Of markets, bicycle rides and legacies

My many tribulations in this life have yet brought me cause to think thoughts I thought I might share with a caring listener. 

I lumbered out of bed this morning at the ungodly hour of 5am (Okay … it was eventually 6 am, but the alarm clock started going off at 5am ... and then, the snooze-button became a darling)  to confront the cruel, harsh reality that is gradually becoming my manhood; before venturing out into the forbidding chill of darkness, awash with trepidations both fleshly and spiritual.

Anyhow – permit me abandon the, I suspect, grueling recapitulation of my manly incompetencies (apathy among others) here, and skip forward to more pertinent talk.

As you might imagine, the objective of my early morning endeavor was to, in the modern sense of the word, attack the ground early.

I was headed to market to replenish the family’s ‘granary’. (Markets are the urbanite’s shamba!  Well, don’t you agree?) 

And since I am a subject of the ‘kingdom’ residing in the mailo-land territory of Bukoto (thanks of course, only to the grace and kindness of His Royal Highness Kabaka Ronald), the market I was headed to is called Kalerwe, located along the northern bypass highway. 

Since my destination was a few kilometers away, and I didn’t want daylight to catch me en route (they say commodity prices at that market suddenly shoot up with the first inkling of dawn), I decided not to walk there, but hopped onto a commercial bike (the non-motorized bicycle type) from the Kyebando roundabout to Kalerwe . 

However, this wasn’t before a brief but I believe effective, haggle with the rider (Allow me proudly announce that I brought the price down from Shs. 600 to Shs. 500), as we sped off into the fainting darkness.

It is here that my tale comes to life.

To begin with, choosing this particular rider was of particular interest to me. For, unlike the preponderance of bicycle riders who ply their trade along this route, he wasn’t clad in a vest to expose his bulging biceps or have tyre-sandles (lugabire) shoeing his feet.

Rather, he was an almost diminutive type dressed as formally as an officer (Fine - let’s settle for office messenger). At least he had a shirt and pants (though these were tucked, conveniently, into his socks) on, and a pair of well-worn leather shoes (leather!), to crown the corporate image.

In his own way, he was clearly a man destined for great things.

Onwards – I was later to discover that my service provider’s name was Francis, and he was a native of the West-Nile district of Arua. No sooner had we set off than I was introduced to Francis’ perky side.

He launched our to-be sinuously engaging chatter, by voicing his delight at my presence on his pillion, contending that this was a good omen for the day ahead – which he was optimistic would yield significant exploits.

I concurred with a light-hearted chuckle, and proceeded to absent-mindedly inquire why today should be so different from yesterday – and if the route wasn’t as lucrative as I considered it, given its consistently thick traffic all year round.

''Ahh … brother! Yesterday was just bad … even day before,'' Francis lamented, with a wave of his left hand, causing our ‘vehicle’ to wobble slightly in the wake of an on-coming truck, and my heart to skip an inestimable number of beats.

''I don’t know if people are just refusing with money, or what? Eh!’’ he moaned on, '' and yet there at my house, Landlord is asking for rent, but I told him I don’t have anything. But his wife came later and refused on me, and said at least I pay half. You see, I haven’t paid for past 3 months.’’

Apart from a deep pity for his trouble, I was overcome by the emotion of voice with which Francis was narrating his private life to me, a total stranger. Indeed, it was clear that Francis was a fairly young man, not much older than myself, judging by his youthful voice and stature, but as we rode further, it dawned on me that our lives were nearly as different as the palm and back of my right hand. 

There he was, at 6am in the morning, before even first light, seating on his bicycle in the cold solitude of the road, praying that enough people would find need for his peddling in contrast to the hundreds of other riders who were doing his exact work. And it was upon the fruition of such prayers that he hoped to fend for his family, and earn a decent life.

The odds were, like for millions and millions of other Ugandans who slave out life in the economic gutter this country calls an informal sector, clearly not in his favor.

Yet on he rode.

Francis went ahead to tell me that Kampala had proven too expensive a home for his family – which included four children and wife, that he had been forced to pack them off to the village; where he sent them small sums of money periodically, to meet the relatively low living costs back there.

At this point, I thought I’d have cause to shift the lugubrious conversation onto a lighter note, as I interrupted him with a confident, ''Oh – at least there is plenty of food in the village. That is not a problem, right?’’

 

''Eh, my friend – no, neda!’’ Francis was quick to dismiss my proposition, ‘’ I have also to send money for food, it is not enough there. They dig food but the drought can be long – and even land is little.’’

I was taken aback. A town dweller having to send money to meet a village family’s nutrition … How could that even be remotely possible? Aren’t rural zones meant to be the bread baskets for towns ... with food travelling from the latter, and not to them?

Well, I had either been soaked in misconception throughout my school-years, or things in this society were drastically changing for the worse. Villages no longer being able to meet their nutritional requirements! God help us – I thought to myself.

But then, that was not the end of the ride, for we were still hurtling through the warming morning air like two coalesced human bullets upon a metallic two-wheeled frame.

‘‘So – does your family live with your parents then? Are they there in the village?’’ I quipped, attempting to find some familiar footing with my co-communicator, at least for once.

‘‘ Ahhh … noooo, those old people die 'longo' time ago!’’ he stated with a chilling finality, dashing my latest attempt at assuming anything close to accurate about his life and circumstances.

‘‘ Actually – my grandmother die at ninety, she was old, old, old …’’ he apprised me, and this time I thought I sensed a note of suppressed pride in his tone. Yes – I think he was proud of the fact that his granny had attained longevity upon the earth’s face. 

Perhaps, subconsciously, he felt that this had set a precedent for him and his kin to live that long, too. I silently hoped this assumption of his feeling was true, for perhaps that would accord Francis the much needed hope to soldier on through life’s jungles.

‘‘My grand-father even die at 100 years,’’ he shivered a little with this declaration, I could tell, from a rising animation. Now I was sure he was banking, at least partly, on the legacy of his antecedents’ longevity to maneuver through life. Not to mention that he was especially proud of their achievements.

‘‘He was in Berlin Conference, and he fought world wars …’’ boasted Francis, ‘‘ and he was de first man in de village to build house using burnt-brick ... which is still deya up to now!’’ 

I did not know whether to pat him on the back and express my shared pleasure at his grandpa’s exploits, or attend to my tickling suspicion that perhaps Francis was letting his imagination run slightly ahead of reality. 

I let him have his moment.

''Eh … burnt brick … that must be a durable and strong house!” was the best retort I could muster as I motioned him to stop, a few yards from the visibly crowded entrance to the market, and skipped off the cycle.

As I handed Francis his earnings, I noticed, worriedly, that the sky now bore a bright orange tint. Dawn had beaten me to market. 

Damn!