First, the signal: I spent the whole last week applying for a pass for the Nyege Nyege Festival, but a pig allegedly laid an egg before I got a pass under another name. Every door I knocked on was securely locked, like a vault in a cemetery.
But I attended Nyege, in my own way. After Kibalya painted such a vivid picture of a steamy raw sex orgy being the staple in Nyege, why would a normal man stay away?
I arrived at the scene without a ticket but in the company of a young man by the name of Kasadha from the village of Nawampanda in Butagaya sub-county. This guy simply guided me through the thickets and before long I was inside the Nyege room proper.
Here I saw a young man and a girl holding hands as if re-enacting the lives of Prince Harry and Meghan. “Now this is it,” I thought to myself as I followed them through a maze of people. After meandering around and around, they just arrived somewhere and sat down as a group. I idled thinking it was just a prelude to the kind of sex orgy Opendi had witnessed, but nothing happened.
Then I saw two men. A white man with grainy hair like he’s worked in seedy mines all his life and now comes to eat life in Nyege Nyege. His companion was a black man in tight jeans and what looked more like a blouse than a t-shirt.
“Now that must be it,” I hissed to myself as I stalked them, thinking they were ready for a “sticky wicket.” Now, I can’t begin to explain what a sticky wicket is, so I’ll leave that up to your imagination.
The grainy-haired life-eating miner and his companion in skin-tight jeans walked, the latter occasionally switching between what was obviously the WhatsApp chat and the voice call. Then he raised his phone above his head as if to signal to someone that “here I am, do you see the hand raised holding a phone?”
Soon a girl in a racy lace outfit appeared. Smiles, hugs and kisses followed and the grainy-haired miner-life-eater walked away with those two. Again I followed thinking maybe they were meant for what Opendi witnessed and this time the racy girl in lace would endure both the miner-life-eater and the guy in jeans tight in what deputies stopped before calling a three-some.
Much to my frustration, they went to a place with three other beautiful wazungu and two guys who aped the Jamaican lifestyle. One of the women was undoubtedly the wife of the coarse-haired miner-life-eater and there was no sticky wicket around either. All that could offend me was the stench of weed that permeated the air.
The five seconds or so I was around these guys was enough to make me dizzy from the weed they blew. I staggered out of their vicinity and composed myself where a plus-size woman was twerking with the enthusiasm of an overworked crankshaft in a 1982 Catawiki Land Rover towing a dead Benz.
Then again, two toothpick-sized men with jeans that fell so low that their floral boxers doubled as pants, outdoing each other in bottles of waragi and weed.
I decided that the time was not right. I wish I had the contacts of Opendi or Kibalya to find the right time and places to get confirmation of these sex orgies.
Then I saw two men go by. I was very convinced this time that they were the sticky box office candidates. I was about to follow them when someone grabbed my hand from behind. I turned 360 degrees only to face a very beautiful muzungu lady. She had this very thin cigarette sticking out from between her slightly pursed lips.
She said something that I vaguely heard as lighter. I have never smoked and the last time I wore kibiriti on me was… She came closer and I saw her cleavage and her body smelled of Fax Apple soap. I started to apologize to Kibalya and Opendi as my eyes caught more of the cleavage.
There was a pat on my cheeks. Binder, my newest child, pointed a remote control at me. “Cartoon,” he announced.
The clock said 3 p.m. and I was not in Itanda but on a couch in Mpumudde. Dreams!