Wednesday, December 9, 2015

My Karamoja Experience: choking on the allurements of Karimojong ladies


When you are a young man who has been favored with a good education, acquired a bachelor’s degree in law, a relevant post graduate qualification in legal practice and chanced upon a job in an upcountry station where you are paid in big dollars and treated like an expatriate by the community you serve, a swagger in the poise is to be excused. But be ye not deceived, the good value of the bullion I earn is not all there is to my job placement. As a matter of fact my employment benefits include among others the privilege of being chauffeured around in a brand new Isuzu Double Cabin pick-up, it suffices to note with tinted glasses, the true reckoning for a gallant son of the pearl of Africa, who has read his books and earned his place in the echelons of influence. Anybody who has read Henry Barlow’s famous verse knows the role of the chauffeur and the chauffeured in building the nation and perfectly comprehends what I am talking about.

Off course the young man at university still struggling to make ends meet and hoping that the gods will smile upon his fortunes like they do on mine will grin with envy at this tale of a good life but the good life can also be an albatross of sorts bedeviling one’s progress in some ways. I will lend an explanation to the assertion. Of late I am almost chocking on the soft allurements that have been thrown my way by the matronly denizens of Karamoja who are possessed of stock in the form of marriageable daughters.

I must say, there is something about money that makes men, even those with the most haggard of features, handsome; not that I think of myself less endowed in that regard, far from it, on the contrary if there was any doubt, based on the recent developments, this question has been settled beyond debate. I am handsome. Because everywhere I go in Karamoja, I see girls clustered in groups of two, three, sometimes four, throwing glances to my beckoning, evidently praying for a possible opportunity of engagement, pointing to the direction of my going, and speaking in concealed whispers, there goes Mr. Handsome, one of us must marry him. A Muganda would say Musumba Zak ayogeza aba karamoja obwama. And they imagine I don’t hear them but I do. I obviously distrust their motives and I do suspect that their entreating may constitute a bigger scheme aimed at channeling my hard-earned cash to their whims but I also know that there are some amongst them who honestly think me handsome. But even then I must avoid the temptation.

No wonder that these days when I sleep I dream of Karimojong girls waylaying me and threatening me on gun point to either serve them with my seed or get murdered in cold blood. Fortunately I always wake up in the process of bargaining for my life, before committing to the abomination of giving away my seed in such coerced circumstances and before the trigger is pulled.

Evidently, some guys will assess my case and accuse me of squandering opportunity. They even call it opportunity. Truth be told, I agree that for every person, male or female, there is nothing unpleasant about being courted. That is why my belief is that anybody above twenty five years of age who claims to be single and contented must be living in denial.

Yet to everything in which I am involved I must consent.

Besides, I am a product of GLOVIMO, that age old campaign by which we pledged to stay chaste till the nights of our weddings. Therefore, to avoid the eminent temptations and to regularly remind myself of the commitment, I have pinned my pledge card somewhere on the walls of my house and recently accompanied it with a notice on my door which reads “Whatsoever is kept under my trousers is a precious gift to be unveiled on my wedding night, not now, not tomorrow, not even the other day, so please keep off.”

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