Sans Earphones

A few weeks ago, the right side of my exceptionally wonderful earphones stopped working. Since it is impossible to enjoy a song like Glee’s cover of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” with only one side working, I considered them dead (a moment of silence for my dear red friend). It has to be all or nothing, right? 

The earphones that died and abandoned me

So now I walk around without said earphones. I know that is very difficult for many of you to picture, but I do it. I run errands take taxis and bodas (car is still being manufactured to my exact specifications – at least I claim so), work, study, watch House of Cards, all without earphones. At first, my ears thanked me. They had been suffering from my diverse and loud (but still modest) music collection. Muse, Theory of a Dead Man, Linkin’ Park, Nickleback (don’t you dare judge me!), P!nk, and Chris Daughtry had all had field days in my ears. Throw in some Maddox Ssematimba, the haunting sounds of Florence and the Machine and Evanescence, Casting Crowns, The Mith, GNL Zamba, and Whitney Houston to mention but a few, and you have a slight idea what the poor things had been enduring. Quietly. They had never complained, except perhaps for the slight ringing whenever someone came to talk to me and the earphones had to be pulled out, albeit very reluctantly.  The ears had served me faithfully, despite the mother’s many warnings that they would soon give up. Then the earphones died. I could feel the ears celebrate. At first.

Less than a day later, it started to sink in. I could not listen to audios sent via WhatsApp in office. I could not listen to Siima in the morning. I could not shut out bodaboda men who tempted me to get on a bike when I could walk off the calories in that delicious cake I had had in the morning. I could not pretend not to hear the idlers in the taxi park catcalling in all dialects. I could hear everything and anything wherever I was. I started to turn, even when I was not being called. I thought I might go crazy.

The most interesting place to be sans your earphones, dear friends, is the commuter taxi. I got into one on my way to Wandegeya at about 7pm after a long workday. The conductor and driver spoke to each other in Runyankore, but called for passengers in Luganda. That was not even the interesting part. I sat next to a taxi preacher, who is the most dramatic preacher I’ve ever heard. She used the love message in equal proportion with the hell and damnation message. She would literally double over as if in pain, when she expressed how worried she was for anyone who refused to believe in Jesus. I was fascinated by her apparent passion and her use of the different techniques to pass along her message.

Long story short, I miss my earphones. I miss my music so much that I have to colour my roommate’s sleep in the morning with music played on my phone. I miss shutting out everyone. I miss my anti-social shades + earphones + lipstick look. I hope to get new ones soon, so I don’t have to listen to Luganda radio stations call my favourite football team “Aaaséno” every Monday morning.

Addiction? Nah....I don't think so.

How to Deal with Poor Customer Care: an Arsenal.

The word “Arsenal” is an English noun, defined as “a collection of weapons” or “a group of things or people that are available to be used.” Coincidentally, I am a fan of the English club, Arsenal FC…but that’s a story for another time. So you are a Ugandan, who from time to time has to deal with service providers. I will phrase that again. Many of us have to deal with service providers everyday: the shopkeeper (or supermarket attendants and cashier), your mobile service provider (because life without data on your phone is not really life), the teller at the bank, the waitress at your coffee and cake place, and the list goes on and on. Put simply, you are a customer or “kasitooma” of some sort somewhere in some way. However, you are constantly, if not always, battling with feelings of anger and frustration because someone is not doing their job and that is now your problem. You have tried Facebook and Twitter rants, yoga, praying in tongues, and crying, all in vain. Well, you’re in luck! I, being a peace-loving and jail-phobic Ugandan, have come up with a few weapons that may be helpful.

1.     Call them out on their bulls**t

Excuse the language – I’m trying my best here. This is a very effective method when you are dealing with individuals. Regardless of how forbidding they look and how scared you are, you have to stand up for yourself. Trust me – I have tried the meek, humble and polite attitude. How do I say this nicely…. IT DOES NOT WORK!!! You leave with all your anger, without transferring ANY of it to the person who is actually to blame. See how that is a problem?

So take my word for it. If they are being slow, you tell them that while they are comfortably seated at their workstation, you have a life outside that you need to get back to. If they are being rude, you inform them that you are the reason their job exists and they really ought to treat you better. If they are being unreasonable, you say so. You do this calmly, with clear succinct arguments. You stand your ground and speak your mind. You deserve top class customer service. It is your hard earned money lining their pockets and getting those nails manicured anyway.

2.     Ask for the Supervisor

I do not guarantee that the supervisor will be better than the person they supervise but every once in a while, you get lucky. Sometimes, the supervisor does not even have to show up. The threat is however usually enough to galvanise people into action. In the event that the Supervisor shows up, it’s important to reiterate your complaint and ensure that it is followed up.

3.     Walk away

Some customer service systems are so messed up that not even the Lord can save them. The calls don’t go through, social media complaints are ignored, and a new issue comes up everyday. This might be the time to get out of that abusive relationship and enter a less abusive one. I changed my mobile service provider and a new peace came into my life. Last week, my roommate and I went to 2 places before we settled at a 3^rd place for dinner. What happened to the first two? I’m glad you asked. We walked away. It’s their loss because we won’t ever go back.

I realise now that these aren’t weapons per se, but rather methods that have worked for me. So the weapons we can draw from my experience are: assertiveness, persistence, and in cases of extreme pressure, removing yourself from the situation.

You are welcome.

Oh Sheilla!

I was in Mt. St. Mary’s College – Namagunga over the weekend for my sisters’ Blessing Mass and Visiting Day. It’s a beautiful school with more trees than buildings, lots of grass and flowers, clean roads, and girls who look almost identical. Being back there always makes me feel like I have gone back in time. Save for the new Dining hall, it looks exactly the same: same teachers, same routine, and hell even the hedges seem to be the same exact height I remember! Oh Namagunga…. I have many fond memories of this place: braving the biting cold to go to morning mass, absorbing knowledge in the library that was always teeming with books, spending long hours in the chapel in the dead of the night, watching the stars and learning about constellations, and simply feeling secure and protected from harsh reality. There was a girl named Sheilla who particularly makes me smile when I think of Namagunga. Oh Sheilla. She had a boisterous laugh that went from irritating in Form One when I hated her, to heartwarming in Form Four when I hated that she would have to go once O’ level was done. Perhaps that is why I treasured her so, recorded every moment and had it burnished on my mind for the future. I still remember her warm hugs, her big-toothed smile, her eyes that were always twinkling with pleasure and or mischief, her poetry, her impressive prose, her impeccable taste. She was like a whole new world: different from what I had known and grown accustomed to. In a place so dull, with hedges that were the same height and gossip that got recycled all term, Sheilla brought life, light and music. She looked at everything with a bright light, illuminating it so that small things became small pleasures. I remember running with her until we were breathless to catch the rising moon near the tennis courts. I remember skipping night prep with her to sit on mats outside our locked dormitory, to listen to music on her palm-sized MP3 player. I remember taking tea in the scorching sun because her cramps were killing her and she could not take tea alone. I remember hanging a lesu around her bed on the lower bunk, and sitting inside to talk until we fell asleep. I can still see the chits moving back and forth during lessons, until we had to use a code in case the teacher found the chit midway its journey. Oh Sheilla. With her I ogled men we had not seen, but made up in our minds from the books we had read. We particularly loved the character Cesare Borgia from Mario Puzo’s “The Family.” He was (in our heads), the perfect combination of Eric Bana and Orlando Bloom (we had both watched Troy many times), with a dash of Boris Kodjoe. I still remember how she made me feel: loved, insufficient because she was too cool. I remember how that evolved to thinking that maybe there was something as cool about me because she wanted to hang with me. Oh Sheilla. I remember getting high on Redds and Old Jamaica (rum-flavoured) chocolate on a school trip. She had managed to turn a boring Geography trip to Kasenyi landing site into a memorable experience.

I still remember saying goodbye.  Promising to stay in touch, even when I knew that we would never have a paradise like that again. I remember hearing about her through the rumor mill when we returned for our A-levels. I remember wanting to scream at anyone who said something bad about her. I wanted to tell them: “She’s the gentlest soul beneath her “badass” exterior!!” Oh Sheilla. I remember your loud voice, your hilarious jokes, and your uncanny ability to bark like a dog. I remember your “vampire teeth” and large eyes, and how proud you were of them. I remember. I can’t claim to miss you everyday, but I do miss you sometimes. I miss our little paradise.

An Act of Kindness

Seeing all the girls in white frilly blouses and tight skirts walking around in town, rushing to their offices for the first day of internship this morning brought back memories of my first work experience. I can almost smell the combination of apprehension and excitement:

“Will they like me? Perhaps they will fall head over heels in love with me because I’m punctual and efficient, and I will secure a job and never have to do the street course. Or maybe my boss will be a hard man, hard to please but with a softer side that I see at the end of my time there. Suppose my supervisor hates me.”

The thoughts were crisscrossing each other in the air, from the nervous looking guys in ill-fitting suits on the sidewalk, to the girl in the too tight skirt and heels on the boda boda waiting at the red light.

Like I said earlier, it reminded me of my first day at work, at the first job I ever had. Until December 2010, I had been a typical spoilt Ugandan sort-of-middle-class child. All through my primary school, I would enter the car in the morning, be driven to school, study, and be driven back in the evening. When I joined secondary, I was tucked away in a super strict girls school far away near the hills of the Kawolo tea plantations where the only source of excitement was spotting a bus that didn’t resemble our own and carried members of the male species. At the end of the school term, my father would ship us back to our fenced home where there was no curfew simply because we never went out. I spent my senior four long holiday sleeping, eating, and mastering the art of okusaanika (wrapping matooke in banana leaves to steam it the local way). I didn’t know anything about work that was not house chores, managing more money than my 20,000/= pocket money that was replenished on the visiting day (VD), or about drama beyond the backbiting of teenage girls.

So getting my first job, I was like the proverbial fish out of water. It was nothing glamorous and instead of slacks and heels and cute jackets, I had a uniform eerily similar to my s4 uniform: a white shirt, maroon skirt, and a tie plus some head thing that I never really figured out. I reached the place at 7:10, panting because the boss had said 7 sharp. The job description was “cashier” but they conveniently forgot to mention that I would be required to do just about everything. I had to clean the tables, sweep the restaurant, and learn how to operate the coffee machine and the cash machine, which was just impossible. You have seen the cashiers at Chicken Tonight punching in things like it is the simplest thing in the world? Ask about the first day. It is like rocket science. I consider myself a bright girl but just about every button I pressed that day was a mistake. And like time, there was no backspace - every mistake I made would be reflected on my “X and Z report” at the end of the day. The person who was supposed to teach me was more interested in looking at her baby’s pictures and texting her boyfriend. Despite my undying love for babies, I hated her for it. Moreover, the other workmates were under the impression that I was a spy sent by the new bosses (the establishment was changing hands) and their looks and glances were nothing short of dagger-like. I wanted to go home and just watch TV or even scrub the bathroom because this was torture. Every client was rude, impatient, and in some cases, abusive. At about 3pm, a white gentleman came in and said hi. No one had uttered a single word of greeting to me since 7am. I looked at him, shocked beyond words. He smiled and said hi again, and that is when I responded. He politely asked for 2 scoops of ice cream and I started to operate the dreaded machine to get him a receipt. It took a while and the panic was resurfacing, but I got through it and proudly tore his receipt off to hand it to him. He smiled, a bright genuine smile that reached his eyes, and said:

“First day, huh?”

I smiled back though my throat was closing with emotion and responded in a horse voice that I barely recognised as my own:

“Yea”

He winked and said:

“You’ll figure it out.”

He walked away, leaving me teary eyed from his kindness, his politeness, his patience, his quiet strength. I loved him so much; I could have married him that second.