We patriots are always trying to do our bit to build Uganda. We believe in proactive solutions. We don’t just sit on TV complaining about how tired we are of the sausage, we go out and be the change, you know? Betta recognise.
One of the things we do is we buy Ugandan-made products wherever possible. It is all in the spirit of supporting local industry.
Yesterday I became a casualty of patriotism, however, when I bought a locally- made processed juice product. It was hot, I was tired, my throat was parched and my soul which is so in love with Uganda longed to see her industrial development.
So I got into the shop, picked up a bottle of something orange and Ugandan, bought it and took a sip.
It didn’t suck, not at first. At first it was refreshing and sweet and my soul sang the first two bars of our national anthem. But then, right on the heels of the sugar, came something else. Something acrid and hot and slimy and sticky in the sticky way that is going to adhere to the roof of your mouth for the next few hours.
I would have spat, except that I was on the streets and patriots don’t spit on the street. That’s you lot who do such things. We are tired of your sausage.
The aftertaste was something I am, unfortunately, not entirely unfamiliar with:
Armpit, people. It tasted like armpit.
Now, since I first announced my findings concerning this juice, I have had a lot of people asking me questions. Not the questions I expected. I thought I would be asked things like, “How then shall we improve Uganda’s Balance Of Payments by producing added value products for export instead of depending on raw material exports if when we make juice it tastes like underarms? Let us brainstorm and find solutions!”
Instead I was asked how I came to know what armpits taste like.
As if it’s not obvious.
Only rastas don’t know what armpits taste like. Or very posh people who have their hair cut by hygienic barbers. The rest of us (especially the patriots) get our hair cut by the common man and, bambi, the common man does tend to have more pressing issues on his mind than deodorizing. So when he is going about his business, reaching to cut the lower left quardrant of my head, for example, his armpit will find itself close enough to my face for my tastebuds to pick up the fumes it emits.
And the fool I was I opened my mouth to say, “Common man, please don’t lean over. Twist the chair around instead.” In doing so, I inhaled some of the air.
That is how I know what armpits taste like. And they are what that juice tastes like. Now that we have that out of the way, can we discuss development?