Today, it’s the Boda-person’s plight.

A recent plummet in employment opportunities has me running those ‘oddball’, ‘what the heck!’-mini projects. This one being the dispensation of human courier services for a monetary consideration called fare, less the arm and leg taken by the Dracula-esque middle man( *cough, rhymes with scuba).

On one such errand, or rather more accurately, on a stopover between drop-off and dropout, out of all this, I paid witness to  what must be the plight of the commercial motor cyclist or more commonly known as Boda boda riders and… (*takes a deep breath)…and because I want to leave a piece of me to the world, my own gift to Scrabble and shut up Tamale Mirundi, this is going to be a thing, Bodaman. With a motorbike embroidered on his chest and an Arsenal insignia in the corner of the said shirt.

I might have gone sexist without even thinking. Boda-person! Again, apologies. I hadn’t even thought of her as a him.  Though I must admit that I  am hard pressed to find a Boda lady, bit of an oxymoron there. Boda woman. Hmmmm…

But I digress, the plight of the Boda-person. Forever the punching bag to the elements; rain or shine, Besigye or Bobi Wine, mitayimbwa or sound pollution personified (*coughs, scoundrels call them Po💥Po); all as treacherous as eating hot, fried cassava with no beverage, and as unforgiving as a lawyer bargaining for a credit trip  to “Just over there, ku Courti. You know me, we’ll sort things out later.”

Where was I? Oh yes, the Boda-person’s plight. Statistically condemned to an early death or lonely retirement, politically sandwiched between “who’s who” and “faulty condom compatriots cum absent parents”. He literally has no where to look. Hasn’t a clue what to say, to whom, when, where,  how and why. 

No wonder they appear crazed, swerving  in and out of traffic, in a devil may care, happy go lucky way. Every moment a roll of the dice, every second evidence of a ‘kissed by mother luck’ life. With the prevailing circumstances, who wouldn’t be. They have taken the emergency exit open to them; Madness.

Boda-person (n)~ a sad and lonesome creature, renowned for riding, amongst others, motorbikes. Ever wandering for the next buck. 

Random musings #001

Lunch. 

The afternoon was an overcast one. There had been a slight drizzle earlier that had successfully blocked out the punishing sun. Why exactly I was being punished is lost to me. But it had finally started playing out to be my day. And the universe in some conspiratory nature furthered my conviction as I heard that magical word,  “Lunch”. 

“This is a good day.”I thought as I made my approach to the kitchen to deal with this conundrum lunch. Why a conundrum,  you may ask. Well, I must select the plate to use as my holy supplements in the exorcism of hunger. The second bit would then involve loading the holy supplements with enough ammunition.

The first was dispatched off of by selecting a large surfaced plastic master work. The second, by retrieving spoons with which to select the ammunition. “The rice shall have a flat surfaced spoon. To the meat, we shall require a more shovel like spoon. And the potatoes. . .” I instantly recognised what had been bothering me,scratching at the back of my mind like that racoon from Ice Age. There were no potatoes!!!

This next bit needs  elucidation. Find said elucidation henceforth. (Lawyer speak) Exhibit A is that I belong to the ethnic group known as the Bakiga. Whereas we are the fiercest tribe in Uganda. . . okay at least in blunt speech,  and it goes without saying that any people so envied is bound to pick up a nickname or two. One such name is potatoes, for all of Uganda is in awe of the thriving potato trade that these brave beauties. . . these Bakiga have managed to monopolise all these years. Thus as night follows day, a meal in a Kikiga family that lacks potatoes is nothing more than a  snack. The potatoes must come. This therefore explains my mini-heartattack at no potatoes in sight. The demon had won. “Ah! To be damned!”

You must now agree that such a disaster would measure a 7 on the Richter scale. Almost akin to an abduction of meat. For surely someone must have taken this most holy of holies lest it should always be there. That was speaking crazy though, like Uganda without a president the man whose name; (a) starts with the letter before N and after L and finishes with (b) number that comes after six but before 8. Like I said, crazy talk. But I digress. 

Then something caught my eye. Like Gandalf returning as the White Wizard, like Alfred seeing Bruce in that café,  like Neyo catching Trinity,  I saw the potatoes in the rice. Golden nuggets of them. There had been some form of holy matrimony in which the potatoes had accepted for their spouses the rice and they looked very happy indeed.I dropped a tear. 

And now I have to put my food back in the microwave because it’s gone cold while I was writing this. The demon gets to live for 1:11 minute because the ‘0’ on the microwave doesn’t work. What, we aren’t perfect.

Random musings #002

Exerciseeee.  

I come from a long line of early risers. My grandparents are usually up at 5am. Or at least my grandfather is. But while my grandma lived, 5am was when she started ignoring him should he have done something the night before that might have displeased her. 

My grandparents are /were such believers of this, “catch the sunrise” routine that they judged anyone that woke up after. Which would explain their disappointment at their lazy grandchildren that only wake up after 8am. And the measure of wakeup time of course is when you greet them. Should you greet one at 7am and the other at 9am,then you might have woken up at 9am, so long as it was my grandma you greeted at 9am.

Lazy as I may try to be,  early mornings are a thing in my DNA, in my blood. Or so I thought. I recently looked at the weighing scale and realised where the junk food was going. To avert any weight related self-loathing, I resolved to exerciseeeee(a hissing sound should be made with that ‘e parade) 

Excerciseee has me dreading my mornings. The rest of the day is fair, tons of pain, staggering brought on by what I believe to be hollow legs, random sweating and the dread of knowing that tomorrow starts with more of that snake poison. 

Exerciseeee has me hosting talk-shows in my head. When my eyes open,  often at 6am, I wonder, quite simply, why? I then invite different panelists to discuss the issue. What ensues is a verbal tirade of contrasting ideas, ideals and imagined physical appearance. One panelists points to all the boring reasons to exerciseee and the other retorts, quite simply, with sleep. I want to embrace the dark side, literally my room given my thick curtains, but today wasn’t that day. 

Maybe tomorrow, I shall sleep. And dream of chips and pork. Booo to excerciseee. 

Fighting but Dying Nonetheless

Drum roll please. When my friend chose to take down her blogs, I never thought I would benefit so much. I mean, aside from the obvious financial and publicity motives, I can finally boast of having some class on my damned blog! Enough about me though, with no further ado, Ms. Kavuma Denise (Dr. Yes, the evil mastermind medical kind.)

***
I came  close to quitting medical school today.

Well, as close as I ever come to quitting anything, which just involves joking about handing in my resignation letter and then forcing my mind to move on. It makes people giggle a little as they roll their eyes doubtfully because they “know” me and I would never give up just like that obviously, I am made out of the same stuff as the gods, after all (no seriously, even the bible confirms it; have a look). In either case, most of these people fail to realise that beneath it all, I really lack the ability to filter the more grave aspects of life.