life. Candid and eloquent, the book details the man’s life from secondary school at Kabaa Mission School and Mangu High School to his appointment as Chancellor of the University of Nairobi, and everything in between. There is the vocational job at Metalbox in colonial-days Nairobi; the frugal but exciting undergraduate life at the Weslyan University in Ohio, United States, and postgraduate at Columbia University; courtship and marriage to a beautiful young fellow Kenyan, Elizabeth Mukami Gethii; his career progression from his first job with Esso in the states – and subsequent posting to Kenya, his stint at running ICDC, his move to EAI and resultant career with Unilever that saw him rise to the esteemed position of Development Member for Africa, with responsibility for Africa & the Middle East and an office in Nairobi; his Chairmanship and membership of various organisations that have, over the years, moved Kenya forward one way or another; his difficult relationship with Daniel arap Moi and his muggy government; his relentless clamour for economic liberalisation; Chancellorship of the University; and his part as a leader in building Kenya as we know it today.
But the book is not all about education, corporate leadership and government. It is also the story of a man; a great man.

Family Man
“My joy and happiness in life,” he writes in the section about his immediate family, “has sprung from the well-being and happiness of my children. Watching them grow and bringing them up mattered more to me than anything else.”  
This section also includes a candid, almost kiss-and-tell story of Courtship, Marriage and eventual Separation and Divorce with first wife; his girls growing up exceedingly well despite the challenges of their parents’ divorce, single parenthood, his second marriage, and the addition of a brother and a sister - Joseph, and Ciiru; and the raising of all into responsible, mature Kenyans who have made their father a proud grandfather – all of which he handled just as efficiently as he handled his CEO duties for Unilever. Many, for instance are the single parents who would find it extremely difficult to broach the subject, let alone break the news of impending remarriage, to their children – especially daughters – but Joe Wanjui seems to have handled that very smoothly, thank you.
 “When I made up my mind,” he recalls. “I called the girls over to communicate my decision. To be quite frank, I did not want it to be a major issue for debate. That has been my style with my children on sensitive matters like these. The main point was that I wanted them to know what I wanted to do so that they would not be taken by surprise. I simply told them I had decided to remarry and asked for their opinion – a kind of family ‘brainstorming’ session!”
But Joe is no sweet potato; before calling that meeting, he had, for four years, observed how his girls had come to love his girlfriend’s son, their little brother Joseph, a great deal, writing from school to request that the boy be brought home to spend time with them over their holidays.
No wonder Professor Magoha picks on Joe’s relationship with his children for special mention in his Foreword: He states:
“We see him grow up with his children, talk to them and with them; we observe that he actually knows the character of each of his children; he respects and appreciates their strengths and encourages them through their weaknesses. This is a lesson for the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) – to know his human resource apart from always looking at the bottom line – money flowing in.”

Patriot at large
Dr. Wanjui, CBS, is a great Kenyan who has more than earned the state commendation he got in 2003. A fountainhead who has done more with his life than several lesser men put together, he is an unabashed, unapologetic defender of Capitalism, who not only understands the ways and workings of Capital, but also how best to optimise its growth for self and country; especially country, I am sure he would argue. Throughout the book, even as he eloquently writes about his duty to his employer, Unilever, Joe’s sharp sense of patriotism is never too far from the surface. Even though the story is subdivided into six unequal parts, the last two parts, are solely dedicated to matters of national interest, his candid views on them and the parts he played in his various capacities to set things right.
Using simple, everyday words, Joe explains how the Moi government killed Investment in Kenya, such that “throughout the 24 years of the ‘Nyayo’ era, no worthwhile investment came Kenya’s way. And not for lack of trying.” He also analyses some of the errors of the “Nyayo Error” that ultimately turned the once promising young nation into a basket case that was almost perpetually on its knees, begging for alms from reluctant donors; the same donors whose advice to liberalise the economy and be a little nicer to the citizens Moi had blatantly ignored. Joe paints an almost comical picture of the poor state of the economy at the time and how it had progressively got that way. He pulls no punches and calls it as he saw it. But like the “‘Professor’ of Practical business and dynamic change management” that he is, as opposed to a politician that he is not, Joe Wanjui also explains how that was turned around and can continue to be turned around further because we are not out of the muck yet.
Using both personal and corporate experiences, Joe shows us how “The Politics of Slavery and Colonialism” led to the killing and/or scaring off of capital investment and rot the economy. He covers the nation’s struggle with liberalisation when it finally came, the Matatu Politics of the early days of Multiparty Democracy, the euphoria of 2002 following the democratic ouster of Moi’s rule; where John Githongo erred; and the battle that lies ahead to catch up on what we lost over 24 years of economic mismanagement and plunder.
 To paraphrase Roger Steadman in his Foreword, Dr Wanjui “is the leading light amongst his peers in building Kenya and this is his testimony. The fact that he labours to write this book is yet another indication of his conviction that the struggles of his time and lessons from his life can profit those Kenyans who will follow in the years ahead.”
Having studied law at Yale, the late Mark H. McCormack the world’s godfather of Sports Marketing, and author of What They Don’t Teach You at Harvard Business School, once wrote that he never went to Harvard himself, but was optimistic that his book would become recommended reading at the esteemed university. Dr Wanjui never studied at any Kenyan university, but Native Son should be compulsory reading at every university in Kenya, nay, Africa.


Lloyd Igane. kreative@publicist.com

Monday, May 5, 2014

A moment of shame, a reason for hope

My dear offspring, siblings, friends and neighbours, following my last attempt at posting something on this my blog (just for the heck of it), I come before you today, head bowed in shame and tail securely tucked between my hind legs, to report that the link I so happily propagated was not kosher.

It was just what it seemed to be: a deal too good to be true. The first thing that should have set off all the bullshit alarm bells was the fact that they offered to pay you $25 as soon as you registered! 

But did it ring any bells? Of course it did not. And of course it did like the 777 in the slot machine when you hit the jackpot, images of unexplained cash in your account flashed through your mind. And why not? It is hard work finding people to make or trick into clicking on the link; and knowing that the more people that click, the more the cash pours into your coffers, you have worked hard at it.  

Anyway, to cut a long story short, lets use scissors and come to the point. When you reached the minimum of $300 for which you are congratulated and asked to click on another link, things start becoming elephant. The link leads to a page that simply tells you THE BLOG HAS BEEN REMOVED!

Uta do? So you decide there must be a mistake and send them an email through the address given. But alas, the mail server informs you ever so politely that "the address "does not exist, you are wasting your time, go away. 

Yet another avenue for crossing the poverty line gone sour. Now comes the hard part. A story is told of a young lady who once went to the priest and confessed to having spread malicious rumours about her best friend. The Father, for he was a kind guy told her she would be forgiven as long as she carries out a single task for him.

"What task would that be father?"

"Bring that pillow and I will show you, my daughter."

So she brought the pillow. And the prieiest instantly slashed it with a razor sharp knife and bid her to hold it up in the wind.

"Is that my penance, Father?"

"No, my dear," replied the Father kindly. "Your penance is to collect all the feathers that blew into the wind and stuff them back into the pillow."

"But that's impossible, Father..."

"Exactly. Just like you can't go back and collect all those feathers, you can not unsay all the nasty things you said or caused to be said by the rumour you started..."

I feel just like that lady, right now.

Fortunately, I have just finished reading a 360 page book published by a most eminent publisher who probably hopes that I'll be so inspired by it I will review it. If that goes well you will soon be reading my views on the life story of a great Kenyan  and why the book is worth all the Ksh 2,500 it is retailing for.

I promise to also look around for interesting stories to tell and I will publish those too - who says one can't pay the bills on writing alone!

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Bullet in a maggot – my Easter story


[WARNING. This is not a eulogy but the avoidance of writing one]

Billie Joe Armstrong on the DVD cover
Before it all started going south, I was just going to watch Green Day’s 2005 European tour on DVD and simply go to sleep to the lullaby of Wake me Up When September Ends. Either the trusty old DVD player had gone cranky or the medium itself, an original DVD that my worthy friend Paul Kukubo once gifted me at a rather arty media store, had suffered irreparable damage at the hands of my beautiful brat pack who must have tested its quality label to the outer limits with their hair-raising air guitar parties – that, of course was before they became Smartphone Air Guitarists and left the poor antique cellulite product to go to rot.  
Anyway, instead of the brilliantly timed opening of  American Idiot  that I had expected, all I got was maggoty little images oozing into and out of focus. 
I was about to call one of the Smartphone Air Guitarist brigade when my own Smartphone - inherited from the oldest of them who had left us and gone to Air Guitar Heaven in December (May her lovely soul rest in peace) - beeped.  It was a WhatsApp from Besty, my most favourite brother in the diaspora. 
Betty Caplan has kuffed.
Thanks Besty, I forgot to text in reply.
Journalist & Teacher Betty Caplan - picture curtesy of Standard
Digital

Kuffed, FYI, is an endearing word created by an old friend of mine called Pam to avoid referring to the demise of her dearly departed mum by its real name. My family and I have ever since adopted that meaning as our own, extending it to cover all loved ones, of course.
Even before I could relate to this terrible news, beep! went the phone again. This time, it was my celibate young lawyer friend – let’s call her Judy – texting to ask me to describe a picture.  
By text? Can’t I just send it to you electronically? Isn’t this the age of live now before it changes into something you’d never comprehend?
And that, decidedly, was the moment things must have started going south. Choosing, for some reason the path of least resistance, the mind played tricks with me. Instead of dwelling on all the good things I could remember about my dearly departed friend, it chose to respond to my living friend. I know, right? Escapism. Delay dealing with death and cheat it of its sting, I thought gallantly.
 “It is,” I typed out, “about how Easter Eggs are made.” I hit send.
Beep.
“And how pray, are they made?”
“The picture shows a white wabbit humping a brown chicken.” Send.
Beep.
“Lol! Not far from what I imagined.”
“Now go make.” Send.
Ping!
“Go make?”
“Yes. Eggs.” Send.
Ping!
“Alone?”
“No, get the bunny and the chicken first, stupid!” Send.
Ping!
“The hen is readily available, where’s the bunny?”
“Do today’s lawyers always take things that literally?” Send
Wonky Wabbit makes an Easter Egg - Literally
So things were going south; clearly.
And so, in keeping with the mood, I turned to matters of my recently diseased friend. I owed it to myself and to her spirit to at least find out a few things; which I did. So after shedding a few hot tears (where do they all come from!), I went to Facebook and wrote a fitting tribute to my late friend; which quickly gathered a plethora of comments, likes and OMGs. Unfortunately, the post and its comments made the sms chatter from my young legal eagle - the one we earlier agreed to call Judy - even worse, for it now took on a greenish hue.
“Was she your favourite, Lloyd?”
“No, Judy,” I replied. “She was one of my very few good friends.”
Seriously though, my life truly sucked big time right then, I must admit it still does. Out of no choice of my own, my theme song had quickly degenerated to Boulevard of Broken Dreams and I was slowly sliding into  a mood so low that even Tre Cool's drumm riffs wouldn't have helped. 
And contrary to popularly held myths that writers write best when their lives suck the most, I have been reduced to doing almost nothing to make money. 
If you don’t believe me, go here and start making money too - and I surely hope you have the Time of Your Life!

Saturday, April 27, 2013

What the WhatsApp! ( When your electronic guide to the Galaxy packs up!)



The Igane manyatta before it was repaired by Ekiru the terrible Turk(ana)
Like I've said before on this blog, and as the more perceptive of my readers (all ten of them!) may well know, we are now in the multi-dimensional age of intergalactic governments, Big Brother, beyond 1984 and so forth. Anyone with a hand-held pocket-friendly device can instantly insult or be nice to any number of other someones in any number of places in the known world and, ever since space travel went commercial with the launch of Virgin Galactica, space and time myths of years gone by have been smashed to smithereens.

I was sharply reminded of this yesterday when my hand-held guide to the galaxy in the shape of a Nokia Asha packed up in the middle of a conversation with a girl sitting on Nyamurembe hill in M7land and another at a glitzy wine tasting event in  in Stellenbosch, Western Cape.  I was also trying to reason with my teenage daughter about something important and halfway through an article about muses and how they were considered the nine daughters of Zeus which was supposed to help me with stuff I am not supposed to tell you..

Panic!

But panic at times is what we need to be inventive; to think in a tangent, to reinvent our environment. So  I thought of all those things I could do and don’t do now because I’ve got my electronic device: the magazines about disease that I used to read at the reception areas of medical clinics, the personal errands I used to run and the freedom I had of not being available to the world all the time, but most of all, it just occurred to me that I should be writing my new look blog.

So I dropped the phone turned to my word processor, but was sidelined by a few jacaranda seedlings that  needed planting. I stuck them in the ground and added some humus from what formerly used to be my Maasai manyatta before one heavy bout of rain brought it crashing down. This was as a result of an unfortunate encounter with a Turkana moran called Ekiru, who had insisted on piling mud on the manyatta’s roof, saying that the cow dung used by the Maasai was not as good as the mud they (the Turkana) use for their dwellings. 

Besides providing all the humus I ever needed for mock agriculture and landscaping for my republic, the manyatta also has the two dubious distinctions, being not only the shortest-lived of all human dwellings ever built in my neighbourhood, but also the structure after which our area was named (see Manyatta, Athi river on Google Maps). It has ever since been replaced by the hut, which I may or may not attempt to write about next. 

Meanwhile, may I recommend that you check out  http://amolosart.blogspot.com. It may change your mind about a lot of stuff. Buy her pictures even (if you can understand them!).

Thursday, April 25, 2013

(Not) A Cat Called Pussy


But for a chance meeting with a Lake Goddess of remarkable charm and beauty, I was going to write a long winding story about a cat called Pussy. Then she taught me something that had escaped the murky shallowness of my excuse for a mind: "With so much to read on the web, the less words one writes, the higher their readership; it helps if one can draw stick people..."

So this is me, writing as little as I can so that you may read me, then tell your friends and neighbours what an under-writer I am so they can also tell others and so forth and so forth and before you know it,  I’ll be back on AdSense pap! Say bye-bye to long travelogue-adventure-rant-caper stories with twists and turns about things you may never get to experience, unless, of course, you are as daft as I tend to be most of the time. 

I may occasionally backslide in this new faith however, especially if the iconic Linus Gitahi has already paid for a long story and put it in The East African (or The Galactic Times!) first. Not personally, of course. He has people for that. Heck, LG has people (for all sorts of things) who in turn have people who have people that also have machines for that - that being little stuff like laying text and pictures for long stories in newspapers, or binning them if they are too short; like this one that's not even remotely about a cat called anything!.  
Ends. 


Monday, February 18, 2013

Policemen and thieves and how to travel through Uganda without hotel bills




Ole Samurai prepares to be lodgings for the night
“Are you going to leave at four or five?” asked the man with the gun and the Security Group hoodie.
I was lost for a bit there because all I had asked him was where I could find some reasonably priced accommodation in the neighbourhood of the petrol station he was guarding. “You just give me a thousand,” he added.
            “Uganda shillings?” I asked, finally catching his drift.
            “Yes, U shillings,” he confirmed with a self-satisfied grin. “You won’t be alone, see?” he went on and, pointing with the barrel of his gun at three cars, four matatus (communal taxis) and a luxury Toyota mini van. “There are people in those cars and they will continue to Kampala early tomorrow morning_____”
            “And of course we will be safe because you have a gun?” I asked, interrupting his pitch; why let the man continue preaching to the deaconry, right? “Here is two thousand,” I added to his delightful surprise, “one for your hospitality, the other for the idea.”
He beamed at me.
very thoughtfully, in case you need to freshen up .....
“And if you wish to freshen up before you sleep,” he said most hospitably, while leading me to where there was a long-snouted plastic container and basin, “you just come here.
As promised by the askari with a gun, Ole Samurai and I spent a peaceful and rather uneventful night together (one inside the other, to be precise) at the Bugiri Petrol Station on the Malaba Kampala Highway.
The discovery early in the morning that there was a running tap under the water tank and even better, a working bathroom next to the tank, was purely accidental, but a welcome bonus.
My Ugandan friend in Kampala however didn’t seem impressed.
“It’s legal nowadays,” he said nonchalantly when I explained how I’d never waste money on hotel rooms again. “They changed the law just the other day to allow travellers to sleep in their cars. Otherwise you would have been arrested for jaywalking.”
Jaywalking indeed!
As if they would give a hoot! Except in the city of Kampala where my most organised always-travel-with-a-map brother Muthomi was once delayed for almost an hour for carrying an expired driving licence,  the policemen of Uganda are generally very well disposed towards people with Kenyan plates on their cars.
“Habari my friend,” said the first ever Ugandan highway patrolman to wave me down. ”How is Kenya?” he shouted as he hurried to catch up and come to my window.
“Kenya is good.”
Wapi chai yangu?” (Where is my tea?).
Just like that, without even looking at my cracked windscreen, or scrutinising my then expired driver’s licence and insurance! The total lack of shame with which he uttered this last statement, despite the fact that tea is the oldest euphemism for a bribe in Kenya, is the true definition of impunity. So with a smile that said “no offense, officer but you’re being silly,” I let him have it.
 “Did someone inform you I was bringing it?”
 “These crazy Kenyans!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. He waved his hands wildly in the air in dismay at our craziness. “Have a safe journey,” he added as he waved me on, with a look almost of pity in his eyes.
Henceforth, I have adopted the retort “did someone say I was bringing it?” as standard response to anyone who asks me for “my tea.” Try it some time, but not on a Kenyan traffic policeman. The fines, both legal and illegal, can be too steep for that kind of talk – especially with the tough new laws.
But this is not about the Kenyan police. It the story of how I spent a restful night at Bugiri petrol Station during one uneventful journey through Uganda. On this trip, friends and neighbours, I was also to find out that Rwandan plates driving through Uganda do not command the same respect as Kenyan plates do. This may explain why, on reaching Kampala the next morning, I had to part with Ushs. 20,000 (Ksh 800) for making a simple S turn. (What? Never heard of an S turn? It’s when you make an illegal U turn, realise your mistake and make another to correct the first one.)
The male and female cop that caught me were friendly though, and made small talk about Paul Kagame and how he had fallen out with M7 for a long time until their wives orchestrated reconciliation. And after the cash had disappeared into their dark trench coats, they even wanted my phone number so we could keep in touch. I lied of course; gave them the wrong number by two digits!
Nothing amusing though about the next bunch of Ugandan cops that stopped me later that day. Having taken some time to have the old junk’s suspension checked, I had left Kampala at around seven pm and hoped to do at least four hours of the nine hour journey before finding a friendly petrol station to pitch camp at for the night. It happened on a rough stretch of road less than three hours after leaving the city.
It was a bit confusing and rather scary, not just because the “policemen,” just materialised out of the bushes and had no actual uniforms to speak of safe for worn out army issue jungle jackets, but because they were armed with only a torch with a watery weak beam and were not beneath pleading, nay, begging, for at least USh 2,000 (Ksh. 60)
Ati leasti,” said one, meaning “at least” and playing the torch on the back seat of the jeep,”2000 will help us purchesi the batteries for thisi torchi. Iti is for your safety, ssebo.” He moved around to inspect my meagre cargo better. “Nobody cares abouti us out here,” he added getting back to my window.
Something, I realised, was not quite right.
But it didn’t hit me until just when I was handing over my USh 1000 donation for their Police Torch Fund. It was only then that I took off as fast as my 20 year old jeep could.
It was their furtive gestures, darting eye movements, faltering English and confidence levels that tended to rise and fall as we haggled that had set my hairs aflutter and set alarm bells in my head. Moments later, my intuition was proven right when out of the bushes came two big motorbikes with bad engines. They gave chase for about a kilometre then fell back.
“.... many highway robbers on that section of road,” said the armed guard at the next petrol station when I narrated my experience as I handed over my last 1000 U shillings for the overnight truck stop. 
As I settled for another uneventful night’s sleep, I couldn’t help feeling very lucky. Even luckier that the next day I would be in Kigali , Rwanda, kwa Paul Kagame, where a man can go unmolested anywhere, any time of day or night, and cops don’t ask for Chai for fear of dismissal and jail.

© Lloyd Igane; Nairobi 2012

kreative@earthling.net


Oil for the mind


“That’s so cool!!!” exclaimed my Ugandan friend Daniel Engole., BA, DJ, Copywriter, radio host, and one-time side-kick to an alleged Baganda Prince, when I told him that l had gone to Kampala last year to snoop around. But when I mentioned what I had gone to snoop around for - a quick oil dollar - he laughed out loud (lol).
a beautiful monument and garden in Kampala city.
Photo by Lloyd Igane
He lol’d even louder (LOL), when I told him exactly what I found instead: a city with campaign posters (mostly of NRM yellow – it was elections time) pasted on every available surface and garbage in most corners. Daniel and I were, as the more perceptive of you have deduced, chatting online, and, following Uganda’s and then Kenya’s announcement that we were East Africa’s overnight oil sheikdoms, oil was on our minds.
 “Pathetic,” he typed, of the garbage. Or it could have been about something else; you never know with these chats. You triumphantly hit “send” on a rather lengthy sentence you have painstakingly typed for two minutes, eyes glued on the keyboard, only to look up and find your nimble-fingered chat-mate has already answered all the questions you had so laboured to ask and moved on to other things so different and more important that you feel rather silly.
Pathetic, however, also turns out to be the situation you could be in trying to find some food in that most noble of East African cities after midnight.
“Try the lower side,” offered an armed guard at a Bata shop on William Street (where I thought was the lower side).
Now I have been to Kampala many times, all before the 50th Independence Anniversary, I must add, and I have many lovely memories. I have eaten katogo for breakfast at many a restaurant, been spoilt with delicious, wholesome authentic Ugandan cuisine at Steak Out and hungrily gulped down juicy burgers and great coffee at various establishments of high repute; smoked a fake Sportsman under a deserted monument that, when later re-painted, turned out to be the Independence Monument, and gawped at M7’s amazing motorcade to the utter amazement of nonchalant Ugandans; made friends with a Crested Crane in the parking lot of a lakeside hotel in Entebbe, been a pilgrim at the GaddafiMosque, and among other things, pondered the cobblestones in front of the Parliament of Uganda building. I have also bribed my way (with impunity) through a double U turn and for inadvertently crossing the Nile at more than double the speed limit...
But nothing, friends and neighbours, had prepared me for that one night when I hit Kampala after midnight on one of my many uneventful trips through three countries in two days. Following the helpful watchman’s directions, I had pressed on, past a street corner where I had once bought a Ugandan maiden from Tororo two measures of live green insects (a delicacy, she had insisted), towards but not quite up to, the big central bus station. This, I realised, must be the side of town that my PR friend, John, had once described as “Any Time is Action Time street” and made me swear never to put a foot there or even say he told me.
Now I had put more than a foot there.
Unlike the relative stillness of the rest of the city, this had turned out to be a bubbling metropolis with a life all of its own. I was all of a sudden jostled from all angles by busy, highly active night people. Granted, some were lurking in dark corners and were not jostling anyone - probably because that’s how their business works - but even the lurking seemed active and darkly purposeful. Now I had heard talk in hushed tones of a Rock and a Garden on Nile Avenue, where the sun never sets etc and, for as little as USh 50k (Ksh. 150, Rwf. 17,000), or even nil, if he buys enough swallow and negotiates from the heart, a hard-up man can put down his load.  
I cannot swear by anyone’s milk that I was on said Nile Avenue, but I am not likely to forget the sights, smells and sounds: a most distinctly unsavoury smell wafted from a nearby garbage dump, fused easily with the general body odour/cheap perfume as the sensual background of what seemed to be scores of night clubs cum bars – all thumping and throbbing with an ear-splitting cacophony of high decibel sounds comparable only to the likes of Sabina Joy or the old Modern Green of Nairobi, Kigali’s Club Planet at the KBC and a certain Club in Nyamirambo to which Davie the Cow first took me on condition that I’d never say it by name in polite society.
Thus my hunt for a late night snack had progressively turned into an involuntary cruise of a shabbier version of Nairobi’s K Street, not just on a very busy night but with several Sabina Joys, MGs and Club Skys (oops!) thrown in. Business looked (and sounded) really good. Unfortunately for me, the only business seemed to be alcohol, illicit sax, who-knows-what-else, and then more.
            “Are you looking for a man?” asked a snake eyed man clad in tight blue jeans. He also looked anaemic and had very bad teeth.
            “No sir,” I managed to say through gritted teeth, “just a cup of tea, is all.”
            “And after that am all yours?” he persisted, batting his badly done eye-lashes at the night and bleakly flashing his tobacco-stained teeth – a trick that seemed to have backfired many times but which he was doggedly determined to perfect with practice. I wondered if he had a concealed knife but didn’t let it bother me.
            “After that,” I almost shouted, but didn’t, “you go suck a bee.”
When tottering on the brink of insanity in a strange neighbourhood, showing your emotions can only make things worse.
            But I digress, which is good, really. More presently, Danny boy was still LOL-ing about the yellow posters.  
            Me: Is it true that the posters were all gratis?”
Dan: Don’t know.
Me: But someone from a billboard company told me they had to donate some prime sites...
27425_604852728_5572_q            Dan: Hahahahha. Dictator... do it or ...
            Me:  Try strategist.
            Dan: Poltergeist LOL. To M7, it’s still a war... always a war.
Me: Naa.
Dan: 157578_703603045_2246045_qDeals?
Me: Correct. But I worry for Uganda.
Dan: We’ve got oil, dude!
Me: Especially that…
Dan:  ???
Me: Once the oil starts flowing, I fear the queues may suddenly appear at petrol stations like they do in Lagos.
 Dan: That’s the order of African legacies lately...
(Author’s Note: I’ll never put Daniel E in a story of mine again. He is too unpatriotic and passively negative.)


kreative@publicist.com


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