Standing frozen amidst pulsing limbs and guilty cackling this past Sunday, I found my eyes wandering to the adjacent dirt road and the young woman ambling peacefully down the hill. As she walked, tossing a coin first from right then to left and again to right hand, I listened to the scuff-scuff of her feet on the soft earth, and watched her smile as plumes of red dust wrapped around her ankles. Mpola mpola (slowly, slowly) she drifted away from the vibrant mirth of our Red Light-Green Light, her lean figure framed by the hazy skyline of Kampala City below.
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Archive for the 'Ugandan Life' Category
Playing “pass the story” with a huge group of Ugandan kids, ages 10 through 18 or so, is hilarious. We sat, about 20 of us, in a circle, and passed around a box of cookies as we “passed” the story – whoever held the cookies told the story. Our first story was about two children, who ran into a crocodile on the road. But no, it wasn’t a crocodile (the next kid corrected), it was a snake, a huge snake, ready to bite the children in half. No, it WAS a crocodile after all (the next kid insisted), laying in the road with its mouth open, waiting to swallow them whole. Actually, it was both a crocodile and a snake (I amended), and the children stood, amazed at such a coincidence, too scared to move. The girl ‘urinated’ from fright (provoking much laughter from the boys, and a slap from one of the girls), and the children ran away.
“Gonja” is a sweet, roasted banana, sold on the corners and curb sides of Evening Kampala. You’ll buy it from a middle-aged lady, or perhaps a young girl – women who appear like spirits at dusk, materializing alongside food stands, vendors, and previously-non-existent, hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Crouched over a small, battered, charcoal grill, the lady turns bananas slowly with her fingers, but hands you yours in a bit of torn-off notebook paper. You’ll give her 100 shillings in return, and she’ll take it politely, with both hands. Gonja is a medium-sized banana, tannish-yellow and almost leathery on the outside, with black marks from the grill – not entirely appealing. On the inside, though, it is soft, an egg-yolk yellow, sweet but not overly. You’ll continue walking along the street, night-life and food stands humming like folklore, eating your Gonja and watching the dance of Kampala at night.
