Kampala.

Kampala is roadside kasooli. It embraces you when you’re raw and spits you out when you’re roasted. Kampala is many things. It doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but ironically, fools make it here. 

Kampala is Zabuloni engaging you in small talk on a boda over a Man-Utd’s result and a random human on Elon Musk’s backyard trolling you for engagement. Kampala is a dust of lies and potholes of vibes and inshallah. It’s trial and error. For most, it’s era after era. Kampala is the skyscrapers of hopes and loadshedding of unfulfilled dreams. 

It’s a gridlock of dirty politics and floods of hungry citizenry. It’s a melting pot of towering new malls and disappearing iron sheets. It’s the hawkers of fake news and beggars of a new life. Kampala is a corner office of nepotism and CVs wrapping your rolexes in the corner of the road. 

Gwe, Kampala? This is where lovers and phones are snatched. Where dwellers battle for food as some artistes engage in a battle. Vaawo mpitewo! Downtown, laborers beg for faasi faasi, uptown some people have a right of way. We’re all on the move in this city. But at the end of the day, in the evening, we stop for roadside kasooli.

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