Steven Tendo
23 June 2008
column
Someone said that if you can drive in Uganda, then you can drive anywhere in the world. Our roads are the ultimate test. With their constantly materialising potholes, a driver must have more than just bare driving school knowledge.
They must have a sixth or even seventh sense to know that even if there was no pothole yesterday in this place, there is one now so deal with it...
On the hierarchy of hell rides, just below the loaf-like death traps we call taxis are the boda bodas. Now if you want to die without feeling guilty that the Big G is going to skin you once you get to the Pearly Gates for pulling the plug too soon, get a job as a boda boda driver. That way, when the end comes, you won't be responsible for what happens.
For some obscure reason, I let someone talk me into sitting on one of these things. A friend was getting married and his men friends were getting together to send him off in style. We had to give him advice; tell him what to expect and get him to tell us what it feels like to be on the verge of going down.
I also wanted to see if there would be a stripper, as I have heard that it is becoming common in Uganda for people to hire strippers for the kasiki. We got our boda bodas at Wandegeya. It was rush hour and that made it easier for Enos to convince me to get on because if we had sat in one of the taxis, we would have gotten to Kawempe after two hours.
The jams in Kampala are another wonder of the city, something a tourist can come down to see. So there I was, holding onto the metals on my seat and sending up prayers as my driver weaved in and out of traffic, dodging oncoming taxis whose drivers didn't know the first thing about the Highway Code (do we even have one?) My friend is an old hand at this thing, he told me. At rush hour in Kampala, it is better for you to stay at the office and blog or read other people's blogs.
You can also go benching in Box. Enos told me that he usually gets a boda boda and gets home in half the time, at twice the cost. But he doesn't mind. That explains why he was talking to his driver about whatever as they flew towards Bwaise. I was astonished. Enos was sitting like he was in a sofa back home. I bet he got to know the boda man's name and address.
I have never been one to warm up immediately to strangers. I have a problem even with "spesho" drivers; once we agree on how much he will extract from me, I fall silent with my thoughts. It's not like I don't think they are capable of intelligent conversation but work with me here.
Anyway, when I opened my eyes, I was miraculously there. I had not died. But even as I thought about that, another image entered my head. I thought of all the guys who are lying in the casualty ward at Mulago, who met their fate on boda bodas.
I think I shall continue dodging these hell rides for long. And since there was no stripper, next time I won't even bother to answer when a guy calls and says, "Come for the bachelor's party."
Some party.
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