Pain of lockdown as told by a pub worker in Kabalagala

He has been the manager of Capital Pub in Kabalagala since 2003, but had been at the pub for much longer. 
Before becoming manager, Nagaba was a slot-machine technician and store-manager at the same bar. 

But then came March last year and Nagaba shut the doors to his beloved source of livelihood. 
“Capital Pub closed on the March 20 last year. I sent off all my 36 members of staff and went home to hide from the pandemic,” Nagaba says.

Nagaba and his 36 workers, including DJs, bouncers, waitresses, cleaners, chefs and car park attendants, were all happy to sacrifice their livelihoods to save lives. It was only a small price to pay given the circumstances. At the time, all news casts, both here and abroad were reeling off high death rates from the pandemic. Thousands were dying daily in China, Spain, Italy, etc. 

It was as if the angel of death was spreading its wings across the face of the earth and the only way out was locking down. But then came the dilemma. 
“We had been made to believe that pubs would reopen by July 2020. I don’t remember if the President mentioned it, but we all looked forward to July 2020 to return to work,” Nagaba says.

July 2020 came, but the bars remained shut.  And what had started as a worthy sacrifice soon turned unbearable.
It soon became clear the bars were closed indefinitely, meaning the Capital Pub workers like Nagaba and his workmates were now out of excuses to give at the corner shops.

Desperation set in as all savings dwindled and were depleted by mid-2020. 
Similarly, the neighbourhood grocery sellers stopped their credit schemes. 

“Luckily for me, I had invested in a pick-up truck as a side source of income a few years prior to the lockdown. I took it back from the person I had rented it out to and started doing deliveries myself. This is how I have survived during these hard times,” he says. 

Feeding friends
While Nagaba was fortunate to have a new source of income, his pub workers were not so lucky. 
Many had depended on the bar for their survival. 
“Many of these people were my personal friends, having worked with some of them for as many 10 years. They knew

I was making money from my small Datsun Sahara truck so they came asking for help,” he says. 
“I know what my friends go through, and for more than a year now, I have shared the little I make from the delivery business with them. I have had to forego my own needs sometimes,” Nagaba says. 

Nagaba says he has had to hand over some of his household properties to the landlady so as to get rent credit where he resides, including a 42-inch TV worth more than Shs3m. 
Nagaba has also remained loyal to his friends, helping many of his workmates back on their feet. 

“One workmate wanted to start a roadside food stall. She came to me and I couldn’t say no.  Another female staff wanted to start selling plastics in traffic jam. She came to me and I was moved to help her with some capital. Several male members of staff are now boda boda riders, whom I helped to get loans,” he says. 

These handouts exclude the loose cash that Nagaba shares with his staff on a daily basis. 
“I have so far spent more than Shs900,000 helping my staff to start something,” Nagaba says as his face lights up. 
But there was another problem that Nagaba had to contend with, namely expired drinks.

As a manager, Nagaba says he had locked up all the drinks, hoping the lockdown would be lifted sooner than later.  
But beer typically lasts only six to nine months past its expiry date, yet the stock at Capital Pub had been locked up for 19 months.

In all, Nagaba was left with 38 crates of expired beers and sodas, and more than 30 cartons of other drinks and water.
The whole stockpile  in Nagaba’s store was covered with cobweb and caked with dust.  
The beverages suppliers refused to take back their stock. 
“If I can get compensated for these drinks by government, the bosses would relieve me of the pressure,” he says. 

No NSSF rescue
Nagaba says some of his staff members had hoped they would get mid-term access to their National Social Security Fund (NSSF), but most of them are below 45 and won’t be eligible. 

Now Nagaba fears that if things remain as they are, most of them would be long dead before they are eligible. 

“Even those with underlying health conditions, who have submitted their requests to NSSF, have not been helped either. This is a very stressful situation,” he says. 
“On my part, I had just got a bank loan of Shs4 million prior to the lockdown, and they are threatening to sell off my plot. The premiums have now gone up to Shs7 million. Why has no one talked to the banks? Who cares about us?” 

The untouchables
Nagaba’s biggest pain is that some bars have been breaking the directive and are operating in secret. 
“While our doors were welded shut, all my competitors are working in secret. I don’t know how they do it. I tried to turn the bar into a restaurant but the police officer in charge of Kabalagala Police Post said they didn’t trust that I would keep my word. 

“When I pointed to other bars on Ggaba Road that have never closed, a younger officer whispered to me that they have big shots behind them. Plus, we are told that some of them don’t even pay taxes because of the same reason,” he grunts. 

Indeed, such hangouts with powerful godfathers have remained open, although secretly. Most of these carried on their businesses behind locked doors, sometimes with tacit approval of the police that were meant to crack the whip on them.

Police raids
Towards end of August, this writer received a midnight phone call. It was Nagaba on the verge of tears. The police had just besieged the bar. He said the police claimed they had received word that he was selling alcohol secretly. 

“This happens every week. This, for a pub that has not worked for close to two years is so disheartening. This mistreatment, while our competitors are working every night is not fair,” Nagaba screamed on the phone.