The Hyenas Are Here

Senegalese Djibril D. Manibety’s portrayal in the Hyenas might as well have dramatized the present Uganda. In the movie a young girl who was violated by a now-local-celebrity comes back, physically broken but a millionairess, to the town of Colobane. The town has lost its former glory and is poverty stricken. The millionairess, who is richer than the World Bank, offers to rehabilitate the town on one condition.

Well, in the present Uganda you can just about buy anybody, village, town or even the country. Take the case of the Dutchman who asked some villagers to adopt his name for the price of pigs. Recently, a deputy speaker asked the Chinese to build for the country a new parliament building. Did she think these Chinese are fools to give anything for free? Then there is the case of MP Ogong: He is the Lango joker who made a show of competing against Museveni for the NRM flag honcho. Recently he had to kneel and beg Museveni not to shut his radio station for hosting Mr. Otunnu, the president’s virulent critic. Were the Ugandan MPs not bought for merely $5,000 to vote overturning a vital clause in the constitution?

If you lived abroad for a while, come home and sample the nature of people. It is assumed that you have money, and people will do anything to gain your favor. Some will narrate how much you loved them before you escaped your own demons. They don’t tell you they love you—probably hedging their bets. Once you seem not to deliver, all bets are off: you will begin to hear vicious rumors. The rumormongers are not at fault since they never said they loved you—you loved them and now you betrayed them!

Beware of the women. They will confess to loving you the first time you meet even before you open your mouth. Horny white guys are especially vulnerable. Our girls meet them on the Internet and lure them to Kampala. Did you hear of the Dutchman who was taken to the village and shown the grave site of his “son?” Apparently after a vacation of sizzling hot sex, he went back home. The lady who gave him a memorable Mandingo good time called to say that she was “pregnant” and would appreciate his financial support. The poor white boy was happy to oblige.

You want to be a king of your clan, don’t you? All you have to do is convince Museveni that your clan will be nothing but NRM territory and, viola; you have a district or a kingdom if you are so inclined. Now, you will be elected area MP for many election cycles to come. If your stars are well aligned, the appointing authority might even make you an assistant minister—or rather state minister. What is the difference? A minister is a minister to the clansmen. You are now a big man among big men. You might even enter the rarefied kitchen cabinet—the gang of untouchables who have the ears of the king of kings, and who might afford to be naughty jerks without consequences. Now, the villagers can dream of development that will be promised over and over at every election cycle. No problem—the masses can live on hope alone. Didn’t the king of kings tell you to stay alive and healthy for oil moneys will soon come gushing in?

The road from Kalingi to Zambala is full of lake-like potholes and is an amalgam of red muddy porridge when it rains. Send a delegation to Rwakitura to tell the president that you will not vote NRM if your important access to civilization is not paved. Suddenly, money will appear out of thin air—thanks to classified military and state-house budgets. And don’t forget the creative accounting that will go into projects up North. You have your shiny Kalingi-Zambala road.

If you are not yet amazed, check out the packs of super hyenas. These are the lots who tear to shreds moneys donated for treatments of Aids, malaria and tuberculosis. When the super hyenas loot and share the CHOGM heist amongst themselves, they dare anyone to question them about the thievery. Some have no qualm about looting workers’ life savings. Worse still, the hapless workers can do nothing about it because they are not organized. Instead they make it hard on us, the wanainchi: we have to grease their scaly palms at licensing offices; we are harassed by policemen unless we give them chai; and security personnel shoot at us for no apparent reason. Name it; we are the butt of every miserable worker’s angst.