On behalf of discerning Ugandans with valid eyes I would like to thank all women who rock jeans and high heels in Uganda.
Because we know it is not easy. It is not easy to get into the garment in the first place.
I am not an engineer but I don’t think the feat of fitting into those jeans can be achieved without at least, say, two spatulas, advanced level yoga, a mid-sized tub of Samona jelly and trigonometry. Cos you have to know angle theta and pi to see where to put the knee while you tug at the corner of the button etc.
And yet, there you are, fully dressed in the jeans. They look perfect. As if nothing more natural has ever been or ever will be; they look like they oozed out of your skin pores, as if instead of sprouting leg-hair, you laid out a sheath of blue denim.
Such is the epitome of efficiency. If Badru Kiggundu was as good at his job as you, we would never ever have suspected anything. Even Besigye would be wondering, “Why the hell can’t I get through to Ugandans? I shout myself hoarse but nobody votes for me, no one at all.”
We know it is not easy to get them on, and it is not easy to keep them on because, and this is a conclusion I came to on my own after watching Sherlock, clearly you can’t drink too much when you have jeans like that on. Because you will not be peeing that evening.
How will you get them back on after whizzing?
Women, we appreaciate the struggle to get the jeans on, we appreciate the struggle to keep them on and we appreciate the permission to be the ones to remove them. Thank you.
But we are not done appreciating.
When you put high heels onto the jeans, suddenly the whole situation escalates to a def con three. Red alert. This is the sort of situation that lays fortresses to waste.
This is a true story. I was walking out of Urban TV studios and was in the lobby. My eyes were on my phone because twitter. A woman clomped past me. There are half a dozen sounds in the world that always have my attention. A hip hop beat made by Just Blaze. The sound of jiggling enamel in a cafe– because that signifies that the coffee is here at last. The voices of Siima, Rudende, Libolo in the morning and KK and Maritza in the afternoon, because those two groups are always saying hilarious things and FOMO won’t let me finish my text while they are talking.
The other two are none of your business. (I am sorry to sound rude, but there are children present despite your parental warnings.
Gwe kano. What did mummy tell you about reading Bazanye’s blog? She said if she ever catches your big prepubescent eyeballs within range of these delinquent rants again she will enroll you in Uganda Police Primary School where the teachers who administer kiboko are just honing their brutality skills as they wait for the next riot. Gaway! Gaway!)
The one sound that will always have my attention is the sound of high heels on marble. Clop clop clop.
So there I am in the lobby reading what @kuzeec was tweeting then clop clop. So, my eye sets off to the field for discovery.
Beheld two legs, a left and a right one, commencing on the floor in high heels and proceeding upwaprds in blue denim and all the way curving like they were the human leg equivalent of the Rift Valley as seen on the road from Fort Portal. I was entranced. I was enchanted. I was mesmerised.
Then before the staring could even get creepier, I suddenly heard a voice say, “Excuse me sir, but is there a Clippers vs Chicago match being broadcast from my derrier? Or is there a new season of Empire screening there? You seem so rapt that I myself am concerned. There might be a movie on my left bum without my knowlege.”
I had no option after that but to answer as honestly as I could. Which was not at all.
“Shame on you, you judgemental conclusion jumping person. I am physically handicapped. My neck is like this. I can’t lift it. So this is the only way I can look at people. Don’t mock the disabled.”
It worked. So now I use it all the time.