Kampala: The City with Two Faces

With a cocktail in hand—its name too risqué to say out loud—I stood at the edge, surveying the bar. All around me were Kampala’s happiest people: dancing, singing, flirting, and being flirted with. And why shouldn’t they be happy? They’ve accomplished one of the most challenging feats on God’s beloved continent—they’ve escaped the clutches of poverty, something most of their fellow citizens have yet to figure out. Yes, they’re stressed and battling various forms of mental illness, but their problems aren’t unique to this land. Bad bosses, cheating spouses, and the relentless pursuit of the next deal aren’t issues exclusive to the poor in Africa.

“Hi, do you have a charger?” she asks timidly, pulling me out of my reverie. I registered her presence next to me for the first time. How long has she been standing there? I wonder. The question doesn’t surprise me, though. I don’t know how common the experience is for others, but strangers always seem to ask me for things: money, a charger, a phone to call on, etc. Over the years, I’ve gotten used to it, chalking it up to Ugandans' reputation as the friendliest people on earth. “I’m sorry, I don’t. But perhaps you could ask the waiter.” She looks at the waiters, still timid, then decides not to.

“How much are the beers here?” she asks, seemingly more comfortable in my presence now. I’m intrigued. I take a good look at her, the writer in me instantly posing a million questions. It wasn’t just that she asked about the charger—that’s standard in these social media-saturated times—it’s that she asked about the price in a place like this. There are places in Kampala where you don’t walk in and ask about the price. You simply order a Long Island, a Glenlivet, or whatever, and carry on. “I think their beers are 10k or something,” I responded. She looks startled, almost as if she thinks she’s being cheated. I call the waiter over and place the order. We continue our small talk, with her asking more peculiar questions. There are things I want to ask, but as usual, the Muganda in me fights my natural writer’s curiosity. The waiter returns with our drinks—another multicoloured tongue twister for me, and her beer. While clutching her 10k like it’s the gate toll to heaven, she asks why the waiter didn’t ask for her money. “I paid for the drinks,” I shrug, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. She visibly relaxes even more, beginning to see me as a friend rather than a potential threat.

“Does this place have many rich men?” The question startles me. I initially assumed I didn’t hear her right. “I’m sorry?” I ask, looking into her eyes for confirmation that I misheard or misunderstood. “Does this place have many rich men? The place I was at was boring, so I left, and the boda man who brought me here said this is a nice place.”

Two truths become clear instantly: first, she’s probably a call girl; second, she’s in unfamiliar territory, trying to act the part but clearly out of place. The thing about poverty is that it leaves a mark long after you’ve escaped it. There are a million things that give you away, as if announcing to the world, “imposter.” I shrugged in response to her question, wished her a lovely night, and politely excused myself. My friends were getting more animated, so I rejoined them on the dance floor. Despite the amapiano, I kept looking for her, wondering how her night would end.

In the middle of pulling the only two amapiano moves I’ve mastered, I wondered about how this country presents two different faces to everyone here. For some, Kampala is one big playground. With enough money, you can enjoy life every day and live in a self-constructed bubble so removed from the everyday hustles of the wananchi that reading the headlines shocks you: “Woman kills husband over 30k,” “Children cross river to go to school,” “80% of Ugandans under- or unemployed.” These headlines are read with the same incredulity reserved for news about thousands killed in Palestine or Syria. Surely, this can’t be Kampala, can it? And that’s what sums up the Ugandan dream. If you want to know why politicians indulge in extravagance, it’s because they want to get as far away from the lower rungs as possible. They’re trying to wash away the stench of their earlier poverty. Their obscene extravagance is like a neon sign flashing, “I don’t really believe I belong here.”

For others, the city is a cruel mistress who swallows you whole, only to spit you out later. For these people, the buildings the elite consider mediocre are more intimidating than their landlord’s phone call. It’s a city of bizarre extremes: rich men with terrible English, highly educated people walking the dusty streets, young girls with world-weary eyes—she spares no one.

In Africa, luxury manifests as space and silence. In the lower dwellings, people are piled on top of each other, each jostling for a chance to be seen or heard. It’s not uncommon to have a church, a mosque, and a bar all sermonising at the same time and with the same intensity. The life of a poor Kampalan is characterised by trying to survive amidst the noise. For those at the bottom, everything is always vying for their attention, all the time. Survival is the only goal; keep your mental health discussions for those with the money and time to indulge. The Kitezi tragedy is just another example of the different faces of the city. And for the ‘elite’ African, no thought is scarier, nothing more life-threatening, than the possibility of sinking below the invisible line that separates them from the bottom dwellers. To this end, shame after each corruption scandal will be endured, name-calling ignored. Don’t tell them about defamation lawsuits—they’re too busy battling the ghosts of their impoverished pasts.