since joining this forum,i have learnt alot about Nigeria and sometimes i feel like we are so much alike.so in this post, i intend to share with you articles from my country Uganda...just to show you that we might not be so different after all.

You have probably run into them. I am talking about masquerading guys — those chaps who tell you they are lawyers, yet they are actually grave diggers or ‘chillers’ or salon chaps, name it. Of course, babes too masquerade, but this day is for the guys who do.



I have taken a discipline studying them and believe you me, I could write a book. As long as it’s going to get them something, or get them you for that matter, those guys will lie about their profession.



Don’t be caught off guard, which is why I here equip you with how to tell their profession from bits and pieces of their traits. Forget not that character is like pregnancy, it shows! Ladies, join the ride as we unmask these fellows claiming to be things we both know they aren’t.




Journalist



How can I describe these guys without poking myself in the eye? Where do I even start, oh yes, I know… the jeans!



The journalist has the older version of the arcade guy’s jeans. He likes to dress easy, not much effort, none at all.



Clothes are not really their thing. Chances are he might own two pairs of jeans and that is the end of his wardrobe. After all, they are jeans! Don’t blame the guy, imagine running around chasing stories with pants neatly pressed like for a teacher.



Not possible, jeans are clothes of all times, rain, dust, sunshine…name it, they always survive!

Along with the tattered jeans is a back-pack casually thrown over their backs and they will give you a look that says, “I am cool, what are you gonna do about it?”



When they talk, they like to be seen as well-informed. As a result, they are always online updating themselves on current affairs to the extent that some cross the road while reading mail, tweeting and Facebooking!



A journalist will use all sorts of tricks to win an argument; mostly they confuse the other party with words that might not exist. He might say, “I was flabbergasted by the intruxit dimenezos of confidence that was rizzled in the atmosphere.”



And they like name-dropping — “the other day I was with Bobi Wine when Chameleone rang me and I told him Bobi was claiming to be better than him…and then we met youth minister Kibuule…”

Right there, he is a journalist, not an army general.



The hustler



You know the guy, yeah? That guy who wakes up and heads to an arcade downtown just to be in the arcade. Yes, that one. He is the Number One masquerader.



This guy dresses exactly like the male mannequin he stands next to on the arcade verandas. The hustler’s jeans are so new with that silky feel; he might as well be on sale himself.



The hair looks like it was cut using the instruments in a mathematical set. I mean a ruler, protractor, campus, rubber and what is that other thing that looks like a triangle?



Whatever, maths was not really my thing. Back to the hustler, you are guaranteed to pass out from his cheap cologne — he probably pours some of it in his bath water, how else would one have all that perfume oozing out of them?



They mostly keep off English with us corporate babes, but when they waltz in they spew off words like Splite instead of Sprite, Milinda instead of Mirinda, mirik instead of milk. Ask him to pronounce my name and it will be Carlo…or Aliba!



Yeah, they have done a great job picking up bits of the Queen’s language off eavesdropping. But with all these signs, he will still claim to be a banker or something. Now you know! That’s your hustler — his source of income not quite known, but somehow he does have money on him, sometimes a lot of it.




Engineer



Show me one organised engineer and I will bring you the moon! If you don’t believe me, check-out your electrician. He will pull a screw driver from behind his ear, his phone from the socks and the wires from his wallet. When he starts drinking, not even a fish would match the brother.



These guys are the masters of old beaten cars. Do they like buy old spare parts and just assemble their own cars? Ladies, if a guy arrives driving a car that looks like it might soon sue him, your first guess should be, the engineer!



Pilot



Help me out here, do we even own pilots? These folks are extinct; you would think someone is poaching them! Or is it that we just don’t own that many planes? As a matter of fact, rarely do guys believe them when they say they are pilots.



As a result, the few that do exist have been reduced to taking photos inside every plane they set foot in. These are later posted on facebook under the album title, “Just before I flew it!” I mean who are we to doubt the brother; he has all the pilot attire on and he has paused inside a plane.



Then his fellow pilots go like, “captain, how was that machine, was the engine fine?” Outside that, these folks are invisible!



Musician



I will start from the top, one word, dreadlocks! Before he even records a song, or even writes one, he will start with the hair change.



You have seen some of them on TV looking like a hen that just got hit by rain on, right?



Even if it means having three scanty locks, the guy will walk around with just the three…after all, he is a musician!



Don’t get me started on the chains; they will hang all sorts of chains (and sometimes padlocks) around their necks that even the pets at home will go like, “damn, that’s heavy!”



Their jeans sag so low that they have to walk around carrying them like a bag.



Oh, and boy do they like to play at night. They are more like vampires these brothers.



They come out with the notion that the day has just begun, bright, excited with their sunglasses on.



When they talk, it’s a language you here in a dancehall tune, more like, “hello byebie gyel, wat ting afidu fo ya pon de plaice!”



Well ladies, if you into that kind of thing, then, by all means, go ahead!



Banker



The banker starts his day looking tick and ends it looking like he was just spat out of a whale’s mouth. The very shirt that was tucked in like a capsule in the first place is now only tacked in at the back. It is as if he wants to UnCloth; the tie is in his hands, the pants are not properly positioned, kind of like a little boy’s.



Over the weekend, the banker has on the bank’s T-shirt. Someone please volunteer some information; are they ordered to wear their company T-shirts over the weekend, or are they just out of clothes? They party like they just announced it might be their last day on earth, you know, like they have got to wrap up!



Note this, however, you can never cheat a banker, not even one who drinks like a fish! Row by row he will go through the bill and not even sh100 more will he miss… never! That is a banker for you… are you in?



MP



I took it upon myself to find out what it would take to get into Parliament the second time round. Clearly listed herein is the criteria: gigantic belly, must own a car that has words Prado scribbled all over it and finally a multi-coloured kitenge shirt.



He speaks on the phone every two seconds and will take any opportunity to doze off, even in the middle of a joke! And when he introduces himself, he will use a very long and elaborate title:



“My name is honourable so and so, minister for this and that, I own a million acres of land and I was instrumental in having President Museveni get another term, yesterday my maid cooked pizza, blab la bal…” Yeah, just don’t stop to say hi if you have limited time, otherwise you will be late.




Sales guy



Ha, these folks I am simply out of words. They have but one main characteristic, all of them. Suave, smooth, yes, suave-smooth talkers! A sales or marketing guy will knock on your door in the morning when you look like, well, how people look in the morning and he will say,



“You have never looked better!” As a result, I have often thought these guys should be employed in the maternity wards and mothers might never feel labour pains again.



On that note, I will say no more. Ladies, if he comes claiming to be a male nurse and you believe him, then you need re-birth.



Doctor



How about we dissect the doc whose specialty is women. The gyn! You would think these guys are on the prey for a pregnant female. Ladies, I dare you to say, “I am tired” to a gyn. The response is most definitely going to be, “when was the last time you received your monthlies?”



Just like the marketer, a gyn is a smooth talker. Can you blame the guy? To get the job done, they need to woo their clients into first relaxing then trusting them! Need I mention how much the gyn loves his women? You would think he would get bored. But hell no!



Lawyer



These guys will wear a suit at a time when all the leaves on the trees are falling off — it does not matter how hot.



I have always wondered why most lawyers can’t find a suit that fits them, is that a lot to ask?



And no matter how much they sweat, they will never loosen the tie’s grip on their throat.



Alongside a briefcase and the day’s newspaper are piles of gigantic books and diaries they carry everywhere they go.



When they see a fellow lawyer, they call out a distance away, more for the passerby to notice: “Counsel… how was court today?” and the other will respond with the same title.



A lawyer will turn every tiny conversation into a case and try to always point towards the fact that they are lawyers.

Yes. A lawyer is proud to be a lawyer; why else would someone carry gigantic books he might not be reading?






Teacher



Teachers, who on earth irons your pants? Are they welding a knife, razor or something? A teacher will iron his pants and press a line onto them that leaves one wondering if the pants might break from just being stiff.



Don’t get me wrong, I have great respect for these guys; we are but nothing without them. But what can I say, they are what they are.



A teacher to date is the one person who will make a suit out of anything. If he has an orange shirt, he is definitely buying an orange pair of trousers and bang… the suit! And mark you, they go nowhere without the red and black pens on the shirt pockets!



These guys are used to marking things, not even a first date with a sexy girl will the pens stay at home.



And somehow they are convinced Bic or Nice Clear are the best pen brands on the planet — never with a Parker or something, unless it’s that ‘youngish’ teacher the students say has swag.

Oh, and when a teacher talks, it is always a formal and or a parental choice of words.

They address people with titles from Mr, Mrs, master, madam, the list goes on and on. If I may add, they are the one profession that is most likely to greet you with phrases like, “How do you do?”


And when a teacher buys a car, it’s most likely to be a kikumi or Ipsum, but mostly they will do a scooter, motorcycle or bicycle. And oh, ladies, look out for the phrase “for example.” So ladies, let him not tell you he is a doctor.


Forewarned they say is forearmed, so you know what to do. I guess after reading this, these dudes are going to try so hard to silence the clues we listed… yeah.



Don’t forget that habits are those things that you do time and time again and habits just like pregnancy will show. So bring it on, we shall sniff you out! As for the rest, we don’t really care that much, after all you don’t usually hang with us.

Hating on public transport

I have a friend called Thaddeus. He is a mean bitter and nasty piece of work who is always complaining about something or the other. The other, in this case, was a trip we had to take to Wandegeya recently. We stood at the taxi stage and waited.

Thaddeus said: “I hate...” then looked to his left, where the people who would be our fellow travellers stood, also waiting, and sneered “... pregnant women in public transport.” What?: At first I was shocked to hear this, then I remembered who had said it and instead became shocked that I had never heard it from him before.

“It’s cheating, don’t you see? And not just for the obvious reasons, i.e. those are two passengers getting by for the price of one, but because they are all fat and they eye your food with such potent greed in their eyes.

You cannot swankle your popcorn in peace if there is a pregnant passenger next to you. She might lunge and bite your fingers off and use their nutrients to nourish her unborn child and you will never see them again...”

“Pregnant women don’t ride taxis, Thaddeus,” I pointed out patiently just as a white Corolla rolled up. Its passenger door opened and the mother-to-be climbed in. “It’s dangerous for the baby.” “Then why was she standing there at the stage with us threatening to bite our fingers?” Thaddeus sneered.

But Now: “Look, here comes a bus,” I said, eager to change the topic. “Shall we take this instead of a taxi?” “I hate buses,” Thaddeus said, as we climbed aboard the bus. “They are supposed to decongest the public transport system, but they are the most crowded of all. So full of people standing with their arms upraised and their armpits exposed. One day, I had to take a bus to Luzira Prison, which, as you know, is congested and unhygienic, but as soon as I got onto the bus, I felt as if I had already reached.”

“What were you going to do in Luzira prison?” I had to ask. “Sometimes I just feel like taunting criminals. It’s a hobby,” he replied. And More: “You know what makes these buses even more crowded?” he continued. “Maalo. That thing you Ugandans have where you get all excited about new things and feel like you must try them out.

This means that the buses are not only stuffed with the smellier members of our society, the ones who do the hard, menial more odour-inspiring labours of our economy, but even those who make all the money off the backs of the poor end up on the buses.

They park their Prados, Harriers and even their Spacios in malls and then set out to joyride on the bus! Now the smell of sweat is mingled with the smells of whatever cologne their sugar mummies gave them that they thought was from Italy but is actually from China.

This mix blooms through the bus’ and fills it. How on earth is anybody supposed to enjoy their popcorn amidst such hellish stenches?”

But Then: It was my turn to say something now. “You know what I hate, Thaddeus?” I said. “I hate it when people eat popcorn with their mouths open, especially on public transport.” “Now you are just being petty,” he sneered.n

My sister from another mother

many times am told that public service in africa is all the same..loud music, cheats and noisy passengers...in uganda we use taxi(14 passenger seaters) to move from one place to another and this writing is one from a day as a conductor by a male collegue...


The alarm buzzes at 5am. I twist and turn in bed but ignore it, sending it to snooze. Five minutes later, it goes off again. This time, I give up and rise out of bed. There is a light shower outside, and it’s cold and dark. But I must go through that darkness to meet up with my driver, because today, I am going to try my luck at being a taxi conductor.


I wear blue jeans and a light shirt. I race through the streets to the Ntinda taxi stage. I finally trace my taxi, third in a row, a white Toyota Hiace, with blue dotted lines running across its sides, parked by the road side. The driver, a dark-skinned tall man, with an athletic body, is seated behind the wheels, looking lost in thought. I approach him and exchange morning greetings. He replies with not so much as “You’re
late.”


It’s 6.15a.m. The driver briefs me on the stage prices, then instructs me to start calling for passengers. The streets are cold and deserted. Other taxis are also on the lookout for potential passengers. A female passenger finally arrives and enters. The taxi touts help me call out for passengers: “Bukoto-Kamwokya-Wandegeya-Kampala Road,” they say. I join them in chorus as I also call out. Bukoto-Kamokya-Wandegeya-Kampala is the route we are going to take. I feel I am not making an impact, so I raise my tone a little higher as I try to reach out to some passengers at a distance. Two more passengers trickle in.


Moments later, the taxi engine roars into life

The driver tells me we will not be getting any passengers from here.


We drive off towards Bukoto. Along the way, we find two more women. One, dressed in a black coat and a scarf around her neck peeps inside and seems to think twice, before finally taking the back seat.


“Hurry,” the driver reminds me, “Speed and time are very important.”


We drive up to where a couple of potential passengers stand, but end up sharing them with another taxi that parks right behind us.


“Bring them,” says the driver.


“Come here, sister ogenda,” I say, fumbling with the words, chipping English words in the little Luganda that I know.


In the process, I acquaint myself with calling strangers sister and brother, which seems easier to say than bulaaza.


With only six passengers in the car, we race off towards Kamwokya where we drop two passengers off. The door then tries to bully me; it refuses to open. I struggle with it, pulling harder, and it finally swings open, pulling me along with it. I try to call out for passengers, “Kamokya-Wandeya, ayiise omu,” signalling for them to enter but no one around the area is going; so we drive off.

As we approach the Mulago taxi stage, another woman jumps off, but we are lucky to find passengers who fill up the taxi.


I am then forced to share the seat with three other passengers. The space is so small that I am forced to literally balance on one butt.


We continue to YMCA, dropping and getting passengers along the way. All the passengers get out when we reach Shell Kampala Road. I struggle to look for the passengers’ change, trying hard to recall where some passengers boarded.


The driver is quick to come to my rescue. He gives me some changed money. I undercharge some passengers, who take advantage of the situation, handing me Shs500 coins before disappearing, save for those who had big notes. These look at me sternly, as if I might take off with their money. In the end, the car is empty and we have to call out to passengers again.

Car breaks down
Unfortunately, the car starts making a squeaky sound from the left back tyre as we reach Constitution Square. The driver notices it, and yells, “It’s broken again!”


I ask what is wrong, oblivious of what has just happened. He takes the trouble to explain to me, “The main leaf spring is broken.”


I don’t quite understand what he means. I then learn we are heading to Kisekka Market, to get it fixed.


At Kisekka, it is a beehive of activity, as the mechanics attend to the various cars. Some deserve to be written off as the rust on their bodies tells the number of years on the road. We quickly find a mechanic who agrees to fix our tyre. We spend close to three hours waiting for the car to get fixed. I feel like giving up. The driver, probably reading my mind, assures me that it gets easier with time.

He expresses his disappointment over missing out on the morning passengers. We also take advantage of the mechanic’s snail-like speed to get something to eat at a nearby shop. The driver orders for tea but I choose to settle for a soda and chapattis, Obama chapattis.


“Eat enough, you’re going to need all the energy,” he assures me. This seemingly kind statement just scares me.


It is 11am when we leave the garage. We head to Kobil Bombo Road to service the car before hitting the road again. From Kobil, we drive back to YMCA, and park at the stage. A group of people stroll down, probably university girls, judging by how they are dressed.


“Kampala Road, bitaano (Shs500), Nakawa lukumi (Shs1,000),” the driver reminds me of the charges. A taxi tout, trying to serve two masters, collides with another conductor over the passengers. I take advantage, and call the girls to enter.


They take their time to decide before I call out to them again, this time in English. They decide to enter my taxi.


With three more seats to go, we wait a little longer. The passengers start complaining but the driver is quick to calm them down. A friend of mine comes and enters the taxi and sits at the front row just next to the conductor’s seat. Not realising that I am the conductor, she starts a conversation. I try to minimise
the talk so I can focus, but she just does not get it.


It is only after another passenger gets off that she asks whether I’m the conductor.


“Don’t tell me you are the conductor?” she asks, with an expression of shock written all over her face. I quickly explain to her that I am working. When we reach town, some passengers get off as we get those heading to Nakawa and Ntinda. At Nakawa, my friend gets off, without paying. However, I just let her go. I feel a little embarrassed that a female friend has seen me doing such a blue collar job. Thoughts start running through my mind. I start thinking that she’s probably going to tell all her friends.


At Nakawa, we get more passengers, among whom is an elderly woman, presumably in her 60s judging by the wrinkles on her face. Other taxis choose to ignore her but I get off and assist her perch her basket onto the kameeme, as it is called. The driver tells me to squeeze other passengers in since some of them are getting off at the next stage.

We drive off all the way to Ntinda, which is our final stop. This marks my second route around.


Working under rain
The driver takes a break as I head down to Kiwatule in search of passengers, with a taxi tout driving. When we reach Kiwatule, it starts raining heavily. It is wet and cold, but we have to look for passengers, who now choose to take shelter in the shops. Only those with umbrellas dare to come to the taxi.

I shut my window to hide from the rain. But the taxi tout is quick to say “Ffe abakozi tetumanyi nkuba, gulawo abasabaze bayingire (For us labourers, work has to go on in spite of the rain. Open for the passengers).”


I oblige, but we only manage to get five passengers, three of whom are men who request to go to Kampala at Shs1,000 instead of the usual Shs1,500 from this point. I let them in, under the guidance of the driver who tells me to mark their faces. The rain continues pouring relentlessly until we reach Ntinda where we find a light drizzle.


It is now 2pm. My driver, probably after having lunch, takes charge of the wheel again as we head back to the city. At this time, the fares change, Bukoto is at Shs500, Kamwokya Shs700, and Wandegeya-Kampala, Shs1,000.

As we drive towards Bukoto, a lady at Shell Ntinda calls for us to stop. She climbs in. But 200 metres later, she shouts “Stage! I have forgotten something.” I let her out. To my amazement, instead of walking back, she just rushes into the next building. This right here, I realise, is the reason why conductors are aggressive with some passengers.


A similar incident happens when we reach town. A woman who is soon alighting gives me a Shs50,000 note. Her fare is Shs700. In the process of searching for the change, she demands that I give her money. Where am I supposed to get Shs49,300 instantly, I wonder. She continues talking to which I respond, “Relax. I am still looking for your change,” in English.


This seems to amuse her and she is quick to fire back, “Eh, enaku zino mumanyi n’oluzungu,” (you’ve also learnt English these days), to the delight of other passengers who laugh out loud.


Another female passenger sympathises and offers me change. She then tells me that I am different from the usual conductors, as we drive off. Judging by the way I handled the situation, another conductor would have probably fired back, she says. On our return journey to Ntinda, a passenger enters and I am meant to share the conductor’s seat with her. Judging by her size, I figure there is no way we can do that.


So I ask her to take up the back seat. She gives me a “Who-do-you-think-you-are” kind of look. “A conductor has no seat in the car; I am paying for this seat,” she says. This, I find rather disturbing. I wonder as to who will open the door for her. I decide to let her be and share the seat with a man on the second row.

By about 4pm, passengers are very few. At Constitution Square, we compete with other taxis for passengers. We park and let the taxi touts do the calling. These men, with red eyes probably high on weed, call their friends to “charge”, as one of them picks leaves from a paper. The driver tells me, it is weed. He also cautions me to be very careful with the money as these men are elusive thieves. They share the leaves before starting to call out to the passengers, literally forcing them to enter the taxi.


Watch out for the touts
When I finally fill up, I am mobbed by these men demanding their commission. One of them says, “Mwana mpa akaja kange.” (Man, give me my money)” while reaching for the money in my hand. Another adds, “Suula wano akaasabudo”. I am confused, unable to understand the ghetto language.


“What they could be asking for,” I ask myself. I give them the usual Shs500 coin. But the men insist, “Njagala kaasabudo.” It’s only the driver who lets me know that they want Shs1,500. In the process, I give them Shs3,500, which is way too much. I cannot wait to get away from here as these men are rather frightening.


By the time we get to Ntinda stage, at 5.30pm, my head is aching, and asking for a break. Having made four trips around, I feel sick. My voice, a little hoarse, is begging for water. The driver rests as a friend of his takes over the wheel for another trip. On a good day, he usually does seven trips, but today we are a bit unlucky. I beg to go home and he gives me my cut for the day which is just Shs15,000.


“The day has not been good,” he explains. As I leave, another man stands by looking for a free taxi to
work as a conductor.


I realise that conductors apart from just collecting money and picking passengers go through a lot, from enduring irrational passengers to trying to mark faces of whoever enters from one point to another.

Theirs is one of the hardest jobs I am sure.

You should have a diary babe

TRASIE:

As we drive towards Bukoto, a lady at Shell Ntinda calls for us to stop. She climbs in. But 200 metres later, she shouts “Stage! I have forgotten something.” I let her out. To my amazement, instead of walking back, she just rushes into the next building. This right here, I realise, is the reason why conductors are aggressive with some passengers.


A similar incident happens when we reach town. A woman who is soon alighting gives me a Shs50,000 note. Her fare is Shs700. In the process of searching for the change, she demands that I give her money. Where am I supposed to get Shs49,300 instantly, I wonder. She continues talking to which I respond, “Relax. I am still looking for your change,” in English.


This seems to amuse her and she is quick to fire back, “Eh, enaku zino mumanyi n’oluzungu,” (you’ve also learnt English these days), to the delight of other passengers who laugh out loud.


Another female passenger sympathises and offers me change. She then tells me that I am different from the usual conductors, as we drive off. Judging by the way I handled the situation, another conductor would have probably fired back, she says. On our return journey to Ntinda, a passenger enters and I am meant to share the conductor’s seat with her. Judging by her size, I figure there is no way we can do that.


So I ask her to take up the back seat. She gives me a “Who-do-you-think-you-are” kind of look. “A conductor has no seat in the car; I am paying for this seat,” she says. This, I find rather disturbing. I wonder as to who will open the door for her. I decide to let her be and share the seat with a man on the second row.

By about 4pm, passengers are very few. At Constitution Square, we compete with other taxis for passengers. We park and let the taxi touts do the calling. These men, with red eyes probably high on weed, call their friends to “charge”, as one of them picks leaves from a paper. The driver tells me, it is weed. He also cautions me to be very careful with the money as these men are elusive thieves. They share the leaves before starting to call out to the passengers, literally forcing them to enter the taxi.


Watch out for the touts
When I finally fill up, I am mobbed by these men demanding their commission. One of them says, “Mwana mpa akaja kange.” (Man, give me my money)” while reaching for the money in my hand. Another adds, “Suula wano akaasabudo”. I am confused, unable to understand the ghetto language.


“What they could be asking for,” I ask myself. I give them the usual Shs500 coin. But the men insist, “Njagala kaasabudo.” It’s only the driver who lets me know that they want Shs1,500. In the process, I give them Shs3,500, which is way too much. I cannot wait to get away from here as these men are rather frightening.


By the time we get to Ntinda stage, at 5.30pm, my head is aching, and asking for a break. Having made four trips around, I feel sick. My voice, a little hoarse, is begging for water. The driver rests as a friend of his takes over the wheel for another trip. On a good day, he usually does seven trips, but today we are a bit unlucky. I beg to go home and he gives me my cut for the day which is just Shs15,000.


“The day has not been good,” he explains. As I leave, another man stands by looking for a free taxi to
work as a conductor.


I realise that conductors apart from just collecting money and picking passengers go through a lot, from enduring irrational passengers to trying to mark faces of whoever enters from one point to another.

Theirs is one of the hardest jobs I am sure.

Is business thriving over there and how's the living standard