Thursday, 2 October 2014

The Day I Bought Love in Kampala, Uganda

Last weekend as Nairobians went crazy with Safaricom Sevens rugby tournament, while others went to salivate at vintage cars at the Concours d’Elegance. I was in Kampala, Uganda in search of sin.

Well, if you really have to know. I was in Kampala to seal a business deal. I was accompanied with my childhood friend, Abuya Abuya who likes saying that his name sounds so sweet you have to say it twice. Abuya Abuya and I come a long way. For starters we grew up together in the village and as fate would have it we linked up in the City, and currently Abuya Abuya is helping me set up some business ventures across the region.

We arrived at the Afrikana Hotel carrying our Kenyan skimpy attitudes like we owned the world. Chiyonga, a Banyankole from South Western Uganda and Abuya Abuya’s official contact person in this part of the diaspora was at the airport to receive us with his 4x4 Toyota Land cruiser that seemed to have costed literally an arm and a leg. This car was seriously pimped, and the most interesting part was that it came customized with three hot looking Ugandan damsels, who looked to have dedicated their earthly lives purely to the pleasures and vanities of the world. 

It took us two hours and eighteen minutes to conclude our business deals, and being a lovely Saturday, it was time to literally paint the City red.

Don’t get it twisted. Kampala is the East African capital city of sin. Partying in Kampala is a serious matter of national importance, and as such there is no shortage of nightspots to indulge in sin. Clubbing here is given a new definition, and dressing for a night out looks something close to what I suspect hell will be like.      
               
Speaking of dressing, donning daring see-through outfits that couldn't be missed on a dance floor, daughters of Eve in Kampala lived up to their fashion-risking reputation. For what is worth, this was an opportunity for Abuya Abuya and I to steal furtive glances at the beauties and clandestinely exchange cross border tender love and care.                     

We arrived at Club Ange Noir Mystique in the company of Chiyonga, our host, full of unbridled expectations. Since we were ‘investors’ from Kenya, we were quickly ushered in the VIP section under the ever-watchful eyes of dinosaur-looking bouncers. For the first time in my life, I actually felt safe.

Even before we sat down, Abuya Abuya had already spotted his kill. She was a relatively tall damsel with her body looking a lot to handle (read she was fat). Characterized with a big booty and a waist that looked like someone was choking it, she looked sensual, peppy and enthusiastic.         
                  
Confidence is something Abuya Abuya has never lacked. Without wasting time, in his typical Kenyan audacity he summoned her to join our exclusive table, and you could tell she almost exploded with excitement. She had a great future behind her (read big ass). Suffice me to say that her ass was a thrilling tale. I swear, if it was made out of dollars, this pretty thing could have been an instant millionaire.

In a submissive ladylike Ugandan tradition, she generously spanked us with a blow-job smile as she sat close, extremely close to Abuya Abuya, I am sure he could hear her heartbeat. Looking satisfied with his earthly accomplishment, Abuya Abuya had immediately slapped me with a bossy smile.

A minute later, Abuya Abuya, the poor lad born and brought up in the foothills of Cherangany Hills was ordering drinks as if he owned the Central Bank of Uganda. If only the world knew that between him and poverty, he had some few crisp banknotes that couldn't even pay a prostitute for a night. Unlike Abuya Abuya, who would easily fall for anything carrying a low self-esteem and a great future behind her, as for me I knew better. In fact, having watched enough teary romantic movies, I am usually deliberately extra careful with matters of the body and heart.

Next to our table on the left were three ladies who were seriously doing justice to a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Chiyonga, perhaps in one of his many adventures to impress us, had asked the ladies to join our table even without consulting us. Remarkably, they gladly accepted.

There was Jazel, who owned and managed a number of boutiques around the City. She was wearing a plain white tee and high-waisted asymmetrical skirt that looked more like a giant napkin. If that wasn't bad enough, she topped it all off with brown platform boots. Then there was Mimi, a third year Economics student at Makerere University. She was wearing a black dress with a thigh-high slit. Her right leg was on display whenever she moved it (which was quite often). Looking at her I had silently had this talk in my head. Me: That’s a nice dress you are wearing. Mimi: Thank you very much. Me: However, it would look absolutely great on my bedroom floor. Mimi: Aaaa! That’s so sweet.

I liked her immediately. She was simple, down to earth and extremely beautiful. For an added touch to her sparkle, she had accessorized her simplicity and gorgeousness with Lorraine Schwartz jewels on her ears and fingers giving her the appearance of a 25 year-old Esther Passaris. Quite frankly, she looked absolutely classy, elegant and sexy without trying too hard.      
                         
Lastly, there was Ndagwire, a TV anchor with one of the leading stations in the country. Don't get me wrong. I adored her, and raise two eyebrows in her honour. My only problem was the fact that she had an irritatingly loud prostitute's mouth. She was a fragile-seeming young woman, who looked closer to her mother’s age, though Chiyonga had whispered to us that she was around 28 years. She was dressed in body-hugging blue top and black pipe jeans. Of course, what you’d expect of someone with her loud mouth.

She openly flirted with me, to the extent of insisting, albeit annoyingly, to lick my hairy chest. In fact, I could tell that she was constantly craving the intoxicating effect of being kissed by me. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for her. Mimi was my ultimate goal. I liked how simplistic accessorized she was. I liked her well-accented English. I liked her Victorian mannerism, grace and classiness. Her soft pornographic laughter was disarming. She truly was a beauty who without a doubt the gods had taken their time to construct.             
               
Efforts by these pretty things to squeeze information out of me, you know what I did for a living and so on, were met with very dodgy answers. The most they got was that I was working as an expatriate in one of those Middle East countries where the price of fuel is equal to buying a packet of condom in Africa. Of course, Abuya Abuya in his classical extemporaneous fluid flamboyance had indicated that he was the guy in charge of interior coordination, planning and economic development as well as the comprehensive synergy of the devolved county government system in Kenya (whatever that meant).       
                                
As the wicked night progressed, while the club began looking sinful surreal, like a scene from one of those badly shot Luthuli Avenue porn, it was time to go.

Our host Chiyonga reserved the best for last. Having seen the good, the bad and the ugly of Club Ange Noir Mystique, it was time to visit, in Chiyonga’s own words, Kabalagala - where apparently the devil lives.

Kabalagala is located about 6 kilometres southeast of Kampala's central business district. It is a fast-growing neighbourhood famous for its many restaurants, bars and nightclubs. It is a major entertainment centre with many of the establishments open 24 hours, seven days a week. In the year 2000, the neighbourhood became a vibrant business hub, boosting of new commercial banks, supermarkets, fuel stations and a university. It’s a city within a city. The Sin City of East Africa, Ndagwire, the ever-loud TV anchor who had insisted on accompanying us together with Jazel and the amazingly beautiful Mimi, who I was eyeing to bag, had said as a matter of fact.   
                                    
To sound as diplomatic as I can get, I would describe Kabalagala as a place characterized by skimpily dressed women, the majority who are out to oil the appendage of probably a rich European expatriate, or a confused Ugandan man who never got a memo about financial management. Or better still a menopausal Kenyan husband who crossed the border in search of sin. Or in our case crazy Kenyans desperate to indulge in sin. Interestingly, most of these skimpily dressed women are willing to sell their lady parts for a night’s fee equivalent to buying a toothbrush on Luthuli Avenue in Nairobi’s downtown.

From my preliminary observation, I had noted that the majority of men who hanged out at Kabalagala during the night looked like junior corrupt civil servants avoiding an encounter with their nagging wives and ugly children. Some looked like they were out to enjoy the toil of their corruption. They wore cheap suits and carried an old folded scrimpy newspaper. While others looked like egoistic fellows who had come to assert their worth and importance to the world.
                 
The streets of Kabalagala are dotted with numerous ‘outside catering’ food joints and vibrant nightclubs, that in my humble opinion gave a sneak preview of how hell would be like. Our ‘entourage’ had settled in one of the clubs that looked a bit classy to our standards and preference. Classy in the sense that, it charged an entrance fee and was strict with the age limit policy. This meant that those students with raging alcoholic and sexual hormones from the nearby Kampala International University were financially and age-wise restricted from accessing the club. To indulge in the Kampala atmosphere, we had sat at the balcony with a breathtaking view that gave us a great view of Kabalagala. It was now time to turn my full attention to the lovely and gorgeous Mimi. 
                                  
She was wickedly voluptuous, fearless, sexy and diabolical sensual. Her smile was friendly. Her face pretty. Her big heart (read boobs) were arresting. To top it up, she had soulful eyes, and the endowment of a natural African woman. She drank expensive red wine with grace and decorum. She was simple without being simplistic. Her talk was disciplined and her confidence disarming. She was playfully wicked and had a freakish side about her that seemed highly undiscovered and un-buttered (read I suspect she was a virgin).

In any case, she thought, talked and behaved like one. Thanks to the many episodes of Churchill Show I have watched, I intelligently recycled most of the jokes that really kept her entertained and glued to me.                          

In the meantime, Abuya Abuya had ditched that chubby damsel he had picked at Ange Noir and was now indulging in the company of some two lovely pretty thing who were extremely tipsy. In fact, one in her inebriation had indicated that if Abuya Abuya would allow her, she was, in her own words going to write poetry on his sexy potbelly. Boss, hapa kuna vile nimeingiza mpango ya threesome box (Boss, it seems I am going to have a threesome today), he had excitingly whispered in my ears.

As we kept irrigating our throats with fiery waters, the music began getting really loud, as the daughters of Eve got more confident, even openly suggestive. Sometimes fortune favours the bold, my alcoholic uncle used to yap back in the village whenever any woman gained the widow status. Applying the skills I picked while watching on the Animal Planet channel male monkeys competing in the Congo to lay the prettiest virgin, I had gently and confidently moved closer to Mimi and without warning planted a soft hii-migingo ni yetu kind of kiss on her succulent Baganda lips.  
                               
And just as I was about to yellow page my fingers in her southern tropical region by slipping my right hand into her thighs, and push her closer to me so that I could feel her burgeoning big heart, she had gaspingly asked if we could get out of there.

Thirty minutes later on the seventh floor of Afrikana Hotel, Room 705, Mimi was offering me tailored-made and hands-on sex that was perfectly executed with customized delicious orgasmic moments. With moans and groans (they say sex is like an onion, you peel while crying), I was sure I had signed a new lease in life.

As for Abuya Abuya, together with the two lovely pretty thing they had blacked out in the hotel room even before he could unzip his trouser. As we left for Nairobi the next day, I knew Kampala wasn’t seeing me for the last time. 

6 comments:

  1. I want to go to Kampala!

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    Replies
    1. Thanks to you I visited kampala. I can easily identify your story...

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  2. I love the way you have a way with words. this was captivating.

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  3. Haha...this one had me glued to the end.Nice command of the language Douglas��

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