|my favourite part of kampala (standard:other, 2165 words)|
|Author: DAVID TUMUSIIME||Added: Feb 21 2003||Views/Reads: 2296/1128||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|some say it is a story, others say it is an essay. what do you think it is?|
MY FAVOURITE PART OF KAMPALA DAVID TUMUSIIME In my favourite part of our Kampala city the men sit on both sides of the road under shop shades talking and scratching their genitals in the lunch hour and in the afternoon time. The women wear blue scarves on their heads and aprons round their waists and carry food trays before them. The children walk with upturned faces, backpacks slung on their shoulders, staring at everything. In my favourite part of our city there is never a boring moment if you have the eyes to see, the nose to smell, the tongue to taste, the ears to listen. In the early morning, while all the other parts of the city still sleep, school children struggle groggy-eyed from bed, opening a window, you can hear the casual labourer-men cursing greeting each other of how is the morning. They are strong men and they show their strength in their shirtless chests and the bellowing strength of their voices that come strong and clear from their chests and singsong like church organ music. The women came earlier, are already working hard, the aluminum saucepans they use to prepare breakfast tickering nosily as they are washed, banged against each other. The rest of the city still sleeps but this part is awake. Up country travelers who slept in the buses that will shortly take them there stumble out them squinting and groaning and stretching their limbs. The men complain they are hungry and shout for breakfast. The women look for the bathrooms and check their luggage and count their money once again. The buses stand dumb in the sparsely peopled park like tree-leaning elephants and their drivers are hardly to be seen, a worrying sign as the journey up country is long and is started early. Everyone keeps a lookout for his or her bus driver and those in the park are followed reverently. The vagrants that sleep the night on the shop fronts sit up in their squalor staring around them with undazed eyes, not quite ready to wake up, resentful. They yawn and scratch themselves and do not expect any food. Wives and house girls stand in the windows and in their doorways yelling at the men they sent for water to prepare breakfast. The men can not come faster, groaning up the stairs of the flats, water splashing on the stairs from the jerrycans, their black chests glittering. The men mutter under their breath what they think of these women, straining up the stairs with a full jerrycan in each taut hand. The boys in their shorts and girls in their pinafores trudge silently in the street in the mist, backpacks slung on their bending backs. They talk little, their voices strange in the silence, their shoes tramping on the cement pavements. They must be in school by seven o'clock. The women have been cooking in the market and now the air smells strongly of frying cassava, pancakes, there is the soft but unmistakable smell of blueband on bread. There is black tea being served, hot and steaming in the saucepan. There is black tea with milk, coffee. To eat there is the cassava, on good days, maize cobs. Eating now is the primal instinct. It does not matter how, food must be entering the mouth, chewed and swallowed. Those with seats and tables before them bend close to their plates and drink their tea and coffee hunched protectively over it. When the first people to eat finish, workers eat first, work begins. In this area the buildings are almost all flats, the least a building is is two storied. In all these flats the first floor is for shops, commercial business. There are restaurants, dry goods shops, office stationary shops, clothes' shops, vehicle repair garages, money forex bureaus. The shops on the first floors open up one after the other like people yawning and stretching and getting out of bed slowly. The great iron welded doors clang loudly on their rusty hinges as they open inwards or outwards. Early morning light rushes in. Rats on top of counters and shelves squeaking with scratching feet scatter to hide. The shop proprietors stand in front of their shops, big-bellied men and big-breasted women, shouting for runners. The runners are like errand Click here to read the rest of this story (142 more lines)
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