The things that haunt us- Part 1

Ticket. Check. Outfit. Check. Drink. Double-check. The event was advertised a month ago, and you're beyond ready to spend some hard-earned shillings. You could've gotten the ticket for free, but you don't mind paying, especially when the artist is worth it. You need this. You've been stressed, working yourself to the bone so you can do things like this.

The thing starts at 4 PM, and you're there at 5. But this is Kampala, and most people won't start trickling in until an hour later, two even. Your friends aren't here yet either, so you decide to walk around and see what other weirdos decided to show up early in a city that's perpetually late.

Everywhere you look, there's a sight to see. There are girls with short dresses and fleshy thighs, and then there are other girls with an eclectic style that makes you wonder what their influence was. "This is a country of happy people," you think to yourself. Of course it is; you live in party central. There's always something exciting happening, always another concert, another artist from Nigeria or South Africa... or if you wait long enough, an American in the winter of their career.

Then you see him: plain white shirt, brown shorts, and a pair of sneakers. The simplicity of his outfit leaves room for his other more interesting attributes to be noticed. An Adonis in these streets, his body speaks for itself. The meeting of your eyes sends a jolt through your spine. It's in those split-second moments that you know something could be, but you're not yet sure what that something really is. The event picks up pace as more people arrive. The two of you unconsciously keep track of each other, a mirror choreography of sorts. All around you, bodies pressed together, moving in rhythm.

He makes his way through the crowd, a beeline to where you're standing. You admire each other coyly. Names and other details are exchanged above the loud music. You can't actually have conversations at these sorts of things. It's the eyes that do the talking. You hang within close proximity, not too close to be overfamiliar, but close enough for others to know you're somewhere on the journey to togetherness. It's a beautiful day, one of those perfect Kampala days where it rained briefly in the morning, and now the sun is out blessing the occasion. God has blessed this union.

You realize you need to get something from the supermarket across the street. The city's full of three things: supermarkets, petrol stations, and bars—no matter where you are, you're guaranteed to be within walking distance of these. "I need to go get something," you yell into his ear. He offers to escort you, but you decline. You need a second to think, or breathe. His presence is intoxicating. You're a Kampala girl, and you understand the illusion that comes with each talking stage. Your mind needs to settle; you can only take him in small doses, for now.

You push through the crowd and get to the entrance/exit, making your way across the street. Smiling to yourself at the realization that you're glad you came, remembering things you thought were cute moments, like how he insisted on walking all over the place in search of a chair because you kept stretching. You're in this beautiful place, before your anxiety catches up with you, before you have more questions than answers.

“Madam, please buy mask.” You hear from the scrawny little kid your eye caught earlier. “Madam, here is mask.”

The kid is relentless. You want to avoid him without being rude. You start to grumble, and you become self-conscious. "Where do these kids come from anyway?" you think as you pick up the pace. You quickly pull out the 1k, better to be rid of him than to have him trail you. He thanks you profusely, but you ignore him and hope he disappears. His begging dampens the mood. You've seen them all your life, and yet you can never quite get used to them. These people who come from all over the country to try their luck in Kampala. "Where are their parents? Their people? Why do they come here?" you think in the five seconds before your conscience catches you. Before reason, history, and the damned politics of it all remind you of one important fact: You're in the 1%, and it's not of your choosing. You're not special, you don't deserve this. You opened your eyes for the first time to an adoring family and have lived that experience since. You're not in the 1%. You, with your international education from accredited schools. You who couldn't relate when S told you about how he learned to swim in a literal lake- At first, you laughed because it sounded preposterous. People learn to swim at school, under the guidance of a trained swim coach. But he wasn't joking, and the laughter got stuck in your throat. Embarrassed, you understood—for the first time—that you lived in a different Kampala.

You have no debt and no siblings whose school fees you have to pay. Your "black tax" amounts to zero. You can still call your parents and ask them for money "at your big age." No, you're not in the 1%. You're in the 0.1%.

"Gwe kano, nakugamba ntya bwenkusanga wano? Eh?" The security guard screams at the little boy. You're both startled. You look into his eyes and see the fear register. The guard grabs him and simultaneously lifts something to hit the boy with. You hear the cry but avert your eyes. This isn't about you. "That little boy's probably a thief," you think to yourself. This city has too many hoodlums.

You buy what you need and hasten your pace as you return to the gate. Once there, you busy yourself with your phone, anything to avoid the security guard or, worse, the gawky kid.

"Sorry, Madam. You know these boys, they always come here. They are thieves," he says, looking sheepishly at you. You know what you owe him. At least 5k for preventing possible theft. A soda. Some lunch money. Quickly, you rummage through your purse and fish out 3k. You don't have change, and it's too much to break the 10k. He's grateful, and you feel safe.

Back inside, you find him waiting for you. Cute. As the evening draws to a close, couples seem to hold onto each other tighter. As if in lockstep, everyone searches for a partner, and those without start scrolling through their phones. There's always someone who'll answer that "oliwa text." You look at him, hoping he can read your mind: you don't want the night to end. He doesn't want it to either. But this is Kampala, and you've been burned one too many times. Like a single malt whiskey, these things shouldn't be rushed. You bid him adieu. He insists on dropping you home.

He maneuvers the vehicle with the exactness you anticipated—carefully and skillfully navigating the roads. It seems to speak to other things he could do well. You blush. The conversation is light and funny. With each "next time, we'll see this" and "there's an awesome band night at..." there are promises being made. He winds his way through the potholes, the unlit streets—this city only reveals herself at night. Her ugly face in stark contrast to the beautiful car. "Turn at that shop there," you instruct. Mama Mercy's little shop. Mama Mercy, whose children haven’t been to school since lockdown. Mama Mercy, whose entire stock has about 20 items. Maybe less. Mama Mercy, who fled her village in Kaabong after their cattle were stolen and her family was left with nothing.

The night closes with a kiss on the cheek and an intimate hug. Green flag. You stroll into your lovely home as if on a cloud. The start always makes you feel this way. You switch on the TV, the echoing sounds of movements too telling of how big the rooms often feel. Too big. The news: It's the usual, people asking the government to help them. Children starving in the North. Money meant for X has been stolen by Y. "This is a country of needy people," you say to yourself. That little kid at the supermarket- a thought cut short by your ringtone. It's him. You switch to Netflix. Who still watches the news anyway? Too depressing. "Hey there," you croon. This could be the start of something special.

THE END.