I will say this one more time: Lucy Nabunya, my friend, is no ordinary woman.
It is not just her curves and lascivious sense of humour, but her intellectual aura. She watches politics on her television, and reads political commentary in the newspapers.
She told me that she only reads the gossip pages of newspapers after completing her favourite columnists – Timothy Karyegira, Charles Onyango Obbo, Nicholas Ssengoba, and Jimmy Spire Ssentongo.
She got hysterical talking about Spire Ssentongo, and even asked me whether he was married! Not sure Spire is ready for a showdown with a loaded government official.
Mistaken for a hooker in Hoima, and driven to Kampala the morning after, Lucy tells me her life changed forever.
“When we reached Kampala, we drove straight to a fully furnished apartment in Naguru. It looked like he had rented one for people like Tinah. We both took our showers, and would be quickly knocking ourselves out. My man is such a lousy and noisy lovemaker!”
“So, you never told him you also lived in Kampala, and worked as a lawyer?” I asked.
“Yusuf, I am not an idiot. There was no way I was going to kill my life when it was just beginning,” she said sternly.
“What happened to women eating from their sexual energy. It is also a form of labour… or a natural endowment like gold in the ground. … Yes, that is my type of feminism,” she added emphatically.
It was a powerful response, and we both laughed at her form of feminism.
“Real feminists would kill you for your weird feminism,” I told her.
“Anyways! After we had had some food, he told me this would be my place for as long as I wanted. I looked at him doubtfully,” Lucy told me.
Just two days after meeting – and still being mistaken for a hooker – Lucy thought this man was out of his mind gifting her an apartment.
“But what can a man not do when he finds a girl of his dreams … a perfect coochie, you know!” she said between sly smiles.
“And for you men, your dongles have entire brains of their own. Especially when you get a new damsel, that feeling of first entry is enough to make a man sell off their ancestral land,” she added, and guffawed at her philosophy about men and their dongles.
Seeing doubt on her face, Lucy’s lover explained that his sister, who recently emigrated to the US, had once lived in the flat. He did not rent it, but owned it. In fact, he owned the entire condominium of about 20 flats, and had gifted one to his sister.
“But Yusuf, this man has no other job except working for government. Can you imagine 20 flats in Naguru!” Lucy’s lover explained further: “You know, this thing is collapsing any time… everyone inside is just stealing. Those thieves! We are sending our dear ones abroad. My sister is the first to leave,” Lucy said, mimicking his voice to make sure I did not miss the irony.
Before Lucy’s lover left for his wife and children that night, he gave her strict instructions not to call or text. Only he could call or text.
“I had about two million in my handbag of income for the past two nights. But he gave me another Shs 500,000 for upkeep,” Lucy recalls.
Since Lucy actually lived in Kampala, she lied that she would visit her aunt who lived in the same city. If he wanted her, he should just call. After one night at this fancy apartment, which was so overwhelming for her usual comfort, she returned to her humble and dingy aboard in Kasubi.
“About two weeks went by and my man did not call. I didn’t call him either as he had instructed. In fact, I even gave up on him and returned to my usual routine,” Lucy tells me.
“Then one day, my law firm sent me to Hoima to talk to some victims of land-grabbing. You remember those days, Hoima was renowned not just for oil, but also for hookers and land-grabbers?”
“Yes, I do. We even did a book about oil in Bunyoro, you should have it, Before the First Drop,” I said to her.
“You mean that book where the displaced people spent all their financial compensation on hookers? Others got second and third wives! I saw that. How did I miss your name on the cover!”
“Anyways, on my second day in Hoima, this man calls me at about 4pm. That he was planning to spend the night at our flat, and wanted me there.”
“Huh! What did you do?” I asked. “I told this man I was in Hoima, and he quickly assumed I was back to my ‘old job’ – as a hooker! He was angry.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he shouted, and then quickly corrected himself, ‘aha, I told you not to.’”
“You are not going to believe this, Yusuf. That man insisted I travel to Kampala straight away. He asked me to get ready.”
“Hmm! Was he planning to hire you a helicopter?” I cheekily asked.
“At about 5.00, a V8 Land Cruiser with government plates pulled up at my humble hotel with a lead car and about six servicemen. I jumped in and we hit the road to Kampala. If anyone was ever shoved off the road that day, that government vehicle wasn’t rushing a government official for some urgent work, but rather a civilian rushing to serve coochie – to save a life!”
We both laughed out so loud that the entire café turned to look at us.
“Yusuf, a lead car is sweet; in about one and half hours, we were in Kampala!”
yusufkajura@gmail.com
The author is a political theorist based at Makerere University.