It takes a total stranger to help anyone nowadays

When he speaks, you would think he is a rain farmer who specialises in supplying heavily-pregnant nimbus clouds over the Kalahari Desert.

And the man passes around as a fellow with such deep pockets he has to spend to keep BoU alive. Then there have been one too many nudes revealed by that man’s daughter. 

In my anger reveries, I left my Jinja joy to see the man. But I lost interest by the time I got to the capital. Then it struck me that maybe it takes a total stranger to help anyone nowadays.

Like one day I was cruising on the Kabale-Mbarara highway when a traffic officer indicated to stop. I did. He came with this black toy pistol and showed me 95kmh. The particular section was for 50kmh.

The officer, whose name tag read Byaruhanga, was bemused. He showed me his express ticketing records that had the highest speed at 72kmh. And he had issued tickets for that other guy.

Seeing ‘Odongo’ on my permit, he asked where I come from, I said Kakira.
“No, I mean your home district,” he said.
“That should be Nebbi or Pakwach, I’m not sure.”
“How is that possible?”
“Very possible. I was born in Kasese, I grew up in Kakira, and I’ve never crossed the Nile on the other side of Karuma.”

Officer Byaruhanga told me that to reach Kakira, I had to drive within speed limits or else I would be delivered to Kakira by six strong men.

I thought the man was inducing me into science, the euphemism for bribery in Makerere. I was getting to offer something when he shook his head and smiled. He said I could go as long as I promised not to speed.

Well, I was stunned. I’ve never forgotten Officer Byaruhanga. He had let a ffene-mad Odongo he found blasting rumba songs in a jalopy off the hook.

I thought of Officer Byaruhanga more recently when I drove into a patrol pickup at night. With an expired permit, a ‘Muteso’ officer didn’t want to hear excuses. But at least he was human.

His colleague, whose name tag read Komakech, was nowhere near human. The man can abuse, ho! When he learnt that I didn’t even have a Daily Monitor ID on me, he called me all sorts of names he had heard used by cesspool diggers.

He abused my daughter, rained crude insults at my wife and vowed to teach us a lesson at the station, all because I could not meet his valuation for science.

Beaten, I decided to call a Munyankole officer to help Odongo off the muzzle Komakech was training at Odongo. When we arrived at the station at 11pm, the OC was waiting. He had been briefed by the Munyankole officer to attend to my problem.

Here, rude Komakech looked on in shock as his boss asked him to hand back my jalopy key and let us off.

I don’t know if you are clicking this anecdote but what I’m trying to say is that the motor-mouthed parent in Kampala needs someone else to help his daughter.

We shouldn’t leave help to come from our own.

*Disclaimer: This is a parody column