Home Alone – Uganda Series

(mc clauclockcluklin – whatever – eat your heart out)


Home Alone 1 – Kamikaze Chef

On 28th December my pal, his chick, his pal and his chick traveled to Kabale (pronounced Kabare, the Ruganda people are the Kuyos here). They were going to do a couple thing huko by the deepest lake in Ug (I stand to be corrected….anyone? I thought so). Since I was flying solo, I couldn’t accompany them. Despite the constant whining of the gals and a few half-hearted full-bass requests from the dudes, I wasn’t about to prove that theory “three’s a crowd” right. In this case it would have been ‘2 couple’s company, 2 ½ couple’s an inconveniencing crowd”.

Now I understand why the boys were half-hearted. Can you imagine, the jamaas have ‘hanjams’ then the chileys start saying, “What about Modo. We can’t leave him out here in the cold.” In my fantasy world...conversation would continue…”let’s invite him for a threesome…us first, you guys later”. (I slowly drag myself out of the gutter…)


So I didn’t go with them. Now I had the whole house (and four uncooked drumsticks) to myself. Before I went back to the apartment, I chilled a while at the gate and saw this fly chick walking my way.

I straightened my shirt, made my hair, which proved almost impossible considering I’m giving Medusa compe. Then I pulled my best bounce. I should have listened to one guy who told me when I bounce I look like an oboho.

That will explain why my intro line and punch lines left me reeling from ‘the hand’. When did you Nnyabos of Ug learn the hand? My strike outs were piling worse than the victims of RVF.

I walked into the house dejected but at least I was able to paparazzle her photo.

Let me tell you why I was excited about going back to that digs. Jana, my boy had shangazad us, including his chick, with some nyummy delicious (understatement) chicken. After being told the secret (verbally) I was determined to make my own ngwoks (sio gwok…so you jangos stop kunjaing your faces like that).

So I dashed into the kitchen, marinated the ‘legs’ (as he told me to do…actually this I read on the packet of marinate). 15 minutes later I was warming the fat in the pan. Next, first drumstick takes a hot swim.

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

I step away from the cooker. Fat is flying everywhere. Second, drumstick is thrown from a distance. We don’t want to mess this supuu hands.

“You put the kadhalikas pole pole as the kuku fries”

Was part of the mke nyumbani speech I was given by my pal. So kadhalikas start checking in one by one like passengers during off-peak.

Houston. We have a problem!

Mazee, this chicken is nowhere near resembling what was served yesterday. And I haven’t put in all the ingredients. Shortly, the kadhalikas now are like passengers during rush hour. Na hakuna jam. Pepper, coriander, sim sim (??), black pepper, all are making guest appearances in the pan. But si you know a movie with all the oteros usually has drama…welcome to la mujer chicken backfire.

Chicken huko is turning black, huku viunzi are refusing to co-operate. And pale marinate water is waiting to join in the circus. Circus indeed, coz when I ‘serve’ the, er…meal, I’m Rolling On The Silly F Floor Laughing My Silly Messed Up Arse Off.

To compliment the ‘meal’ I burn the rice. So now I’m having deep fried brown rice and chicken with thick oily soup of floating tomatoes, onions, coriander, you name it.

How I survived to go out that night only the angel of the stomach knows (he must have been briefed by the angel of hangies).

Home Alone 2 – Kamikaze Chef, the revenge

Day two alone. Two drumsticks down. Two to go.

I wasn’t about to let a part of a dead bird stress me like this. Today’s menu, fried chicken dipped in bread-crumbs. NYUMMMY! MMM! Even at the sound of that saliva had no choice but to tafuta a way out of the mouth.

So I grabbed the packet with the golden breadcrumbs. Twende kazi. I even grabbed a worn out apron and swung it around my waist. I mean more business than yesterday.

1. Boil the chicken for fifteen minutes.

Boiling the chicken. Check clock on cell phone. Fifteen minutes.

2. Warm pan with oil.

It is so warming it hurts.

3. Take glass bowl, beat egg, pour breadcrumbs, dip and osha the chicken.

Now here is where I was to get problems. Early in the morning at around 11.59 I had kunywad full continental breakfast. Eggs, ham, sausages, loaf, juice…okay since we were out of juice, Bell Lager would do.

Bottomline, I had no eggs.

Chicken had boiled.

Pan was hot and ready.

What to do?

Ala, mtajuaje mi ni bachelor?

I grabbed the breadcrumbs and poured them on the chicken directly. No egg to nicely envelope the thigh. I was so desperate I almost used saliva (Easy, I didn’t. honest. Does sweat count?) Like I said no dead bird was gonna humiliate me. I told Modo in the mirror. Who am I?

“You are Fucked! He replied.

Indeed I was. So I threw in the two remaining legs of chicken into the pan with the same finesse as yesterday. Maybe I need to change that tactic. That’s what’s messing all my chickens. The Kenyan finesse doesn’t work here.

Needless to say, I was scoffing down the evidence of a horrible meal, a few minutes later. And again angel of the tummy was working overtime (mnajua watu waliniambia nimenona baada ya kutoka Uganda? Ni hii kuku wasee)

Mke nyumbani would have been oh so embarrassed of me.

That evening my pals from Kenya landed and it was time to quit chefdom and change ‘careers’ to tour guide.

Home Alone 3 – Guest Tour Guide

Have you ever seen a guy who’s stayed at a place too long he became a mwenyeji?

Theory was simple. I had stayed longer than anyone checking into Kampala now so I became more of a mwenyeji than them. I had started getting to know the area kiasi well. So well that when my pal and his chick rocked in from Kenya, I became their tour guide.

“To your left we have…er, excuse me, ssebo, where is that? Wandegeya? Okay, thanks. To the left we have Wandegeya.”

That was me. Tour guide supreme.

Never once did I lose them. We did everything I had not done with my boy (the one who went to Kabale). I boarded a boda boda. JESUS! Those mongos ride those things like crazy. A guy is fighting for space with a taxi (matatu for Kenyan folk, dala dala for the T-zedians). I have ridden a bike and been a pillion on bikes in Kenya, but none had me tasting my heart like these dudes. The boda boda, first, was springy. Bouncing castle is polite. DUDE! I was bouncing left, right and centre on the bumpy roads. But I maintained my cool. You should have seen my knees knocking when I alighted.

I also had my first…(drumroll)…ROLLEX! (with that glitterati that danced in the air when Barcelona won the champions league) Kumbe hii ndio rollex? Chapo tu with egg rolled with kadhalikas. The highlight is that it is made roadside in five seconds..okay, minutes. Next to the rollex stall is the ‘kenchic’. Here the chicken is mutilated to the tiniest of pieces. Ni kama unakula njugu. The rollex was hot when I bought it, which was by the way at 5.30 in the morning, but when I got home the boda boda ride had cooled it off beyond a fridge’s ability. Oh, how I enjoyed this rollex. NYUMMY!

Next, adventure was on the taxis (mathrees banaaaa, mnataka nirudie mara ngapi?). Now, Kampala is interesting. The mathrees are bila numbers. And the touts shout the name of the destination, but two things, they’re not easily intelligible and two, they are calling out places of names you’ll only hear in Kampala. But the routes are simple. All mathrees are on one circular…ama squadi. The mats to the important places go round like number tisa. So just hop into one and sooner or later you’ll find yourself in Ntinda, Kira road, Kololo, Wandegeya, tao. And the fare is reasonable. 5 sok. (do the math, you unmathematised people) To places like Garden City, the Village market of there, you would have to take a boda boda. Good luck!

Oh, did I mention I was actually going into town for the first time, after like 6 days? The only place I knew in tao was the Steers. Lakini Kampala town is tiny, ukipotea unafaa upigwe makofi ka fortey. This is the only place where I didn’t earn my money as tour guide. But I got away with it.

Mnaona kuleeeee?

Eh?

Hapo ndio mwisho wa Kampala town to your left.

Okay.

Na mnaona kuleeeee?

Eh?

Sasa huko ndio mwisho wa Kampala town to your right.

Kweli.

Haiya. Mnaona nyuma yangu?

Eh?

Owino market. (like I had even graced it with sight from even one eye)

Ehe, kwa mitumba?

Correct. Na unaona kule mbele yangu? Hiyo barabara inaenda ile Serena mpya.

I only knew Serena was that side coz of booking an Akamba bus. But they were thrilled. I then showed them to Steak Out (with the help of our cab driver who didn’t know where that was anyway) and I was so used to traveling at night for a moment I closed my eyes and saw (?) the way.

We did Steak Out, Rock Garden (again), Silk…and at all these places we were on my favourite…ice dipped in vodka and coke. BLISS! (I behaved myself for the sake of my buddy’s chick). We also did the beach. But not the one in EBB proper. This beach, I should call it water-front or shore, is where the broke arse dudes come to (no disrespect intended). It’s a place for those who don’t want to fork out the 3k at Royal (that’s the beach proper), or for those who put 50 bob ngata in their cars.

Much respect! Will the Ugandan ladies please kneel down!

It was here at Ssese G Beach that I saw the much-famed Ugandan respect. There was this guy and his family whiling away at the beach. This guy was a typical man. Gazetti mkononi na hakuna kumsumbua. Bibi is over there watching the brats, and trying to strike conversation lakini the fathe is busy digesting his Daily Monitor. Shortly he gets up abruptly. Wife rushes after him but she returns. Kumbe hazi isn’t abandoning them, he’s off to the little boys room. Minutes later, his pals rock in with their families. Now, do you know how bibi says ‘wassap’ to his pals? She pigas magoti and won’t look at their faces. SHOCK!

I look at my pal’s chick and go like “niaje?”

“In your dreams.” That’s the difference between Kenyan women and Ugandan women.

It reminds me of when my pal, where I was staying, left for his mboch a Christmas bonus. You know how you leave for the mboch money on the table so she can pick it? Well, this one didn’t. She knew what her salo was, and this wasn’t hers coz it was too much. She actually left it on the table for like two days. It was when my pal told her it was hers that she dropped on her knees and said her many thanks to end a year.

That’s the difference between Kenyan mboches and Ugandan mboches. If you don’t wachia a Kenyan one tip, she’ll pass with your CDs.

“Kana dhani yeye ni nani?” she would say to herself.

End of a career!

Before I could blink it was time for my pal and his chick to return to Kenya. But not before one last adventure on New Year’s eve…