I asked different creative writers to write about our parliament in their own way, their own style. This is what they wrote.
Baz Sempebwa (Ernest Bazanye)
Abiriga farts. You know he doesn’t anything in. Lyomoki suggests someone will kick his ass till that fart goes back where it came from. Abiriga is like, “And there is a lot more where that came from.” He rubs his fat yellow-draped belly. “We would rather you fart from the mouth the way you were doing on NTV when Nambooze flipped your cap,” Kasibante sneers. At this point Nambooze starts to laugh. What follows is what happens when you say, “Bitch, shut up,” to the wrong person. Don’t mess with Mukono. Mukono represents.
“Fuckin’ Uganda! Of all fuckin’ places, fuckin’ Uganda. Fuckin’ Iddi Amin, fuckin’ Ebola, fuckin’…fuckin’ Kony, fuckin’ AIDS, I’m fucking screwed,”Jeff kept muttering to himself in between desperate drags on a cigarette. It was his first smoke in over 48 hours. For the first time in his life, Jeff couldn’t help but regret why he chose to be a boxing agent. Hopefully though, his negotiation skills would help him get the Ugandan in that viral brawl to sign a contract with Mayweather Promotions within a day. From the video of that scuffle, Floyd was so sure that he’d be bankable talent in Vegas. “Get me that man,” Floyd ordered.
“Mister, we go now and beat ze traffikijamu. Uganda, zaa roads are crowdedy andy naawu, zaa politrical turmoily is high. So we go, now-now,” said the obese taxi driver, in what was a mumble-meets-drawl-meets-blubbering accent.
“Matowwvuu, do you you know of Bobaay Wine?”
The revolution started in the August house (I have always wanted to say August house instead of parliament or ‘palyament’ depending on where you were in P.6 when I learnt the word) Between Tuesday and last night, our honorable members of parliament have, successfully ‘susu-d’ on the road, improved their fashion sense with a dash of red, chanted the national anthem in a way that comforts me because they can also only sing the 1st stanza, had their names written down as noise makers and read in front of the class, used microphone stands as weapons of mass destruction, sought fresh air by tearing each other’s clothes, cried like babies and fainted in no particular order, chased out of parliament, carried out by the grabbing and squeezing of body parts, which ordinarily prefer tender loving care, made our news watching experience sadly entertaining.
But like someone I don’t remember wrote, “somehow we survive”.
They had sworn that it is in the people interest that they had to ride on broken runways with mechanic beasts that sheltered them from debris. That it is for the people that they had to take larger chunks of national coffers. Later they’d been quick to add that they be the ones to decide what proportions they’d pick.
As years went by, they’d accept large wads of currency to manipulate the scripture that guided on how far any Moses was to lead the Israelites. Whenever it was a Joshua’s turn to lead remaining journey to Canaan’s conquest, they’d sat – some snored through a session and decided on behalf of the people, they said, that Moses needed more time. That only he could see beyond what anybody else saw. Moses had added that he in fact knew how to get the Lord’s people to the desired income class.
Then one day Moses had woken up hungrier than ever. He had appointed his young daughter whose knees loved the ground and his agemate with a loose bladder to demand that the scriptures be burnt altogether. Divisions occurred. A sect of them, both past receivers and hopeless onlookers opposed. Not even the currency could salvage this. When it was time to tear the pages out of the scripture and incinerate them, Moses and his followers sent burly mercenaries in large, dark colored beast to pick, shove and disperse the opposers.
The proposers, led by their Mother superior had gone ahead to turn into ash, the very scriptures which they’d sworn to protect.
When sentiment tramples over reason, expect anarchy to ensue. That’s precisely what transpired in the August House as tempers flared, fists and chairs flew. When a wounded beast is cornered, it’ll wrest its way out with anything at its disposal. MPs against age limit amendment, faced with the imminent wrath of a band of the alleged Special Forces Command, armed themselves with microphone stands and chairs and what ensued was something akin to a Kung Fu movie set.
With Odonga Otto making his closest Bruce Lee impression, Hon. Allan Ssewanyana swinging roundhouse kicks and Bobi Wine’s hands folded in fists, this was the perfect recipe for a tempest in a teapot. Bobi Wine rolled back the years to his nightclub brawl days and when sergeants of arms came charging at him, he swung into action. “If we can’t sway you to our side through dialogue, we’ll just have to beat you into submission,” the opposition seemed to suggest. If you were listening to the commotion from outside the house, you’d be pardoned for thinking that rowdiness is a result of musician who was advertised to perform at a concert but was a no-show at the venue.
Last night, she curled in her sofa set and watched the 9 o’clock bulletin. A mug of porridge warmed her palms as she watched suited grownups exchange, not ideas, but fists. Both furniture and sanity had grown wings. Furniture flying from one head to another as sanity flew into the ventilation. “Katonda Wange!” she muttered, almost choking on her porridge.
Today, at first light, she woke up and braved the gridlocked Kawempe traffic to town. “How are you, afande?” she greeted the policeman that manned the parliament doors. It’s eerily silent. Above her, the national flag waved in shame. She walked through the dim corridors of power that now reeked of angst and a parliamentarian’s pee, humming to her favourite hymn. She picked her tools, a broom, a mop, and walked to the auditorium. And there, right there, she stood still. Her hands around her waist, her tools collapsed on the ground, and silently wondered how many red bandanas she has to pick.
She’s the lady who cleans the parliament.
When Mpigs fight our country stinks!
The sun rose with familiar vigor, her majestic rays shining bright onto the House of Honorables. As the clock hit the 2pm mark, the most secure, clean and serene building became a sty. Another pig’s day out to throw punches and roll in the mud.
A loud stench hung in the air, setting the stage for the death of reason and the birth of treason. In the stench of moment, the line between reason and treason blurred and villains masqueraded as heroes.
Battle lines were drawn. In the red corner with silk ribbons on their heads were the opposing Mpigs. In the other corner, fat yellow pigs lumped like swine infected white saddlebacks.
The fight was on. Saliva bombs detonated mid-sty. Chairs and words hurled like weapons of mass Mpigs distraction. Some pigs sat on the fence. “I knew this would happen,” they belched to each other. MPigs will be Mpigs, so the sleeping mpigs farted while the rest fought in the mud. The debate was off but the stink was on.