I do not know if you have ever been with an ugly woman – by been, I, of course, mean in that way we both understand.
But forgive me, there are no ugly women. I am really sorry, my mother raised me better.
A man should never insinuate that any woman is ugly. In Kampala, the working definition of ugly is that woman who refuses to bestow sexual favors upon any man to whom she harbors no blood ties.
Unless, as a man, your heart is bereft of amorous feeling towards the said woman – then you must, by Kampala standards, automatically find her ugly.
But again, have you ever been with a woman? I don’t mean walked or stood with her at City Square – no – I mean been alone with her in a dark room (preferably your locked bedroom). Did you touch her with your fingers, or with your other pointed ends? Did you find the joy in the moans that coated her lips when the tips of your thumbs traced the contours of her breasts?
Well, I don’t know what it means to be with a woman. To my eternal shame, I have failed in that endeavor to-date.
But I have been in a city. And in my own way, I have been with a city. A city so small one could be forgiven for calling it a village. A city whose elusive beauty traps the breath escaping from a wet soil on a sunny morning, and I have seen the dimples in the smiles of her street children, who parade along the dusty city roads begging for a kikumi kikumi.
I have sat to observe the people that make this city great – and none the less that it is women.
I have seen a woman fight a bodaboda man. Beating and scratching, tearing his shirt while recoiling from the insults of bystanders. This city gives us strong women, you know – beautiful and graceful to the eye, but strong.
Her strength, I observe, as she clutches her bag tight, pulling back hard in silence or screams in defense of her hard-earned treasure when on the other hand, a man: a thief, fights to take it. She wins, and a smile touches her eyes, and she counts the night a good night. She waits for the next night, to fight again.
One must understand what it means to live in Kampala, to return home bloodied and close to ruin – yet still crown the night with a steamy romp. If, as the Christians say, sin entered this world through one man, surely women must see that the fault is not in all men. But in this city, women don’t think like that.
In Kampala: our women work hard, they rise early so you find them sweeping the streets, dropping children off at school, and rushing to office. Late in the evening, I see them: ladies on night duty, tending to men’s sorest needs; while the men, selfish in nature and lazy in loyalty – pour their hearts and loins out before the night grows old.
The ladies dress as the city does at its best; near nakedness, where the thighs and the breasts glare at the men, whispering at them, taunting them to recall their true natures.
Forgive me for meandering; but I have come into too close a contact with the silky and eel-like slipperiness of this city, early on Sunday mornings – the day still dark with the grayness of joy, the sun still shy and just out of hiding – the street and building lights giving the illusion of a soft, innocent place.
And where the night was filled with the mellow crooning and submissive moans of women basking in orgasmic satisfaction – ambitious only for tremulous climax – at 6 am on a Sunday morning, the city gives up its secrets and truths once more, and the struggle for emancipation and gender equality is resumed yet again in shrill, keening tones and clamorous, romance-free tenors.
In this way, the city unburdens itself, and while Kampala’s may sometimes be the joy of nocturnal orgasms – we are still without equal.
I would love to compare this city with others around the world or tell you about the joys I have found in traveling. That would be a lie, however.
I haven’t traveled much, and I wouldn’t if I had to – but I know a good thing when I see it. Kampala is the glue with which every single one of us clings to life and dares to dream. And I’d love to say that, in Kampala, the guardian angels responsible for collecting our dreams are working overtime.