Kampala 101: How To Be Slapped

My friend, name withheld, (let’s call him Arturo. Because nobody’s called Arturo in real life, so this makes this true story even more absurd ) recently got slapped.



All the way across the face.

It was the loneliest moment in Arturo’s life, he told us, rocking slightly, and staring into the middle distance, the classic pose of one who has had everything one ever had just brutally taken from one.

I felt like calling Agataliiko.

Arturo was not a schoolboy caught drawing naughty cartoons of the math teacher that highlighted her hairy legs by insinuating dreadlocks on them.

Arturo had not just asked his mother for a k to buy gorillos and a Riham soda and then, after her refusal, been unfortunately heard muttering the words “mean gu-bitch” when he thought her back was turned.

Arturo was not a taxi tout who had grabbed the hip of the wrong woman on a day when temperatures and tempers were both high and dangerous.

None of that.

Arturo was innocent.

Well, as innocent as any typical Kla City thirty-something can be. Truth is, we all have a crime somewhere on Karma’s file. Maybe this is what led to his cheek being savaged so sharply and rapidly and apparently out of the blue that evening.

What Arturo did — well he swears he did nothing, but the fullness of the story reveals that he actually asked for it. Actually all but put in an notarised application with an LC stamp requesting for it from “whom it may concern”.

Arturo was at a coffee shop waiting for his (now-former) girlfriend Milly to join him.

He did not know that this public place had been chosen by her as the designated venue for their break-up.

Unfortunately, Kampala traffic being what it is, she was late.

Arturo had tried calling but, say what you will about Milly, but she was a decent law abiding citizen and never picked up her phone while operating her car.

She had seen too many twenties go down the drain that way. Traffic cops upped their usual charges in her case–they always did–because when they pulled her over they would discover that her third party had expired, her license had never been issued and her front tyres were as bald as Mwenda, so the standard bribe rate would be upped against her favour.

While Arturo waited, sipping his Irish coffee, he noticed a young bank-or-law firm-looking woman at a table across the floor.

She was reading.

Arturo took himself there, as we say, when we are not writing in such fancy ways.

In his mind he had been stood up and felt that he was cool and so could and should just go and present the company of a dashing dude to lonely damsels sitting bereft in cafes. Arturo was still watching How I Met Your Mother and Baileys tends to make certain guys start to hear Barney’s voice in their heads.

Arturo asked her if it hurt when she fell from heaven. It did not, she replied. He then inquired after her father, wondering if he may have been a terrorist at any one time. He had not. Arturo was an up-and-coming go-getter type who worked in advertising and you know such people–never to get it through their heads– so he then asked, whether there were mirrors in her jeans.

She was wearing a gray pencil skirt and that was when she slapped him.

Then she stormed off.

Didn’t even pay her bill, which was left to Arturo.

Fortunately for him, though, Milly didn’t make it. She decided to give up on the jam around Village Mall and treat herself to Java, opting to break up with him via whatsapp instead, to save fuel.

This is a true story, and its point is this: I got my hands on a camcorder and went to YouTube to do this.

Check it out and either laugh with, or at me.

P.S If you are a TV presenter who I have dissed in the past, I hope this makes us even.