Monday, September 30, 2013

Ban Fat People From Sitting On Plastic Chairs


There is a need to save our plastic chairs from fat people.

I was at Kati Kati a few Saturday’s ago for the Myko Ouma show and Policewoman manning the security desk, was not about to win the 100 meter race even if Usain Bolt had given her a two week head start.

She looked like a beached whale waiting for a mechanical digger to come lift her out of the sand and throw her back into the sea. The veracious veins on her legs were also having a hard time trying to circulate the blood round her body while the Nice House of Plastic chair upon which she sat, could barely hold the bulk of her bottom.

But I love competition – especially between Policewoman, Midwife and Dubai Woman because they compete amongst themselves to see who has the fattest bottom. When it comes to sitting down, each one of them is particular about the type of seat they use considering their mass bulk bottoms. Midwife and Dubai Woman have got it down to an art but sadly, Policewoman is still dithering about.

I have never seen a skinny midwife. Even abroad, they are all on the fat side and that tempts me to believe it’s a pre-requisite for getting the job. Dr. Ian Clarke would know seeing that his IHK midwifes are fat but his phone was off when I called to enquire.

Midwife knows her preferred chair. It’s the one with wheels on it. Given the chance, she would wheel herself to the labour ward but she has yet to figure out a way to wheel herself up and down the stairs.

Even if two out of four wheels are missing, it won’t deter Midwife. And if you have carefully observed her, she is at her best when she is wheeling herself to the corner of the room where she has stored her enormous flask of tea and enough mandazi’s to feed the entire out-patients department.  

Getting back to Policewoman, she had forced her fat bottom into a chair that was obviously too small for her for whenever she stood up, the seat also came up with her!

I couldn’t resist the temptation to take a jibe at her and told her this: “James Mulwana must be turning in his grave at the sight of your bottom vandalizing his chairs.”

She didn’t get the jibe but in trying to push the chair off her bottom she cracked one of the arm rests. With that, there was the urge to follow up the jibe with a touch of sarcasm and though I tried to stifle it, it came out as easy as Askari tossing his ‘flying toilet’ onto the rail tracks in Namuwongo after doing his number two.

“Now look, you have broken Mulwana’s chair” I told her. She was vexed and humiliated because I walked in without being checked while she withered about trying to extract the seat from her bottom.

At the show, Dubai Woman stood on the fringes scanning the seats for a good sturdy one. She and her fat bottomed friends were very careful when it came to choosing plastic seats. They prefer the ones without armrests and for obvious reasons. They don’t want to get stuck like Policewoman did. And they also know that one seat won’t hold the kilos of their bottoms so they stack two or three for extra strength.

If only police PRO, Judith Nabakooba, could circulate a memo to Policewoman telling her not to use plastic chairs with arm rests, it might do a lot to save the chairs and she (Policewoman) won’t get stuck.

My Love For Radio


I have a renewed passion for listening to radio since it dawned on me that it’s much cheaper than paying 240k to watch repeats of Top Gear, Diners, Drive in’s and Dives, and Dragon’s Den on DStv.

As I type, I am at the Chinese restaurant and on BBC Knowledge, Top Gear is up next. Hmm, it’s a two-year-old repeat but I watch it anyway because it’s the episode where Clarkson in a Range Rover Sport, took on a challenger tank.

Listening to BBC World Service recently they had a harrowing story from Pakistan. Peasant had drowned his one-and-a-half month old child because it was a girl and he had wanted a boy.

The BBC had managed to get an interview with Peasant and in his defence, he said: “I had no idea what I was doing. I don’t know what overcame me”. Oh please Peasant! You DID know what you were doing and you DID know that you were killing her!

The tragic thing about this case is that in Pakistan and other parts of the Indian sub-continent, doing away with babies because they are born girls is no big deal and Peasant will probably get away with it.

There was a debate on Sanyu FM when I woke that morning between the lawyer David Mpanga and Henry Rugamba, UMEME’s communications supremo. Mpanga was not amused that UMEME had threatened to disconnect him off if he did not switch Yaka.

Mpanga is clever, a Muganda, which I am not and will one day probably be appointed Katikiro of which I have no chance of becoming because I am not a Muganda. Rugamba whom I have known since his BAT days, is equally as smart and like I, he too has no chance of being appointed Katikiro because he is not a Muganda.

As I listened, there was a need to contribute to the debate seeing the phone was laden with airtime.

But when presenter Seanice Kacungira reads out the station’s phone numbers, she does so at a terrifying speed that one has to listen carefully as she hurtles the figures out.

I called and on the second ring, it’s answered. But there was a BUT as there always is with phone in’s. Instead of getting a chirpy ‘hello’ in a flossy Seanice accent, I got a ‘a-lloo’ in what sounded like a Mawokota South accent which made me to wonder if Amelia Kyambadde, who is MP for that area, sounds like that when she’s on the phone. I must call her and find out.

An ‘a-lloo’ instead of a chirpy ‘hello’ should have instantly told me something was amiss and that I ought to hang up but, I persisted and this is how the conversation panned out.

TB: “Morning Seanice, I have a question for Henry.”

WOMAN: “A-lloo, gw’ani?” (hello, who are you?)

TB: “Is that you Seanice?”

WOMAN:”Martin-eee waliwo omuzungu ku ssimu” (Martin, there’s a white person on the phone).

Meanwhile in the background there is some commotion - what sounded like the sigiri being knocked over and the saucepan of boiling porridge scalding a toddler who let out a hair standing shriek.

Martin or rather Martin-eee, came on the phone demanding to know who was calling. I hung up.

Two minutes later, the phone vibrates and I answer. The voice on the other end says I called his phone. It’s Martin. Rather than admit, I deny so he hurls tons of abuse at me.

By the time I got the correct numbers to the station, the debate is over. Mpanga and Rugamba were saying their goodbyes while Seanice is harping on about Fat Boy being on leave. And I did try calling Kyambadde but she didn’t pick up.