Top General removes side dish’s name from Ministerial appointment List after failing to chop high rated cookie
I had closed this file on women who ‘wasted their cookies’ on fake revolutionaries – as their contribution/celebration of the struggle, when an old female friend – my mother’s friend, more precisely – reached out to complain.
For all you cynics, my mother has many friends of all colours and creeds. Even the archaic English adage, ‘birds of a feather…’ does not apply to her. Every person in my mother’s neighbourhood is her friend. But I digress.
Do you recall the woman whose bitterness I narrated one time [April 24], having cheated on her husband to offer ‘sexual support’ to leaders of the revolution in her country, but now these men after years in power have turned into brutes themselves?
Yes. Also recall the woman [May 2] who is sleepless over her 32-year-old son, whom she conceived by a stranger while celebrating Museveni’s war victory, and the boy is nowadays a strong anti-Museveni activist, but does not know the actual circumstances of his birth?!
Yes. I had closed these files but I have been forced to reopen them. My mother’s friend, Madame Nankya (not real names), reached out with her guns blazing.
She called these women losers, “who should shut the f**k up.” Having ‘crossed juices’ with the revolutionaries herself, hers is not a wasted cookie.
“My legs have taken me places under President Museveni and his soldiers,’ she emphasised when we caught up. Let me start this story from the beginning.
As a young man in the 1990s, Md. Nankya, who was a primary school teacher of English language, loved my growth into reading. When she learned I had signed up for literature in high school, she generously donated to me English and American classics, which I understood only after joining university.
In our village, Md. Nankya was the charming but enigmatic neighbour. Not many locals knew her well, and I would also piece her story together only weeks ago.
Our raunchy conversation lasted about two hours, as we wandered around reminiscing over our village life in the rural outskirts of Kampala – about 25 kilometres away. [In the 1990s and early 2000s, a 20km distance away from Kampala was deep countryside].
Md. Nankya had read my first two tales of wasted cookies with disappointment. She badly wanted to show me the other side of things.
“I almost became a minister for my cookie, you know,” she started. “With my English, I would be a better minister than the Nantabas and even that woman, Wandira Kazibwe. You had to sleep with the right person, and do it well,” she noted with a creepy smile.
“A senior soldier, who had missed my legs removed my name from the ministers’ list in the late 1990s,” she said with a light chuckle. “I should have served him, too, had I known, you know.”
Like her peers, age has taken its toll on Nankya’s erotic flair. But traces of it remain. Her overly squinted eyes gifted her with sensual erotic appeal. They are the eyes describable as ‘sexually inviting.’ She knew how to roll them to awaken the ghosts of mating in men.
In the 1990s, wearing of trousers for women was not the thing as today, but even in large dresses, Nankya’s hips and behind would not be contained. A product of intermarriage of a Muganda man and Munyankore woman, growing up on the shores of River Nile, and its flourishing Jinja economy – eating fish and eshabwe – Nankya’s eroticism was sharp and glittering. Her “mosquito” waist resting on a firm bottom made it impossible to look at her just once.
But it is not her eroticism that made her fonder with Museveni’s generals. Chance and business positioning [without degenerating into a whore] made her tick.
“Men are stupid; they cannot let their friends enjoy their catch. They just kept coming and competing,” she narrated.
“My principle then became, I will settle for the best and finest. Luckily, the presence of soldiers kept the riffraff away. Then one day, I landed a major. general, who was also up there in “things”. He is still alive.” Nankya recalled with infectious nostalgia. Her face often lit with blessedness as she savoured the memory.
“Then, one day, this general’s wife found out, and the tables turned. That is when I started teaching in your village school. But General kept sending his men to pick me up for weekends upcountry,” she chuckled. “I could be poor now, and seemingly forgotten, but I have seen it and enjoyed it all. I cannot say my cookie was wasted.”
The author is a PhD fellow at Makerere Institute of Social Research.
SHARING IS CARING