By Ebenezer Adurokiya, Kampala
THE aircraft that took us to Entebbe Airport in Uganda, the Pearl of Africa, from Lagos, Nigeria, appeared to have more Indians than blacks. A good number of Chinese and Nigerians were also on board. If you need proof of a miracle, just be on board a plane and observe the temerity with which it plunges into the clouds for hours—amid storms, thick clouds, etc.—and yet returns safely to Mother Earth. What a miracle of God in the human frame!
Lugogo Byepass
Uganda is largely not different from other African countries, from my close observation of the environment. However, it appears cleaner and better organised, structurally and behaviourally, than Nigeria. British colonial vestiges are still evident. Beside my lodge is a functional railway track. A locomotive of five coaches ferries people daily from one end of Kampala to another on weekdays. Factories abound everywhere.
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Let me shock you: heard of Bata before? That famous oyinbo company, primordially known for quality footwear, still holds sway, albeit strongly, in Kampala. I am still exploring steadily. I have not seen cattle roaming the streets of Kampala as we see in Abuja. I learnt there are ranches for them. Fresh milk and fresh fruits abound. Okada riders are not as notorious as those hemp-smoking ones we have in Ibadan and other cities in Nigeria. The majority of them ride with helmets and exercise absolute caution.
Front view of the expansive mall
Since arriving in Kampala on 17 January, electricity has only gone off for about one hour, I was told, due to brief maintenance. I learnt that South African engineers were initially in charge of the power sector before Ugandan engineers recently took over and now manage it themselves. Thus, electricity is constant, especially in the area where I am lodged with my host. This is in sharp contrast with the abiku national grid (instead of GREED) that collapses weekly in Nigeria.
Inside an Indian mall inherited from South Africa’s ShopRite
In Kampala, I have not heard anyone shouting “Up NEPA.” There is no anxiety over power supply. I have tried to adapt to the system, as when everywhere is quiet in a place like Ibadan, it is obvious there is no electricity. But not so in Kampala. Often, I leave what I am doing to go and ascertain if there is still light. Don’t blame me. In my 54 years on earth, this is the first experience of seeing electricity remain constant for over a week. Man don suffer! When will my country be free?
Cars parked in front of the mall
Electricity providers in Nigeria are overlords who cannot be challenged. You pay for light but get darkness in return. So far, I have not sighted a generating set roaring and blaring offensively at any corner of the city. I see a people who are well behaved, orderly and respectful, but who do not hypocritically greet like we do in Nigeria.
The other day, while returning from church via a member who gave us a ride, my host urged me to lower my voice as we trekked from the bus stop to our lodge, saying, “Reduce your voice because passers-by will swiftly decode that we are Nigerians.” Even before he cautioned me, I had already seen some guys passing by, gazing at me curiously.
At RCCG Uganda National Headquarters Kampala last Sunday
In spite of our haughtiness and loud-mouthedness, my close encounters with a few Ugandans revealed their immense love for Nigerians, partly—no thanks to Nollywood! I met a lady named Ruth at an Indian mall formerly owned by a South African located in Lugogo Byepass. In there are several spots including a very large mall owned and manned by Chinese nationals. Anything is buyable there. No sooner had I introduced myself as a Nigerian to Ruth than she smiled and screamed. I wanted to know where I could get national dailies to feel the pulse of the nation. Ruth said her salary as a security guard at the mall is meagre, but she has no choice. The story of how Indians undermine, and especially underpay, indigenes and other Africans will come underway subsequently, God willing.
When a Ugandan speaks English, I often have to strain my ears to decipher the words. It appears their local languages still hold strong roots in their social life. The intonation is local, but the words are English. Thus, they speak their various languages among themselves freely.
A man buying roast corn by the roadside at Lugogo Byepass
Most fascinating to me in Kampala is this: did you know that there is a public water system for everyone? It runs 24/7 with high pressure and is managed by the government. I am yet to sight boreholes anywhere as I move around, nor trucks conveying potable water for sale to the populace. Yes, each household pays a monthly water rate to sustain the system. When last did you hear of public pipe-borne water in any part of Nigeria, like we had in the 1970s? Only relics of that faded glory abound in our towns and cities, and there appears to be no end in sight to this decadence.
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Ebenezer Adurokiya writes from Kampala, Uganda — The Pearl of Africa.
