MANTALK: Female domination

Last Saturday night I found myself in a car driven by a lady with alcohol in her hands. I had just left a writer’s gathering, where I had been invited to hand a plaque to a winner and give some sort of (painful) speech. PHOTO| FILE| NATION MEDIA GROUP

What you need to know:

  • The lady at the back made an exclamatory sound that is unique to Ugandans, then: “My point exactly, Obama is Luo!” (Finally, the first correct assessment of anything the whole night!) “But Luos are nice, but the only problem is that they can also be nice to many big bums, Biko, are you a Luo?”

Last Saturday night I found myself in a car driven by a lady with alcohol in her hands. I had just left a writer’s gathering, where I had been invited to hand a plaque to a winner and give some sort of (painful) speech. (I wasn’t given a plaque for my speech,

though.) It was in a suburb in Kampala, at this palatial home with unending gardens and a Kenyan host who is famed for throwing massive parties (had to be Kenyan). The do was full of authors, poets, men of letters and a loud Russian poet who staggered all over the garden in his scraggly beard, dragging behind him a shaggy sense of humour, making wisecracks and laughing raucously.

I was doing what writers do best when they have a drink in their hands and happen to be standing amongst a clutch of people who ask the most annoying question you can ask a writer:

“What inspires you to write?” As if inspiration comes from something structured like sitting by a riverbank in your underwear and feeling your soul get filled with the burning desire to punch a hole in a Word document. But it’s always all good because at

shindigs like that, where people drink, they hardly remember your answer. Or you, for that matter.

As the night wore on, the prim and proper ladies who sat with their legs crossed demurely were all of a sudden walking on the grass with their shoes in their hands, saying things they would regret the next morning. The makeshift bar got busier.

The laughter louder. The jokes darker. And more risqué.

At 1am I pulled the host, Dennis, aside, and said I was tired and I wanted to go back to the hotel. He looked at his watch then at me like I was 90 and arthritic. Eventually he threw me in this car with these two ladies in their middle age. The driver had a drink

in her hand and the one behind, Dennis’s sister, had a cheek in her tone.

BUT WHY DO KENYAN MEN LOVE UGANDAN WOMEN?

As we set off in the dark, she asked me, “But why do Kenyan men love Ugandan women?” and before I could answer the lady driving with one hand holding her drink said, “It’s because we are docile.” The lady at the back shoved her head between the seats

and said, “No, that is a cliché answer. Let him answer it.” Just as I was about to open my mouth, the driver said, “It’s not a cliché, it’s a statement of fact. It’s well known that our women are docile and they like that kind of thing…” The lady at the back

ignored her and said, “Biko, is it true that you Kenyan men like that kind of thing? You are a writer; what do you say?” (As if being a writer validates a stereotype.) Just as I was about to say something the driver jumped in, “They also like hips. Ugandan

women are curvy and Kenyan men like curvy, don’t they Biko?”

The lady at the back: “I think that is so simplistic a way of looking at it, I mean that would make Kenyan men quite shallow, don’t you think? I’m sure there are more qualities to us than just our curves.” The driver: “They also love our bums. We have big

bums.” At this point I realised that they did’t need my input, so I didn’t say anything. The lady at the back said, “It’s Luo men who love bums. Biko what tribe are you?” The driver snorted, “It’s not only Luo men who love bums. Bums are loved by

everybody, it is universal, I think even Obama loves bums only he can’t say it.”

The lady at the back made an exclamatory sound that is unique to Ugandans, then: “My point exactly, Obama is Luo!” (Finally, the first correct assessment of anything the whole night!) “But Luos are nice, but the only problem is that they can also be nice to

many big bums, Biko, are you a Luo?” I knew I didn’t have to answer because the lady at the back jumped in. “Why does it matter? These stereotypes are what we are trying to - bambi, which road have you used?”

I asked them if they could drop me off at this pub called Legends where some friends of mine told me they would be. The driver refused. “Ahhh, Dennis gave us specific instructions to make sure you are in your hotel.” But the lady at the back said, “Just

drop the man off if he wants to go to Legends!” The driver said, “I’m not dropping him off anywhere, what if something happens to him?” The lady at the back sniggered, “Come on, he is not a child! He is Kenyan he will take care of himself, let him go

drink his Tusker.” I said, “I don’t drink Tusker…” the first words out of my mouth since we started driving and it felt like a small triumph.

“Why don’t you drink Tusker? All Kenyan men I know drink Tusker!” the driver asked, almost aggressively, making it sound like I had betrayed my country. “Not every Kenyan drinks Tusker surely, it’s like saying we all drink Bell… by the way Biko, you

didn’t say why Kenyan men like Ugandan women.” The driver, now an ally, said, “I thought he answered that?” The lady at the back, “No, you said it’s because they like big bums.”

And on and on it went, a two-way conversation that didn’t need my contribution. I could as well not be in the car. My God those Ugandan ladies! I stepped out of that car with a few key lessons: Women, regardless of borders, love to talk. I also learnt that it

doesn’t matter what your opinion is. Your opinion is as important as a mirror is to a goat.