2. The Boss
I had been in the city for a whole month now and my savings were beginning to dwindle. My chances of finding work looked very bleak. Mugaga’s land of opportunity was no where to be seen. There were so many strong men competing for the jobs and even though I went out everyday to construction sites, markets and even the bus and taxi park, a job continued to elude me. Mugaga was not helping either. He worked at night and spent most of the day sleeping! He offered to introduce me to his boss, but said I should wait until there was an opening for someone like me.
It must be difficult being a guard, I thought. When did Mugaga get time to be with his friends? Come to think of it, I had not met any of the friends Mugaga always talked about when he visited the village.
Then it happened! One Friday morning I felt especially light headed as I walked to a construction site near the University. It was in the air, the light morning breeze complemented by the warmth of the rising sun. I was going to get a job today! Even the song of the early birds was a testament to the fact.
A very large hostel was under construction and the guard had informed me the day before that they were hiring labourers. I was one of the first to arrive at the site and the guard of yesterday pointed out the boss. I walked over to where the boss was sitting reading a newspaper.
“Excuse me sir,” I spoke softly, kneeling down at a respectable distance from his feet. “I have come about the job of labourer.”
At that moment a large burly man came out from behind some building materials and joined the boss.
“Gwe, genda, genda! (You, go away!),” he shouted on seeing me, waving his large hand. He was the sort of person that gave credibility to the theory that we descended from apes!
“Leave him,” I heard the boss say as I scramble to my feet preparing to run to the gate. I quickly dropped to my knees again.
“He thinks he can be a labourer!” The boss told the ape man and they laughed.
“Young man, do you know anything about gardening?” the boss stood up and walked over to me.
“Yes sir,” I answered, my head bowed in humble respect. Just the way my grandfather had taught me to address an elder.
“I had my own garden in the village, sir,” I added trying to be a little more like the city folk who talked whether they were spoken to or not.
“You are hired!” the boss said with a sweep of his hands. “You will set up flower gardens over there.” He pointed to an area in front of the large building. “Bosa will show you what to do and give you the tools you need.”
“Thank you sir,” was all I could mumble in response. My heart leapt with joy as I rubbed my sweating palms on the seat of my trousers. I had a job!
“You will work everyday except Sunday and I will pay you 5,000 shillings a week,” the boss said. “You can begin right away.” With that, he walked off leaving me with Bosa.
I could not believe my luck. 5,000 shillings a week! It had taken me months to save that sort of money in the village!
“Are you going to kneel there all day smiling to yourself?” the harsh voice of Bosa, the ape man, brought me back to reality. “Come on son, there is work to do. What is your name?”
“Samu sir,” I scrambled to feet and hurried after him. “I am very hardworking sir.”
“We shall see about that, Samu,” Bosa said as he opened a shed and pulled out some clothing. “This is what you will wear to work. Now hurry up and change. You will find me at the site.” Bosa walked off leaving me holding brand new overalls and a pair of gumboots.
I had never ever owned anything new! All my cloths were either gifts from rich cousins or second hand clothes from our market. I pulled the overall to my face, savouring the sweet smell of new kaki clothing.
Bosa was already digging up at the site when I joined him. I grabbed a hoe and went straight to work. The smell of wet soil was very familiar and for a moment there I felt a tinge of nostalgia. Banished thoughts of the simple, safe and predictable village life threatened to surface. Only for a moment, then I pushed them to the back of my mind and concentrated on the task at hand.
To be continued.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Rags to Riches?
1. The City
It was with a sense of immense achievement that I stepped off the bus and set my worn away sandals on the streets of Kampala City. At the age of eighteen, I felt pretty much an adult. I had been saving since I had to drop out of school six years ago. I remember grandfather’s words when he dropped the bombshell, as if it were yesterday.
“You have studied enough, my son,” grandfather told me when I showed him my Primary 4 report card that year. “It is now time to let your younger brother’s also go to school.”
May be my report had been so discouraging or so good that he felt I had learnt enough … Whatever it was, I dropped out of school and began my long journey to freedom, life and money. Lots and lots of money! That is what my naïve young ambitious mind told me. All I had to do was save enough money to go to the City and then I would find some real work, earn lots of money and become rich.
And so I began saving as much as I could from the hard labour I provided to neighbours, schools, and pretty much anyone who needed a strong bodied young man. I had a tough, old metal can that must have once housed powder milk or something. The lid fit firmly and I had my own special hiding place which I cannot divulge even now in case I need to use it again. Whenever I had collected enough I would go to the shop and exchange my small change for a larger note. Of course I have felt discouraged at times, but I was determined to become someone useful in society. I needed to become rich!
Now here I was, six years down road actually in Kampala! I took a deep breath of the city air, looking around. Unfortunately for me, the bus was just moving off and I drew in a lungful of exhaust fumes! Coughing uncomfortably I looked around for Mr. Mugaga (not his real name, but what everyone in the village called him). Mugaga was the richest man in my village. He was my mentor and my inspiration. I cannot remember how many time he told me the story of how he began with nothing, came to the City and made his riches. We would all sit at his feet and listen over and over again to his stories of life in Kampala City.
I looked around now at what I could see of Kampala City. The sun was going down making the sky turn a purple grey colour mixing with all the car fumes and dust. There were people everywhere all busy going somewhere or trying to sell something. In all my life I had never seen so many people in one place! The noise was quite a shock to my remote village system. Someone grabbed my arm and my heart began to race as I turned round.
“Mr Mugaga, you are here!” Relief washed over me like a warm drink on a cold night.
“Welcome to Kampala, Samu,” Mugaga gave me a quick hug. “How is everyone in the village?”
We exchanged greetings as he led me across the street into a taxi park. It was difficult to talk as we had to dodge people, taxis, boda bodas and cyclists. I held my small bundle of belongs close to my heart. I didn’t have much, but I did have my special rusty old can.
We were soon seated in a taxi and heading to Kikoni where Mugaga lived. I looked out the window at all the buildings we passed trying to take it all in, even in the fading evening light. I admired the shops full of merchandise and people. I envied the people. They lived here and knew their way around. Everything was normal and familiar to them. My heavy heart lighted as I realized that soon, I would be one of them.
When we finally arrived at Mugaga’s house, I was a surprised. It was not what I had been expecting at all. Mugaga had the biggest house in our village, and he was the first person to have a mabati roof (iron sheet roof). I had only admired Mugaga’s house from a distance, but I knew we all knew that it was full of all sorts of riches. The word in the village was that Mugaga’s house had four large rooms! Now here I was looking at a muzigo (one roomed house) in a large kikomera (walled enclosure) full of mizigo (plural of muzigo).
“This is where I stay in the city,” Mugaga said as he opened the door. He must have read the expression on my face, because he continued to explain. “I save all my money for the house in the village. There is no point in building a big house here when my home is in the village.”
I couldn’t accept his explanation and there and then I decided that when I was rich, I would build a home in the city and one in the village. I tried to shrug off the deep sense of disappointment that threatened to overwhelm me. My mentor had let me down.
It had been a long day for me and after supper, which Mugaga bought from somewhere, I went straight to sleep on a mat, excited, expectant and exhilarated about this new journey I was making from rags to riches. As I dropped off to sleep, a thought lingered in my mind. Imagine they buy the food already cooked in the city! Will I ever adjust to this modern way of living?
To be continued.
It was with a sense of immense achievement that I stepped off the bus and set my worn away sandals on the streets of Kampala City. At the age of eighteen, I felt pretty much an adult. I had been saving since I had to drop out of school six years ago. I remember grandfather’s words when he dropped the bombshell, as if it were yesterday.
“You have studied enough, my son,” grandfather told me when I showed him my Primary 4 report card that year. “It is now time to let your younger brother’s also go to school.”
May be my report had been so discouraging or so good that he felt I had learnt enough … Whatever it was, I dropped out of school and began my long journey to freedom, life and money. Lots and lots of money! That is what my naïve young ambitious mind told me. All I had to do was save enough money to go to the City and then I would find some real work, earn lots of money and become rich.
And so I began saving as much as I could from the hard labour I provided to neighbours, schools, and pretty much anyone who needed a strong bodied young man. I had a tough, old metal can that must have once housed powder milk or something. The lid fit firmly and I had my own special hiding place which I cannot divulge even now in case I need to use it again. Whenever I had collected enough I would go to the shop and exchange my small change for a larger note. Of course I have felt discouraged at times, but I was determined to become someone useful in society. I needed to become rich!
Now here I was, six years down road actually in Kampala! I took a deep breath of the city air, looking around. Unfortunately for me, the bus was just moving off and I drew in a lungful of exhaust fumes! Coughing uncomfortably I looked around for Mr. Mugaga (not his real name, but what everyone in the village called him). Mugaga was the richest man in my village. He was my mentor and my inspiration. I cannot remember how many time he told me the story of how he began with nothing, came to the City and made his riches. We would all sit at his feet and listen over and over again to his stories of life in Kampala City.
I looked around now at what I could see of Kampala City. The sun was going down making the sky turn a purple grey colour mixing with all the car fumes and dust. There were people everywhere all busy going somewhere or trying to sell something. In all my life I had never seen so many people in one place! The noise was quite a shock to my remote village system. Someone grabbed my arm and my heart began to race as I turned round.
“Mr Mugaga, you are here!” Relief washed over me like a warm drink on a cold night.
“Welcome to Kampala, Samu,” Mugaga gave me a quick hug. “How is everyone in the village?”
We exchanged greetings as he led me across the street into a taxi park. It was difficult to talk as we had to dodge people, taxis, boda bodas and cyclists. I held my small bundle of belongs close to my heart. I didn’t have much, but I did have my special rusty old can.
We were soon seated in a taxi and heading to Kikoni where Mugaga lived. I looked out the window at all the buildings we passed trying to take it all in, even in the fading evening light. I admired the shops full of merchandise and people. I envied the people. They lived here and knew their way around. Everything was normal and familiar to them. My heavy heart lighted as I realized that soon, I would be one of them.
When we finally arrived at Mugaga’s house, I was a surprised. It was not what I had been expecting at all. Mugaga had the biggest house in our village, and he was the first person to have a mabati roof (iron sheet roof). I had only admired Mugaga’s house from a distance, but I knew we all knew that it was full of all sorts of riches. The word in the village was that Mugaga’s house had four large rooms! Now here I was looking at a muzigo (one roomed house) in a large kikomera (walled enclosure) full of mizigo (plural of muzigo).
“This is where I stay in the city,” Mugaga said as he opened the door. He must have read the expression on my face, because he continued to explain. “I save all my money for the house in the village. There is no point in building a big house here when my home is in the village.”
I couldn’t accept his explanation and there and then I decided that when I was rich, I would build a home in the city and one in the village. I tried to shrug off the deep sense of disappointment that threatened to overwhelm me. My mentor had let me down.
It had been a long day for me and after supper, which Mugaga bought from somewhere, I went straight to sleep on a mat, excited, expectant and exhilarated about this new journey I was making from rags to riches. As I dropped off to sleep, a thought lingered in my mind. Imagine they buy the food already cooked in the city! Will I ever adjust to this modern way of living?
To be continued.
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