The last time I had been to or through Mbarara was back in 2003, during a school trip to Western Uganda. After 20+ years, I finally returned, not to explore its adventures but to honour an invitation to a colleague’s cultural nuptials. Like the last few days or even weeks in Kampala, all the areas enroute to Mbarara were equally hot. Every once in a while, dust blew up in the air, as if the area was experiencing a dust storm.
Like most Ugandan small towns along a highway, defined by dust and dirt inches off the tarmac, activity looked economically worryingly slow except for Kyazanga and Mbirizi where it seemed livelier. Butchers were open and selling, shop attendants appeared to be active.
In Kyazanga, we had stopped for a passenger to disembark. The gentleman wore a long-sleeved untacked shirt, a fairly old blue trouser and a slightly pale black cape, with one arm holding a bag and another clung to his daughter. As soon as he and his bundle of joy disembarked, they were quickly greeted by a boda-boda rider who seemed eager to take them to their next stop, perhaps their final destination.
Meanwhile, the bus assistant or conductor, as we often refer to them was shouting at someone who I didn’t catch sight of to hurry up. My attention had been drawn to a shop attendant who had walked towards the bus. A beautiful central-region dark skinned young adult, cloaked in a long dress stretching up to her ankles, adorned with a faded blue jacket and her breasts pumped to peep. Her hair wrapped with a piece of cloth that cover the entire hind head and its knot tied at the center of her forehead. In a nick of time, she was done with whatever she had come to do and retreated back to her business. The nyash nyashed.
Back in the bus, almost through out the journey, I’m disturbed by this constant heat. It seemed as if everyone seated at a window was afraid of having it open. I was equally seated in a window seat but as the norm is with many Ugandan public transport vehicles, some windows are sealed. Why? I’m not quite sure. Those that had the chance to open theirs only did when the bus stopped and as soon as it resumed the journey, they closed them once again.
As had been the case at most stops starting from Masaka, when the bus assistant announced Kaguta road as the next stop, the kind lady next to me informed me that’s the road leading to the President’s palatial upcountry estate. My attention was immediately drawn to the roadside, scanning to see if the neighbourhood is any different from most, but it was disappointingly not any different. Small shops, a bunch of unfinished buildings and a chapatti stall stood signage.
Besides the scenic view of the Country Yard Hotel that we had left a few kilometers back, nothing else stood out. Miles passed that stop, there were huge chunks of land fenced off with a chain-link but not divided into paddocks. I wondered whether it was farm land but peering eyes had seen no cattle grazing besides the overgrown elephant grass that had formed reeds. It wasn’t until the tail end of the elephant grass that I then saw some heads of cattle, the elegant signature longhorned Ankole cattle.
Kilometers later, in another barbed-wire fenced land, I saw prisoners digging, defined by their usual yellow shirts and shorts. Houses were sparsely settled, cows grazing and if you were lucky, you would spot a herdsman tending to them. Most gardens, largely matooke plantations seemed far in sight, maize and beans often being the ones closer to the roadside.
Most farms were laden with thorny trees, commonly known as akasaana, no wonder in one zone I spotted some Charcoal burning activity. At Enkomi Mixed farm, traffic officers had stopped a driver of a Toyota Wish for what I imagined to be a routine check of a driving license, valid third party or any unpaid tickets as we drove past them.
Like MTN, cows were almost everywhere you go and in Lyantonde, gardens reigned supreme, with coffee spread out to dry on tarpaulins in some compounds. On the journey to, as was the case on return, at some point, the bus seemed to stop more times than two lions mating over a course of three days.
In every reasonable distance, you would see a chunk of hills, a very nice house, or at least one under construction. Forgive me but I couldn’t help it wonder whether many of these belong to government officials back in Kampala.
Every once in a while, you would see a coffin-making-workshop, reminding you how death is a constant, and that perhaps you should re-echo your prayer to the most-high, seeking some form of assurance that this journey won’t be your last. But then again, you also remember that the coffin-workshop owner is also probably praying to the same God to send customers his way. Isn’t life wicked? To make matters worse, we had driven past a matooke ferrying truck that had been involved in an accident, forcing it to fall nearly in the middle of the road with its windscreen shattered and the driver’s side vividly reasonably dented.
The lady seated next to me, who appeared old enough to be my mother, engages me in simple min chit chats. We had exchanged greetings as soon as she boarded the bus. In one of our chats, I inquired from her about my bus stop, a place called Biharwe, which she seemed to be fairly acquainted with. She then promised to notify me when we get there for me to disembark.
At some point along the way, during one of the bus stops, she had checked into a small supermarket at a fuel station where she grabbed a few snacks, one being pumpkin seeds and a drink. She was polite in her words and had been kind enough to offer sharing her pumpkin seeds with me, to which I declined, only wanting a drink and also emphasizing my phobia around eating prior to and sometimes during travel. When we reached Mbirizi town, she helped me call a drinks guy from whom I bought a cold bottle of Nivana water.
Like most passengers on that bus, she had napped through the six-hour journey a couple of times, and despite her assurances, had unintendedly missed my stop during one of her naps. When she opened her iris, she tapped on the gentleman in the seat across, with whom they’d had scattered conversations during the course of the journey, and asked him where we had reached. I don’t know what place he mentioned but she turned to me and said sorry, “you’ve missed your stop. I think I had slept off again,” she said before patting on the shoulder of a lady in the seat in front of her to seek her help in getting the bus assistant’s attention to have them stop for me to exit. Before I knew it, we were driving past Mbarara army school and I was eventually dropped off at a roundabout a friend referred to as the Hotel Triangle roundabout.
Disappointed in myself for having laid all my trust in that lady, I crossed the road to wait for a vehicle to ferry me back after a bunch of boda-boda riders had offered to ride me back. However, I found their fare demands slightly unreasonable but also, I had still yet to find the courage of riding a boda-boda on a busy highway, reflecting on my unpleasant experiences of riding one on the Northern bypass back in Kampala. Eventually, after waiting for minutes without any luck, having attempted to signal a stop to number of private vehicles, I took a boda-boda that had offered to carry me for 5k. Eventually I got there.
After wading through a group of other guests, I sought refuge at one of the verandas to the motel rooms for a change of attire, only hidden by a pillar to the glaring eyes of the catering team on my left and other guests on the right. As soon as I finished swapping my travel clothes to some form of party wear, I noticed that many people were carrying gifts. For a second, I thought I had missed the Ankole wedding memo that says a guest ought to carry a gift to the function but was comforted in seeing others walk in empty handed. Besides, where I come from, gifts are carried to white weddings, not the customary ones.
At the function, most people were smartly dressed, especially the ladies, clad in their traditional wear—the mushanana. Some few men wore suits while others were casually dressed. Like most people enjoying the comfort of their vicinity, they ate their plates empty and indulged themselves in casual conversations. It seemed that whoever walked in, went straight to the serving table, where the service people had been commanded to exercise a certain level of generosity. They served food in plenty, each guest finding a seat with a plate full to the brim. Ushers extended their kindness, helping some carry stuffed plates to their respective dining spots and also fetched food for a selected few.
Like the practice often is, I deliberately stayed away from the food for some level self-preservation, opting to buy a small bottle of minute-maid as a comforting doze for my enzymes. In the background of it all, the deejay was literally showing off with his rich catalogue of music, giving us a treat of some oldies. His playlist encompassed Michael Learns to Rock, Bryan Adams, Michael Bolton, Celine Dion, Mariah Carey and Cece Winans, just to mention but a few.
After my traveling companion had backed out at the last minute without notice, I’m riding solo, so everyone else at the function is a stranger to me, except the bride, who I had not laid sights on since I arrived—almost three hours ago. As usual, in such circumstances, my phone and the blaring music are my only company. The function was everything that they’d hoped it would be. Guests honored their invites, service providers unwavering in the respective duties, serving drinks like Bushera, fresh fruit juice, some African tea and later on sodas and beers. The cultural troupe outdid themselves while a pastor from Ntungamo also treated us to an EP of performances.
A few minutes after 6pm, I sought the audience of the bride to say my goodbyes, leaving before cake would be cut—hoping to catch a bus or a taxi to Mbarara City before the sky shut its only eye. A 15-minutes wait was all it took to get a taxi and off we went.
As you start to peer into the town, you’re greeted by a bunch of unfinished buildings and once you drive past the iconic cow that welcomes you, a swarm of boda-bodas announce your official arrival into Mbarara City, a bunch of cars parked all over the roadside on almost either side, narrowing the streets that are guarded by the high-rise arcades.
After more than a quarter-hour’s wait, my friend Steve, who has offered to host me for the night shows up at the taxi park, clad in polo shorts, a t-shirt, spectacles and a cap. A shake of hands and a few jokes kick start our conversation as we start trumping the streets, most of which are well paved with no potholes to jump over. I re-emphasize my day’s long hunger as I task him to find the perfect place for us to dine. He recommends the Rolex Booth, a fancy bar and restaurant in the city that ushers you in with a view of neatly grass thatched shelters.
We order for a beef and chicken rolex respectively, as we discuss its ingredients—seated in waiting to be served, in the company of his acquaintance who also doubles as a deejay for the hangout spot. We quickly deep dive into a serious discussion about music, TikTok—sharing about how it’s well regulated in China and how different it is for them in respect to the kind of content that they consume and the time the spend on it in comparison to Uganda. China’s burn on some none native social media platforms and how controlled we imagine their system to be, chipping in North Korea and their autocratic system.
Eventually, we get done with our meals and leave, hoop onto a boda-boda and head to a supermarket where he wants to do some shopping. I don’t recall the name of the supermarket but I know enough to remember that he mentioned it was the former Nakumatti.
As he scrutinizes his shopping list, we keep the conversation going. Right outside is a boda-boda stage, a quick negotiation on the transportation to his crib has us on an impasse before deciding to walk as we scan for the next alternatives. After a sudden change of heart, the riders come around and take us home, a well fenced and paved compound with a couple of cars parked. A group of mid-sized two-bedroom bungalows in a disjointed rectangle shape stand homage to the tenants that occupy them.
Upon entrance, you can’t help it but appreciate the with its details, spacious enough with a dining area, a sitting room, self contained with a kitchen inside and the two bedrooms that come with it. Our conversations were endless, trying to compensate for the long time we had spent without meeting, reflecting on the past, present and the future. We talked about family, our respective work streams and some old memories from out time back together in primary school.
Shortly before 2:00 AM, he acknowledged the tiredness of his eyes and signed himself off to sleep after showing me a bed in the opposite room where I was to lay. He quickly fell into a deep slumber as I indulged myself with a cold shower in his bathroom. By 5:45 AM, I was up and ready to embark on my return journey, bringing an end to a short-lived, yet worthwhile experience trip to the land of milk and honey. I don’t know where my next road will lead but be sure I will be back on the road again.
R.K.Circles 