UGANDA: Joys of rural – urban migration
MY DAYS – By AQ Omar
In Uganda, waiting for a bus to fill up requires the patience of an Arsenal fan(which for spoilers, I have in huge reserves) and the calmness of Batooro ladies. If your emotions are all over the place like Kahinda Otafiire’s, you’re going to throw around middle fingers and yell “Mavi ya kuku” to everyone.
Now. I rarely go to the village. Why? Well, everyone there thinks I make a lot of money. Which is definitely not true since I’m not Bank of Uganda. But this one day, I swallowed hard- just like a virgin on her first honeymoon night, and decided to head to the village.
The buses for my village park at the extreme edge of the New Taxi Park- just opposite former Nakivubo stadium, a place once famous for its iconic football games, and probably the place where you have either lost your phone or will surely lose in the near future. Kifeesi territory.
I was the first person on the bus. It gave me a feel of importance. You get to choose whichever seat you want. I always choose the window seats because the narcissistic me always wants to look at the poor pedestrians. Because my only car is a Vitz, being in a bus always feels like you’re a few inches closer to heaven. It always okay to look down on the poor souls below.
All this was the easy part. I didn’t know the nightmare, waiting for this bus to fill would bring. A bus filling is hard because the people outside don’t want to get on it until it is full. Which is rather stupid. The bus gets filled with people. And you’re a “people”. Get on the bus you nitwit.
The next passenger came on after 15 minutes. An old man with a black cock. Seriously. It was black. And huge. And not the one you saw in a porn clip. It was still weird how tables turned.
Why are people carrying chicken to villages instead of vise versa? The only logical explanation is that City borns never leave chicken in the villages after the festive season. The old man wanted to seat next to me but I had reserved the seat for anyone hot enough to spur more than just a conversation. You know, it’s on buses like these that we meet future wives or future step-kids. I once met my boss there too. Which was weird since I had called in “sick and dying”.
After an hour, there were three other passengers on. Two taxi park junkies and a woman with a handbag so huge, you’d fit a fridge there.
I was losing my patience. Do these buses advertise their journeys? Is their bus route on the UgaBus app? I was at a point where I really wanted to write down “Advantages of urban-rural migration” on a billboard, just to attract passengers.
After 3 hours and eating snacks worth my transport fare, the bus was one passenger short. I sensed that everyone in the bus was going to see that last human like a saviour. Some sort of God. The old man with whom we had broken the bus’ virginity had slept and was dreaming verbally. In his dreams kept complaining of why his grandkids weren’t helpful at home.
While we waited for the last golden passenger, some guy walked in saying he had a miracle piece of Clay that cured all diseases. Plus Poverty.
I realised why people brought chicken on buses. To throw them at people like him.