Everyone Always Returns To Uganda

Hola peeps. Mi nombre es Tunde y voy el día de fiesta a África del este.


Twelve weeks! One hour a week for twelve friggin’ weeks was time he had spent, nah wasted, on Spanish classes and he still wasn’t as fluent as he hoped. He could just about manage to respond to the tutor when she asked what his summer plans were. That’s the last time I believe crap I read in a brochure, he said, to no one in particular. The brochure in question was a Cliff Notes-esque guide to becoming a writer, Become a Great Writer in 10 Easy Steps. The first step advised the reader to enrol in a language class to improve his vocabulary, hence why he took up Spanish classes.

Miss Moreno, the Spanish teacher, was a petit woman in her late thirties who had just gotten engaged so did not require an excuse to show off her diamond ring to all and sundry. Tunde suspected it was actually cubic zirconia, but hadn’t the guts to tell her so. In all honesty he knew he was only hating because she was out of his reach. You see Miss Moreno had a killer smile that inspired Tunde never to miss a lesson. If she weren’t engaged he might have asked her out on a date after the course ended.
Oh well, I will always have the memory of our time together in that misty classroom, he joked.

He was fond of cracking jokes to hide his emotions. Truth be told he was disappointed he hadn’t mastered Spanish as well as he expected. Yes, he could read most sentences and respond to requests, but it didn’t quite flow as easily as conveyed in those language DVDs. His process was more mechanical: first, he deciphers the motive behind the sentence, then he converts it to English, next he responds in English, converts that to Spanish in his head, before opening his mouth and praying that he rolls his Rs properly, pronounces his Vs as Bs, his LLs as Ys, and Xs as strange sounding Zs. Yup, way too mechanical.

Good thing he was travelling to Kenya the next day, maybe the week away would be just what the doctor ordered to take his mind off his faltering career as a novelist. For the life of him he couldn’t get what the problem was. He had spoken to a few writers and their advice centred around two axioms: Getting started is always the hardest part and Write about what you know.

Duh! Of course getting started is always the hardest part. What kinda trite line is that? Just like when folk say, “You always find it in the last place u look.” Aaarrggghhh. It’s because of stupid statements like that I bought that crap pamphlet on becoming a writer. If I took their other advice I’d probably sell less copies than Osama bin Laden’s latest literary masterpiece, My Quest To Become An American Citizen. Ha. I mean, seriously, who would be interested in the mores of male stripper?

It was on the 5-hour flight to Kenya he hit upon the premise of his novel. He wasn’t sure of the precise eureka moment, maybe it was seeing LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD the umpteenth time or while taking a dump in the loo at 30,000 feet - he always did get his best ideas while mounting the white throne, or in this case, the metallic grey throne. He decided to write about a little known subject matter: the Nigerian spy. Do Nigerian spies utilize special gadgets? No one knows. Do they hide the nature of their job from their families? No one knows. How are they recruited? No one knows. He figured since there weren’t any Nigerian spy exposés out there he could make up stuff as he went along and no one would be the wiser. So simple and yet so brilliant; he would tailor the novel along the lines of Ian Fleming’s venerable spy novels. To create some controversy, and thus interest in his books, he would craft titles such as Dr. Yes and From Kenya With Love that are homages to the Bond books, and if anyone complained he’d refer them to Alice Randall’s The Wind Done Gone and offer trite axioms about copying being the sincerest form of flattery.

His spy would not be as fantastical as Bond though. He’d be, um, um, yeah, his cover would be as a roaming proctologist – hey, he’s trying to ‘write about what he knows’ – who applies for travel visas like everyone else. Only few people know his true mission though; his contact from the Ugandan Secret Service, David – never did like Fleming’s CIA character Felix - and his, um, boss Miss Moreno (aka M).

Yeah, yeah, he was getting somewhere at last. What else? Bond girls! From his travels he came across loadsa beautiful women. On his first night in Nairobi David took him to hotspots Black Diamond and Mad House. It was pouring down that night and the veranda at Black Diamond wasn’t shielded properly so staff spent most of night scooping water from what looked like a scene from New Orleans after Katrina hit.

That could be a scene in the book, where the villain uses his new “laser” to flood a city. Yeah, yeah that’s good, that’s good.

He saw tall ass chicks at the club and some chick who danced so well she’d be in music videos. When they got to the Mad House David turned to Tunde and said, “Wanna know why Kenyan guys are such good runners? ‘Cos they come to the Mad House. Ha. U’ll see.” And right he was, dreadfully right.

As David walked away to fetch them drinks at the bar Tunde, as is his wont whenever he steps into a night spot, attempted to walk around, scanning slowly, to get a sense of the place. No sooner had he taken two steps when a lady with a podgy face and gums that would put Arsenio Hall to shame stepped across his path and attempted at a conversation.

“Hello. I like what u wearing. What is that, that a handkerchief there?”
“No, it’s a pocket square.”
“Erm, my name is Nancy, are u from here?”
“No, I am Nigerian. Here, visiting a mate of mine.”
“Oh goodie, welcome to Nairobi. Erm, erm, I know u just arrived and would like to walk around, I’ll get out of ur way, but I’ll be standing right here when u done.”

The scene was to repeat itself over four times, with various women, during the course of his two-hour stay at the club.

Man, if a guy is feeling low this’d be the perfect place to boost his self esteem. Anyone would feel like a stud here…..if the women weren’t so creepy. First time I been to a spot where just two ladies are presentable, and they are sisters!

While attempting to share his thoughts with Dave he noticed the girl beside his friend - one of the ‘presentable’ sisters – whisper something in his ear. Dude blew his top, and the girl was so scared she ran to other end of the club. Dave wasn’t fazed, he was used to this. He laughed and confessed to pretending to be angry, “She asked for a drink…that’s how u drive the women away in a place like this.” Hmmm.

Tunde wasn’t keen on hearing more lousy pickup lines so suggested they leave. Dave convinced him to wait a while longer for the piece de resistance.

What? In a place like this? Wouldn’t be surprised if it was a striptease by an octogenarian.

The icing on the cake David was harping on about turned out to be some midget shaking his hips vigorously to makossa music. The dude was the ish in that spot ‘cos chicks fell over themselves to dance with him; he didn’t pay them no mind. Some girl actually lay writhing on the dance floor, making suggestive gestures at the dude, but he flatly refused. Even in a talent-lacking place like the Mad House Tunde was very impressed at his technique. Whatever dude has going for him if he’d bottle it for sale he’d make a killing.

As Tunde had just two days to spend in Nairobi David insisted they drop in on the ‘must’ places. Huh? The must-avoid and the must-visit. The former are scenes like the Mad House. The next night, as soon as they sauntered into the Carnivore, Tunde glanced at Dave and nodded. His college buddy understood the gesture; this was another ‘must’ place – a must-visit-and-never-attempt-to-leave hotspot.

Not even in Nigeria had he seen so many beauties congregated in one spot. If he wasn’t in a long term, albeit looooong distance, relationship with Angelina he would have fallen in love with a different girl every five seconds; yes, there were that many hotties there.

This spot could definitely be a scene in the book. Too bad ‘Carnivore’ doesn’t sound like a Bond-esque book title. More like another lame attempt by Thomas Harris to drain the last drop of milk from his Hannibal Lecter cash cow.

The Nigerian visitor almost shed a tear when checking out of the Savora Stanley in Nairobi. He wished he could have stayed longer especially since the lady at the hospitality desk was the prettiest hotel staff he had ever seen. He made sure he spoke to her when checking out.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay, sir.”
“It was brilliant. My first time in East Africa. I am definitely coming back.”
“Great, we would love to see you again.”
“Hey, maybe I’ll come get a bride from here. Too many beautiful women.”
“Ha. You flatter us, sir. Yes, a Kenyan wife would treat you right. Just don’t end up with a Nigerian woman.”
“Why?”
“Well, I know Nigerian women beat their husbands. You had better be careful, especially when they end a sentence with ‘o’. ‘I warn you o’, ‘I’ll fight you o’, etc.”
“Hmm, lemme guess. U are a fan of Nollywood movies, no?”

He couldn’t believe the power of Nollywood cinema home video could contribute to negative feelings of other Africans towards Nigerians.

Good thing Nigerian musicians like Tuface Idibia and PSquare have such a huge following in these parts. One sure way to generate buzz around Africa would be to have them collaborate on the soundtrack to my hitherto untitled African Bond movie…adapted from my, er, hitherto unwritten African Bond book.

On the hour long plane ride from Nairobi to Entebbe Tunde couldn’t help tossing around possible book titles in his head. If he couldn’t write anything substantive at least he’d come up with a killer book title, maybe that’d trigger a flow of ideas. He couldn’t, thus no fountain of ideas spewed forth.

It was the eve of his departure to Lagos and he was still bereft of ideas. To cheer him up David invited him along to a wedding. A long as heck East African wedding was the last place he wanted to be but he didn’t put up a fuss, after all it wasn’t like he was going to spend time mulling over story lines.

Maybe he was hoping he would get inspired by wearing a suit. For some reason his best ideas came while knotting a tie or, as already mentioned, taking a dump. No in-betweens, just those two weird extremes. So he put on his best suit, carefully crafted a Windsor knot with a dimple, and still nada. He would have to stuff himself with indigenous dishes then; nothing like foreign food to bring on the doodle pangs - his mind recalled the first time he had Thai food, and how he, er, ran for days afterwards. A mischievous grin spread across his face at the memory.

It was during those hours spent on the white throne he had come up with a theme for his wedding vows – the lyrics to either We Are The World or Do They Know It’s Christmas? - and what wedding song he and his bride would dance to – Llyod’s I Want You. The weirdest thing was he wasn’t dating anyone at the time; he wasn’t even interested in a relationship. But that is the beauty of inspirations derived from inhaling doodle fumes, they don’t have to make any sense.

As the wedding drew to a close he still wasn’t feeling the d.p.s, i.e. doodle pangs.

Guess I am not cut out to be a writer after all. There was a time when I could will myself to take a dump and presto I’d be on the bowl whistling Dixie within the hour. Now I have stuffed myself with who knows what and my stomach’s still sealed up tighter than a character on Nip/Tuck.

The wannabe writer was gonna quit dreaming about being the next Cyprian Ekwensi, it just didn’t seem to be in his make up. So he got up off the loo – he had hoped the ambience would force at least a dollop from his derriere - and returned to the wedding hall. He walked in just in time to witness the latest dance craze sweeping Uganda: The Shuffle.

He couldn’t get why they called it The Shuffle, as far as he was concerned it was just the Electric Slide done to Ugandan music. He pulled up a chair to get a better view and was about to take a seat when some girl who had been glancing at him all night asked for a dance. As she grabbed him close the d.p.s started. At first minor, then they grew in intensity. Rising and rising until he could stomach (geddit?) it no more. He mumbled something to his dance partner and made a dash for the loo.

No sooner had he unzipped his pants when the familiar cavalcade of dollops hit the insides of the sparkling white bowl. As he groaned and thought he was developing an aneurysm the storyline of his book/film started to bloom.

The Beginning…. the opening credits can be shown with folks doing The Shuffle in the background. Yeah, that could be a uniquely African Bond movie opening montage…

The Villain…..we can make this a global body out for African domination. The IMF and World Bank? No, too wonky. It has to be Celtel! The crap telecoms company harped on about their One Network service, but I discovered first hand they were lying. Could only make calls on Nigerian Celtel SIM card the first night I arrived in Kenya. Oh man, Celtel (aka Celpuke) are gonna pay. They gonna pay. Ha huh ha huh ha huh ha huh…that’s my evil genius laugh. I’d also make their top henchman a gyrating midget…..

Action sequence….well, I went white water rafting on the Nile, didn’t I? We’d have a scene where Celpuke engineers trying to set up base stations on the Nile are thwarted by the hero. Yeah, that’d work…

Bond girls…no question, it has to be an Angelina Jolie-lookalike, if we can’t get Angelina herself. I am sure we’d get suitable replacements at The Carnivore….

Tunde finally had something to work with. It would take some time, but he was sure he’d finally become an author. He knew he was missing something, some important ingredient that was needed to wrap up the book neatly, but couldn’t place his finger on it. Oh well, at least he was better off than a day ago. At Entebbe airport when Tunde thought of all the fun he had had, he turned to his pal David and said, “Thanks mate for being so hospitable. I’ll definitely return”. David’s response was typically laidback, “Everyone always returns to Uganda”.

Hmmm, Everyone Always Returns To Uganda. That’s what I was missing!

Yup, our author finally had a title for his book. Tot ziens and God bless.