Love your fashion but stop calling me day and night.
I had a new stalker. Imran Boda, as he was now known in my phone. He wasn’t as bad as the ones I’d saved in my phone under Pain and Random Pain, but I could see there was potential.
You’d think that nine months after arriving in Uganda I would have learned not to give my number to strange boda drivers, but I still hadn’t. To be fair though I had taken his photo because I liked his look. As Random Pain had also pointed you, “You did take my photo.” But Imran was “ever so smart”, as the Ugandans say. He’d been wearing a pink shirt with a polo logo on it, leather (they may have been fake) trousers, an orange scarf and a NYC baseball cap, when he’d picked me up on the side of the road near the Wine Garage sign near Cafe Kawa, one of my favorite haunts. Very cool.
He’d only phone me three times so far. Once on Sunday night at 19.53, less than 24 hours after meeting (whoever said that men wait three days to call? This rule certainly didn’t apply to boda drivers). I was looking in the Bata shoe shop at Garden City, on the way to top up the dongle. Why did it always seem that my life in Uganda consisted of two things only: 1. Taking calls from randoms? 2. Topping up the dongle?
I’d actually answered because I’d thought if I was receptive now he might not phone back in the future. The conversation hadn’t been that great.
Imran: Hello Emmy (there still wasn’t a Ugandan anywhere who could understand me). It is Imran, you gave me your number. I picked you up yesterday.
Me: Hello Imran.
Imran: I just wanted to say good morning, Emmy.
Me: Good morning Imran.
Imran: Okay Emmy.
Me: Okay Imran.
Imran: Bye Emmy.
Me: Bye Imran.
He phoned back two more times after that, a day later, so my new approach obviously wasn’t working. I didn’t answer the phone. I’d have to go back to my playing hard to get tactics. Or maybe, for the thousandth time, I should just make a memo to myself: do not give. Numbers out to boda drivers. Ever.
I’d met Imran the Saturday after I’d rushed into Café Kawa, having realized I’d left my iPhone there the night before. I’d woken up in a panic, suddenly wondering where it was, and searched my room high and low to no avail. I knew it had to be at Kawa but as it was now midday, I knew there was a good chance that someone had taken it. But it could also be at Café Pap at Garden City, where I’d been before Café Kawa. Did I mention my life consisted of a third activity? Sitting in coffee shops. Dammn. This was the same phone that had my collection of 265 boda pics on it, the reason I was now getting so many strange calls. I loved life in Uganda. Everything and everyone was connected in some way.
I was quite upset with myself about losing my phone and planning on putting out an alert on Twitter, offering a reward bigger than the one for Kony. But after rushing into Kawa via boda driver John (the only one in the whole country who didn’t want my number) and seeing the reaction of one of the female staff members at the counter, I knew they had it.
“What sort of iPhone?” she said playing dumb, the normal Kawa crowd watching us as we had this conversation.
“An iPhone,” I said, becoming slightly annoyed. There weren’t that many around in Uganda.
I could tell from the way she was being very coy that she didn’t want to hand it over. But to be fair she would have to mortgage her house to buy a charger for it, they were about 400 k from the Apple retailer at Garden City. I was also paying her wages in hot chocolates and tuna melt sandwiches, so it was in her best interest to give it back.
“Oooh you’ve got it!” I cried, trying to flatter her into giving it up.
“Let’s go outside.” I was going to make something of this.
We both walked outside the shop and stood near the entrance. I don’t know why, as the rest of the normal crowd still continued to watch us.
“Here’s 50 k!” I said, thrusting a dirty note into her hand. I felt a bit dirty. Technically, this was the first time I’d ever bribed someone in Uganda but I was getting back what was mine. My American flatmates later told me that giving her this amount was too extravagant.
But I was so relieved to have my phone back, with all my photos and interviews saved on it. Had it been lost, that would have meant a few stories I was working on down the wide Ugandan drain.
My friend immediately put the phone in my palm, along with my headphones. I’d forgotten I’d even had them. They were my Jubilee head phones that I’d purchased with Martha on Independence day for 10k along with my official Golden Jubilee sun visor. I was happy to have them back to as they were a nice memento which would always make me think of 50 years of Uganda whenever listed to my music.
I couldn’t believe my luck in getting my phone back. Some people had been saying that Uganda had stolen four million euros worth of aid money from Ireland, and more from other countries. An Amy Farrell in Uganda, whoever she was, had been helping with the story. Some people were saying they didn’t like their chances of getting a Guinness. I didn’t know whether to believe these claims following my phone incident. But if they were true, maybe the staff of Café Kawa should be working in the Office of the Prime Minister?
- Love your fashion but please stop calling me.