Chapter 4: The girl child has seen days

Bweyogerere usually looks chaotic, but it really isn't. It’s like an anthill. Ants know exactly what they are doing and where they are going. It’s you who doesn’t get it, that’s why you think the ants are in chaos.

But this time there was a legit disruption in the usual smooth-running-if-rough-looking business of the trading centre. A crowd had found a phone thief. They had gathered around when he called out for help.

GC decided to stop kicking him, after all, he was already on the ground, he had apologised, he had bled, he had regretted messing with the wrong woman, and he had even given her phone back. But then the crowd started to talk.

Crowd member: Someone should call the police. Call 911.

This person watched a lot of TV instead of watching a lot of Ugandan reality. But this gave GC an idea. She turned to the thief.

Gc: You, where’s your phone?

The thief did the maths in zero point two seconds.

Thief Maths: If I tell her I don't have one, she might kick me again. I would rather have no more kicks and no more phone than more kicks. And who is that who said I should call the police? I have been hiding from those guys for eight weeks. I have spent so many hours in trees and bushes because I smell Affande Mande approaching that I think I have ticks. No. After I recover from my injuries, I am going to the street preacher.

And then the thief handed his phone to GC.

GC: Hmmm. Eight GB of RAM and a 2.4 GHz octa-core processor. Nice. And a 16 MP front-facing camera. I like it. Okay. We have a deal.

She swapped the simcards and dropped her older, cracked and scratched phone onto the ground next to him and then she walked off with his.

GC had been in Kampala for five months and was now thoroughly acclimated. You think that is not long enough? You don’t know GC. Luckily for you, this thief showed up and gave us an example of how GC identifies opportunities where others see obstacles and how she has the foresight and courage to take decisive action to move steps ahead. That is how she became a Hard Girl of Kampala just a five months after landing from the village. The same way she got a better phone is how she had been progressively upgrading her hustle.

You see, she did not just come to Kampala to live here. She was here on a mission. She was here to go back. From the minute she set foot on the first inch of murram in Bweyogerere, she was on the hustle. Everything she did was to take her to the next step.

And it was fast, rapid, efficient steps from peeling bananas for Magdalena’s waragi, to the WiFi password racket, to selling natural hair which was guaranteed natural, from hustle to hustle to hustle until now she had a nice new phone.

She stopped a couple of steps ahead to take a selfie. She looked cute, wouldn’t delete. She had on faded denim overalls and a Tommy Hiflinger (Yes, spelled like that) T-shirt. It looked like she was into retro fashion but, actually, it was because, even though she had adapted to Kampala quite fast, there were still some areas where the process of taking the village out of the villager was still ongoing. For example, GC was a fan of oldies R&B star Aaliyah because there was no internet in Ggwa and the village stopped getting new music when America stopped making cassettes.

She put her new phone away and approached the popcorn seller who had his stall under the pole on which the community radio stood. There was a Bluetooth speaker above them blaring out announcements as she approached.

GC: Gwe, here is your popcorn and your oil.

Popcorn man: You delayed.

GC: I had a phone to steal.

Above them the day's announcements were being boomed to the bustlers around and below.

Radio Bweyos: Kati ebilango mu luzungu bibin Ehem. All chicken thieves are hereby informed that if you stole a hen with a black mark on the neck, it is actually an ancestor. You are advised to return it before it starts talking to you in Lusoga.

GC: Meanwhile, who are you talking to about delaying? When are you going to pay me?

Radio Bweyos: Saint Jamaica Day Boarding Mixed Nursery announces intake for Baby Class. Come one, come all, bring money.

Popcornman: Why are you stressing me to pay you? I will pay you when I sell enough. In fact, I should be asking you for a loan. You are the most hustlish person I know. You have like seven jobs in this sitensani alone. Mpozzi how much do you make as a boda boda?

GC: I’m not in the boda business.

Flashback with us for the next few paragraphs.

Operating a boda boda had not been hard. The hard part was the English.

GC: So which of us is the rider, me or the passenger?

Smiggo (a fellow boda): Either way can do.

You see what we mean when we say GC had become a total Kampalan? Kampala recolonised English. Even though all her dialogue before this chapter has been translated from Luganda, now that we are in the city and she is speaking English, we find her having conversations with idioms like, “Either way can do”, which are not in English. They belong to us. We made them. We own them. That’s Ugandan.

Meanwhile, GC decided to identify as the boda pilot.

Being a boda pilot was not hard. You sit, they sit. They say where they want to go, you take them. The problems began to arise when her passengers noticed that she was a woman.

Passengers tend to assume that bodas are all male and as long as they have the helmet and the puffy jacket on, you can’t really tell if any are not. You just presume that gender under-representation is still in force. But on occasion one would catch a hint.

This was the final straw.

Passenger: Pass-pass there-there a bit-a bit and I use the ATM.

GC: It’s okay. I take mobile banking.

FS: As you sound like a woman.

GC: Duh.

FS: I am confused. I don’t know what to do now.

GC: Dial the USSD code.

FS: I mean, I am a fervent male feminist, aka profeminist ally activist. I cannot just have a female boda and not do anything. You have broken the glass ceiling of the male-dominated boda industry. I have to do something.

GC: Yeah. You have to pay me. So, dial the USSD code.

FS: No, I mean…

We shall not print what he said, but it was an offensive, rude, unnecessarily detailed description of GC’s behind. He went on at some length and only stopped when his collar was in her fist.

FS: No wait. Before you punch me, at least let me explain.

GC: The explanation is that you didn’t know who you were messing with. Let me clarify that for you with this punch.

FS: No, it is my feminist duty. You see, you boda bodas are notorious for catcalling and harassing passengers. It is a feminist issue. And often the passenger cannot retaliate. So now that I found myself in a position to catcall a boda back, I had to take it. That is why. I did it for the struggle. I did it for women everywhere because I am a Male Feminist!

GC did not punch him. She rolled her eyes and looked at the money he sent to her phone. It was the magic number. She had finally made enough to move on from boda pilotry to her next step.

And we now return from that flashback to the popcorn machine underneath the speaker.

Radio Bweyos: Apuuli Thomas Joseph would like to inform all men in the area with loose morals that Maureen is mine. Keep away.

Popcornman: And the muchomo stand?

Looks like we have to flash back again. Here we go.

Selling barbecue streetside meat was harder. The muchomo vendors tended to cluster together and because they were so close you couldn’t tell whose meat smelled the best.
GC grilled her beef well, and its smell attracted customers, but they would not know it was hers smelling that good so they would buy everyones’.

The stall next to her was run by a man called Kinyatta. He was so glad that GC’s aromatic muchomo would bring customers to him, too.

On the night of the final straw, the following happened.

Kinyatta: My meat is finished, but there are still customers coming. Give me some of yours to sell.

GC: The only reason you have been selling so much meat is because of me. You have been taking customers who should have been mine. And now you want me to actually help you continue to do that? Lookwatim.

Kinyatta: But they keep passing by with money that I want. I can’t just sit here. I need to find meat somewhere.

In related news, where there is muchomo barbecue, there are usually cats.

Stray cat: Meow.

Kinyatta: It’s okay. I don’t need your help. Let me come back.

In a few moments Kinyatta was back with fresh merchandise, diced and skewered. He proceeded to lay it on the grill and sprinkle spices onto it. GC was only slightly appalled at this, because this was Kampala and what Kinyatta was doing was not out of character for the city.

What she didn’t expect was what happened next. The customers who ate Kinyatta’s fresh batch loved it. Soon there was a line watering at the mouth, slobbering for Kinyatta’s muchomo.

GC: I lost all my customers to Kyinanta and his cat meat. That stuff was way too delicious to compete with. But you, get out of my pockets and mind your own business. Specifically, when are you going to pay me?

Popcorn man: Right now I am not liquid. My assets are locked up. Maybe if you give me a loan…

GC: I lend you money to pay me? How will you pay me for the money you paid me with?

Popcorn man: Or I could pay you in kind.

GC: No thanks. I know why they call you popcorn man.

Radio Bweyos: Employment opportunities for the girl child available. Apply to be a maid slash househelp at Number B4 Eastwood Close. Fight Girl Child Unemployment.

GC: Wait a second. That’s one of the rich mansions, isn’t it?

Popcorn man: They are not really mansions.

GC: Maiding for a rich family? Hmmmm…

Popcorn man: Maybe if you added one or two rooms they would qualify as mansions.

But GC was not listening any more. She had dumped his packet of corn and was walking up the path towards Eastwood Close as the community speaker continued to blare.

Radio Bweyos: And now, presenting, the announcements in Luganda. Also known as kati katudde mu bilango ebilala mu lulimu oluganda. Magadalena Mutunzi wa waragi alanga essimu ye ebuze. Magadalena atereeza agayaye gonna n'abateesi nti nebweba babbye essimu ye, Tiktok tajja kugivaako. Magadalena Omutunzi wa waragi, Toxic Twerk Kwin…