- Meanwhile, I am going to train as a mortician to wait for the arrogant of the soil and see if anyone of them will demand I tell them what their mothers gave them for identity. I want to be able to see if in the mortuary some cadavers shout about Utl or which side of the tribe Onyango and Okwi belong to.
Do you know who I am?” the man barked. His interlocutor recoiled but smiled. I wanted to tell him that since he didn’t know himself, he should go back to his mother and ask who he was. But then this wasn’t my place; the telecom service centre had an askari posted to attend to such rude buggers.
We have heard these lines before. They are from people who own this country. They have a sense of entitlement on just about everything. Humility, to them, is the most expensive item, too expensive for their wealth and wrath to afford.
I was thinking about the plump man who tried to bully the askari at the telecom service centre when my mind wandered into the work of a mortuary attendant or mortician. It struck me that it is before these guys that Ugandans ever really humble themselves.
Let’s say humility is actually not sold but given free in the mortuary.
Now there is this church slapping a tax on funeral service mabugo. They claim such services, which are called up impromptu, take a lot of the church budget. Centuries ago before the church was taken in by ki-kofira’s brown envelopes and fuel guzzler gifts, funeral service formed a salient part of their duty to society, a duty to see men and women to their final destination.
It is true morticians and grave diggers have to be paid to tend to their duties but that is because theirs is not a calling. They are recruited to render that service. The church on the other hand is there to do just that. Why ask for money for what you are supposed to be doing?
There were days when churches owned huge chunks of land for graveyard. The destitute and other lot were laid in to rest there. But the trend of things suggests these graveyards will give way to real estate and the little left will be paid for.
You part with some quid to be buried on their land.
This is how cold our society has degenerated. Cold like those mortuary fridges only that in the mortuary, there is utmost humility. The chaps who are speaking with saliva dropping out of their mouth over UTL, they would be dead humble before the mortician (I love the pun).
Imagine Uganda Cranes is carrying the flag in Egypt but the nation is only concerned about who comes from their clan. Onyango-Busia-this, Okwi-Bukedea-that, Kaddu-Ofaka-there. Gasiya tu!
Truth is that, when that time comes for you to be submitted as a package before a mortician, you won’t have your tribe or anything with you. Just a name tag tied somewhere on your feet (I’m going to the morgue to find out why they tie them there) is all that will be left of your identity.
Whether you have been eating from KFC or at Mama Lamono’s, or whether Uganda Cranes was comprised 99 per cent of your tribemates, the end result is the same—submissiveness.
Imagine the energy we put in demanding our entitlements on this godforsaken earth went into planting a tree each, we wouldn’t have to rely on those guys at meteorology something whose divination is always wrong.
Meanwhile, I am going to train as a mortician to wait for the arrogant of the soil and see if anyone of them will demand I tell them what their mothers gave them for identity. I want to be able to see if in the mortuary some cadavers shout about Utl or which side of the tribe Onyango and Okwi belong to.
Someone tell those church leaders to only charge wedding projects but leave mabugo alone. Or they will submit to me when I am a mortician.