Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Notes of a young Journalist (Two)
Sunday 5:30am clicked as I drop off Kampala Coach Bus offices at River Road. Memories of how notorious Nairobi thugs never bothered me. Courageously I moved across the road to negotiate with a taxi driver and picked the luggage to a suburb, Kasarani.

A turn off the sixth round-about, I asked the driver to go slow through erected storey residentials as I made a call to a friend.

Surely, I had all reasons to forget this hood because I am not a city born, but arguing about African cities the difference is minor – I have lived in the Uganda’s capital for more than five years in m. So I know Kampala more than Nairobi.

Anyway, he (Baix) popped a block away from where we had parked the car, “Oh! I was close,” I sighed. We hugged; it was six years since we met.

We reached the flat’s gate and dropped my luggage and cashed Kshs. 700 to the mean-looking driver who had played gospel music along the way, and kept telling me about Jesus who happened to be his savior and redeemer. I wish he knew how tired I was to remember anything substantial.

We lifted a meter wide black Japan made suitcase loaded with clothes, and later lifted a box full of books and a few shoes into Baix house.

Baix hadn’t changed. He was still slender and of light complexion. His charming talk too across the board had grown; politics to religion, academics to rugby, and women to prosperity.

After a shower I was served breakfast and dosed on the sitting room couch only to be woken up by the 9pm television news signature, but I didn’t last long my eyes open.

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