I am a hopeless romantic. I enjoy stories with happy endings and people getting what they want. It’s so easy and beautiful that way, right?
However, I am also a sadist, who is excited by people’s little miseries. Like this one, where we get to the end before it starts: I did not get a Ugandan boyfriend. It wasn’t their fault. That is all on me. I went looking for a man’s man, a retrosexual (ha!), a macho man, in a country without balls. It was over-ambitious, if you ask me.
I travelled to Mbarara, Uganda and had a pizza in a restaurant whose name I forget. It was one of those run-of-the-mill eateries. I was with Bruce, a Kenyan living in Uganda. I had no Ugandan SIM card or any access to internet. This meant no distractions when talking to Bruce or meeting people. For a young girl like me, this is torture.
To nod. To ooh and aah. I loathe that… As we sat in that restaurant, I looked at the TV screen and sadly shook my head while watching NTV Uganda.
Bruce had stories, and pictures to show. And Bruce can talk a dirty game.
He talked of Milka, whose labia could house an entire village. And Jane he took to bed, horny like a bull. The girl screamed so hard, she had a bowel movement. And there was Caro, whose labia was even longer than Milka’s. She was a waterfall, drenching sheets. Bruce has been around.
His interesting hanky-panky behavior aside, Bruce was a great host, and an even greater tour-guide, with the greatest stories. Western Uganda is quaint and rusty and calm in the same breath. If you squint really hard, you will see a modern residential complex coming up. Ugandans are very particular and their attention to detail is exemplary. When you look at their houses, you see well-thought out plans and patterns. But that is not important, for now.
I stayed in Ishaka, Western Ugandan for three days, after which I left for Kampala. It is on that trip that I lost all my hope of finding a Ugandan boyfriend. On that trip, I met this wonderful man. For some reason, I didn’t ask for his name. Why would I anyway? My civility starts at ‘hi’ and ends at ‘hi’. His name was not important because I didn’t see myself going to a magician chanting his name as I am given a love portion. No. He was a few inches short of the dateable height, you know, those guys who cannot kiss you on the forehead without getting a stool. Plus he had this married air about him and married men I avoid, expect Beckham, who is yet to reply my ninety three messages and declarations of unfaltering love.
Let’s call him Mr.Furaha, because he was happy. Kachabali works wonders. He was a chatty seatmate, which I did not mind. He gave me tales of the Ugandan land and their wonderful food. When we stopped to buy snacks, he kept offering me roasted gonja-plantain. I wasn’t going to have it, because cholera, but he insisted. Must be the excitement that comes with seeing women eat penile-shaped food.
I gave in.
One hour away from Kampala, Mr.Furaha received a call from a woman who I assumed to be his wife. This is because he picked it just as it vibrated. He did not wait for the ring. He had sent her airtime, but she hadn’t received yet. I wondered what did she use to call. He kept on rereading the numbers on the scratch card and calling her madam. He did this for about three times and each time, I watched his manhood evaporate. On her end she was rather impatient.
As he alighted, I felt his hesitance. His step was weak, and his gaze lingered over the bus. He was going to be the one kneeling while serving her, no doubt.
As he said bye, I made a mental note to give up on my dreams, which met his evaporated manhood somewhere in the air.
There was no way I was going to subject a man as nice as him to this brand of crazy. No. The ovaries would have to lose their viability.