The Tale of the Kabalagala Sports Bar

I am back blogging after an absence caused by the malfunction of my laptop keyboard. My b, v, ? keys and the space bar decided to stop working. After exhausting every possible DIY fix that I could think of, I ended up spending a week painstakingly typing using my laptop keyboard and the Windows on-screen keyboard. It was slowly driving me insane. So today I took a walk to Kabalagala, our local market area, and I bought a USB keyboard. It was much cheaper than fixing my actual laptop and is a functional means to an end. It was also a good excuse to go for a walk. I enjoy walking, despite looking a little ridiculous with a keyboard sticking out the top of my backpack.

Kabalagala is a buzzing place. I enjoy it there. It is on a busy main road and consists of a lot of shops, restaurants, bars, betting joints, street food stalls and all sorts of other curiosities. I stopped at several places along my journey.

First I checked out the menu at a cafe which advertises WiFi. It was evidently marketed towards the expat or business hot-shot crowd. A few Westerners were scattered at a couple of the tables, other tables were occupied by men busily hunched over laptops, squinting in deep concentration. You can bet that any place which offers WiFi will be popular among Westerners – myself included. I made a mental note of the cheapest item on the menu (which was hugely expensive compared to buying local cuisine) just in case I was ever in need of WiFi. The cheapest item happened to be a slice of iced lemon cake. At least the enjoyment of the cake would overcome the sacrifice of the price. One must be prepared to compromise. I smiled and thanked the eager waitress as I handed back the menu and turned to leave. I promised to return someday and have a piece of the cake.

Back on the road, the heat of the day made the air heavy, and the black diesel smoke from all the bodas, cars and vans seemed to linger in the air like small levitating storm clouds.

I walked for another 15 minutes, enjoying all the sights and sounds – the bustle of the place. Soon I came to a glittering mall. I walked into a shiny supermarket on the bottom floor. It felt a little clinical and foreign compared to the marketplace outside. As I entered the supermarket I was checked over with a metal detector and had my backpack inspected by a chatty female security guard who enquired if I were out by myself. Sensing no danger, I replied truthfully.

“Yes, just me.” I replied.

“Perhaps then I could be your friend and accompany you!” She gushed excitedly, as if the prospect would make us like sisters. I zipped up my backpack and answered positively, all the while knowing that nothing could come of it, since she was obviously in the middle of her shift. I passed the door and made my way into the supermarket alone. She remained at her post at the door.

The supermarket was slightly cheaper than the small local supermarket I normally visit. Delighted, I wandered the aisles, bundling products in my arms, only to then decide that they were superfluous to my needs and replacing them shortly after. I bought a couple of things that managed to pass through my sorting-and-replacing process. I began to head back through Kabalagala toward home. I passed by another supermarket and decided to take a look there as well. I kicked myself when I saw a product slightly cheaper than what I had just paid. I was able to bounce back only when I found one item that was more expensive than the last supermarket. Swings and roundabouts.

I spotted a French patisserie. Curious about the novelty of a French bakery in Kampala, and also curious about the prices, I went in. The bakery is one of several buildings in a hotel compound. Outside the bakery, covered by a precise and well-made thatched roof (read: money) comfortable chairs and tables are casually arranged on the patio. The place had a breezy, warm vibe that instantly envelops you and puts you at ease. I gazed thoughtfully at the glass case of desserts, and I took a mental note of what was available, but walked away empty handed. Outside in the carpark, a woman called Ayesha had set up a small table of her handcrafted wares. I was drawn to this woman, and began a conversation with her. Ayesha had a small selection of products on display – including some necklaces, bags, and aprons. They were all extremely cheap – I knew this because I had been taking mental notes of the prices of things at all the shops and markets I visit. The necklaces looked like coloured beads, but they were actually made out of rolled paper. I had noticed that it was a common material in Ugandan jewellery – probably because it was inexpensive, but it is immensely intricate and time consuming to make: Ayesha had made each paper bead by hand. I bought the necklace and she helped me to pick out a nice colour. We spoke for a little while, I asked her about the different items she had made. She was gentle and softly spoken with a determined dignity and a business mind.

“Can I have your contact details?” she asked me before I left, “So that I can tell you of other things I make, and perhaps you can further my business by telling your friends?”

I gladly accepted and jotted down my number for her – I had to consult my phone to find out what my number was, I haven't bothered to learn it yet. I draped the necklace around my neck, smiled, shook Ayesha's hand and left.

I was starting to feel a little hungry. I walked along, assessing my different food options: Rolex? No, not that hungry. Chapati? Maybe, it's cheap enough. I spied a dirt pathway that led away from the main road and into a busy section of a slum, with makeshift structures housing a multitude of lively enterprises. I ventured further in to see what food options I could find. Women crouched over small plastic basins of water busily washing lunch plates. To my left, a restaurant/bar was full of patrons. Men swarmed around a pool table under a tumble-down bamboo shelter. A table full of men and women laughed merrily in between mouthfuls of food, their plates piled high with potatoes, chicken and some type of gravy. Across the walkway, an improvised stage had been erected using a jumble of foraged plywood. It sat waiting in expectancy of an evening performance. Well-fed hens scratched at the dirt and then clucked insolently upon finding nothing of interest. I wandered around for a while. I immediately loved the ramshackle charm of the place. The rusty mismatched corrugated iron that cladded the roofs of the shacks, the industrious manner which the women walked as they collected more plates to be washed, the casual way the men propped themselves up with their pool cues. The buzz of life, relaxation, and enjoyment in this bedraggled slum.

I spotted a chapati stall but it was unmanned and I couldn't be bothered waiting around. I turned around and started walking back to the main street. I was almost back on the street when a young man emerged from a dark doorway of a sports bar and began talking to me. He was friendly and polite. He introduced himself, said he was from Eritrea, and invited me into the bar. I shook his hand and followed him inside. The 'bar' was a large shack with mud walls and a thatched roof made of sticks. The only light was the shaft of sunlight from the open doorway, that, and a solitary dim lightbulb which illumed the bottles behind the counter. Plastic chairs were laid out haphazardly around a few tables. The man led me to a table where another man was sitting – a friend of his – and ushered for me to sit down. A petite cat sat on the floor in front of me and observed me hopefully to see if I had any food to give her.

The two men were both Eritrean – I surmised that this bar must be a popular hangout for Eritreans. The other man was busy studying a printout of betting odds. The man who I was talking to introduced himself as Yonas.

Yonas was a refugee journalist from Eritrea.. He was passionate about justice and human rights, and his own life story was captivating and tragic. Under the Eritrea dictatorship he had fearlessly written articles which exposed and opposed the regime. He was subsequently arrested without trial and locked in an underground prison for 4 years. He escaped by using a fork to scrape the mortar from between the bricks of his cell and breaking his way out. Exiled from his country and in fear of his life, he made the dangerous journey crossing multiple borders to seek asylum in Uganda. Uganda, he taught me, offers freedom and protection to refugees. Over 110,000 Eritrea refugees are stationed in camps in Western Uganda. It was fascinating to talk to Yonas. He paused our conversation to get me a Sprite and then disappeared to order something to eat from the local restaurant next door. He reappeared shortly after, carrying a plate of cut up chapati, a bowl of chicken soup and two forks. He dumped the soup over the top of the chapati and handed me a fork. I had just taken my first bite when the bartender switched on a television and the football began. Suddenly men flocked into the bar and jostled their plastic chairs into prime viewing positions. Everton were playing Liverpool, as a long standing Liverpool fan I was thrilled to catch the game. I was even more amused as I assessed my surroundings. The mud walls, the holey ceiling, the crudely printed signs which demanded in large lettering “No sitting in chairs without order!!!” , and “Cash payment only! No credit!” I figured that I was probably the first white chick to ever step foot in this dark den of a place. For all its faults, the place did not come off as seedy, and all the men there were extremely polite and genuine. We ate our fill of the chapati and soup, there was still a lot left, Yonas offered it to another man in the bar – this man looked a little older and his face carried the anxious and sad smile of a person who had witnessed atrocities. Yonas explained that this man had been with him in the Eritrean army 10 years ago. He didn't elaborate further or make any attempt to fill in any details of what pretence he had been in the army, nor how he had managed to get out of it. I listened in silence. The man gratefully tucked into the food and polished off the plate.

The football game was heating up, Everton had just levelled the score 1-1. Yonas' gambling friend smiled broadly – he was betting on an Everton win. However, we did not get to see the end of the game because just then the power went out. Ahh, Kampala! Such a regular occurrence, I am used to the powercuts now. The men were flummoxed and set to finding a solution. They whipped out radios and tuned into the sports station. Eventually, most left in search of a bar with a generator.

Yonas and I continued to talk. He told me that he had just been awarded a scholarship to do a Masters in human rights law in the States. He would be leaving in a couple of months. I hardly knew what to say to this man who had been through so much. I was thrilled that he had such an incredible opportunity. We spoke for a while longer and then I said goodbye and left. Yonas said that he often hung out at the bar and I would be welcome anytime to stop by and say hello. I agreed, thanked him, and stepped back into the daylight. As I left the dark den of the bar my mind was running overtime thinking over everything I had just learned about the refugee situation and the plight of the Eritrean people.

I walked home reflectively and fairly uneventfully, apart from one brief exchange with a man selling the contents of a large container he was carrying.

“Hi Muzungu” (white people/travellers are generally addressed as 'muzungu')

“Hi”

“You want eat grasshoppers?”

“No thanks” I smiled, laughed to myself, and continued walking.