Not visiting Jinja

Picture this:

It had rained all night.

I struggled up the muddy hill from the place I was staying to the main road. It was still mostly dark, the sun not yet up far enough to start drying out the earth or warming me up. There were practically no taxis so I jumped on a boda-boda to the taxi park.

Then I was really, really cold, but got there quickly.

I paid the boda driver, and he headed off.

As typical the special hires surrounding the taxi park motioned they would take me. I shook my head, and politely replied “Nedda, Sebo.” Meaning no, sir.

Most of them got back into their cars to wait. But one approached me.

“Muzungu, where you going”

“The taxi park, I’m here”

‘You go to Jinja, I’ll take you to Jinja”

“Nedda, Sebo, Sagala” (I don’t want - I was actually going to Gaba).

“Muzungu, I’ll take you to Jinja for a fair price”

This continues for a few more exchanges as I walk down the street with him following.

He grabbed my shoulder, “My size, I’ll take you where you want to go.”

I pulled away. And for the first time ever I swore at a Ugandan.

Then I told him where I wanted him to go.

It wasn’t Jinja.