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Waaw, Waaw, our dear Kampala!

Life & Style

Waaw, Waaw, our dear Kampala!


the city of strange happenings

It’s all bizarre if things bizarre any longer happen around  tawo, Kampala it is. For once upon a time, this is the city known to me, for a limited traveler around the globe I am, where anything known or unknown used to happen and the residents were not to be bothered about it.

Actually many would laugh at  confounding happenings like murder in the city or in the countryside. Strange indeed it may sound but it’s as true as the sun rising from east and setting in the west.

One common happening, now forgotten by many is that Kampala city street walkers (mostly guys with peckers) had made it  a habit to unzip their flies at take a leak on the trees growing along the streets and it was not uncommon to come across a chap foolishly smiling after a leaking as he shook, shook his dangler to get rid of the remaining droplets of urea and uric acid still inside his pecker.

Street alleys and corners of buildings used to be dumping grounds of human waste vis urine and solid or liquid (call it diarrhoea) matter. In those days you could blame it on the lapse of city administrators who cared naught about a neat city environment. Now don’t be surprised if similar things are beginning to re-occur.

Kampala happens to be a city where people can do things whether carefully or carelessly in the name of earning a buck. You can name them but our present concern is downtown  where young ladies confront fellow cunt owners and almost forcefully convince them that they go to  salons inside the arcades for hair dos.

Now don’t bother to tell us that organized people would plan on when they should go for hair dos or hair cuts; what these young fellas only do is just to identify that a female’s head needs a hair do and that’ the crime their owners would have committed.

Can you imagine one going about one’s business and engrossed as one may be,  another person grabs one by the hand demanding that “nyabo, jangu tukukole enviiri….” Tukukole enviiri my foot. Doesn’t the exercise cost money and would you deem an owner of a hazy head to be so free with their money and just dish it out without a prior programme?

You may be free to consider the above an aberration or a thing not worth your read but hold on. Stories abound  when such accosted women have been coaxed into being led away by their accosters right into the go downs  of the arcades and to their amazement,  instead of receiving the promised hair dos, they were roughly man, no, woman handled and forcefully relieved of almost all their worth including their mobile phones, cash, necklaces, shoes and my, oh my, even some, their knickers. Disbelieve that and you will disbelieve anything.

Joseline is our family friend. At 24, she loves style like style is going out of fashion the next day. So, last Saturday on a hot afternoon, she was partly sweating and walking along this down town area along Luwum Street  when a bunch of six very determined girls wearing aprons announcing a tribe of salons, intercepted her and convinced her she had to have a hair do.

Hair do indeed her head needed. Joseline was game and smiling, she agreed to be led by hand into the arcade, via steps leading into the underground where she was promised was located a salon which would do on her the needful.

But that’s not all. Jose had just withdrawn a wad of cash (shs 350,000) from a mobile money service centre and unknown to her, she had been followed by the common city hoods ever hungry and angry looking for this damn Mutebile dollars which are a curse to many.

Such are the fellows who vow to snatch the damn dollars whether by hook or crook and these work in tandem with the earlier mentioned salon girls. Their tactic is simple. They finger and pinpoint the victim to the salon girls who in turn insist and block the way of the victim up to and until the latter agree to be led to the alleged salons.

Once inside the salon, our Jose received a five minutes female fingering on her head. Be free to call this a massage. But she became apprehensive when one of the two girls attending to her started fingering her breasts. She protested but was asked to relax and take it easy.

Eeh, eeeh! You think that’s all. Wapi! Just a couple of minutes since she entered this venue, a beefy chap entered the place and  thumped Jose hard in the chest. She screamed but her mouth was instantly smothered and ladies and gentlemen, the action began.

Swift and fast hands ripped Jose free of her blouse, tearing away the buttons, others invaded her thighland ripping off her panties, still others spread her legs far apart and bwana, oh bwana, two guys took turns at ravishing Jose’s well lubricated kabunidde which to its owner’s amazement, was offering no check point but was allowing free and easy access to the inner labyrinth of her hole of fame.

Matter of fact, Jose’s body betrayed her or was it courtesy of the noon day heat. In the space it took for the two guys to ravish her, Jose’s damn pudenda had gushed out three releases of love juices and the poor girl had screamed out in uncontrollable sheer ecstacy. She obviously also left the place in excited shame but minus her bundle of cash.

Because I had once told her a story about the rage of rape cases, Jose never reported her fate to the laws fearing that a legal representative of the defendants could challenge her in court whether or not her twat didn’t water in the course of the alleged rape. World without wonders. But Kampala oyeee!





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