
In the style of my friend and mentor Simon Kaheru, allow me to share with you today a true story of how ridiculous Kampala can be, with the caveat that I may come off as the aging grumpy neighbour in my own story who is failing to fit into a city that loves its noise. It all began one Friday (yesterday), after I’d gotten up at 5am to prep a client for a morning interview, then boda’d around Kampala from meeting to meeting throughout the day, constructed the beginning of another long report, and finally arrived home around sunset, exhausted and so ready to settle into a peaceful night of reading, yoga and sleep, just when it seemed everyone else around me was ramping up for a night of TGIF celebration.
That Friday evening, there turned out to be a party in my residential neighbourhood of Muyenga that had hired a PA system and cranked it to the max. The over zealous DJ switched from one song to another every ten seconds, though in the transitions each song bear no rhythmic or melodic resemblance. With an apparent desire to reach sensory overload, the DJ threw layers of random noises on top, from horns to ringing phones to his own shouting “owulila?” (yes, I hear you), while singing along off key over the entire song. At one point, the DJ began to make noises on the microphone that could have been an attempt at something like beat boxing, but instead sounded like the result of a large serving of beans. At that point, the whole charade felt like one of those humorous moments on a TV talent show when a horrifically inadequate contestant cluelessly and catastrophically failed with enthusiasm, and I began looking around for the button that I as the celebrity judge could push to make it stop and say “sorry buddy, try again next year.”
This is when, at 19:45, I turned to my new support group: the Bukasa-Muyenga Neighbourhood Watch Whatsapp group, a forum for my neighbours to communicate with the local community police (note: speak to your local officers about joining one for your security). As politely as possible in my exasperated state, I asked: “Dear police friends, when is noise pollution too much and we can legitimately seek action?” Knowing that my delicate ears may be clashing culture-wise with the Ugandan appreciation for a lively beat, I was seeking advice on how to approach what I had identified as a common problem in our residential neighourhood. I cited Hotel International as a frequent annoyance in playing loud music, and tried to explain how the sound echoed against my hill in a way that made it sound like my bedroom was right beside the DJ booth. I received no reply for an agonizing period, through which time perhaps the plentiful group membership checked the group and thought: “eh, this muzungu wants quiet on a Friday night? Leave her.” Then finally between 9pm and midnight I received two replies: one advised that I call Hotel International directly, and the other advised that I contact the Muyenga OC officer. After midnight, the noise showed no sign of stopping, so I did both.
It is not the first time I have called Hotel International asking them to please turn it down. Yes, that’s me calling, and I’ve been told that Dr. Ian Clarke tried this for years with the result of instilling a late shut-off, yet there has been no end to the echoing madness. This time, I was informed that the hotel number was not currently available, and at 00:03, I briefly wondered if perhaps the manager had not re-registered his SIM card and voice calls had been switched off. I waited until midnight to call the hotel, because last time this happened, they responded with a tone of confusion, explaining that they would turn off the PA at midnight, not understanding why blasting dancehall music might interfere with my Wednesday evening program of Netflix and chill (for the record, Sheebah’s “Farmer” does not blend well with particularly solemn moments in Black Mirror).
Then, I sent a Whatsapp message to my OC, explaining that some function down the hill (at the hotel or perhaps elsewhere) was very loud, and could he please respond to the noise pollution as a matter of environmental protection, appealing to the Environmental Police Force attached to NEMA, as advised by one of my neighbourhood watch members. The OC then informed me that the noise I was complaining about actually came from the wedding party of a divisional police commander, and it would soon come to an end. Awkward! I had landed in one of those Ugandan situations where my complaint was actually directed at the police themselves, so who could I go to for help?
By 1am, I was rolling back and forth in my bed with a level of frustration and hopelessness last experienced in a particularly terrible bout of rain-induced traffic jam on the way to an important appointment, and I was now regretting that I had planned a night in at all. I could have gone out on the town with my friends and actually danced to decent music, if I had known I would be cursed by this sonic oppression in my own bedroom! That is when I took to Twitter and, having been broken by the last straw of my exhaustion, I wrote to UMEME pleading with them to shut off the power in my neighbourhood!
That Friday evening, there turned out to be a party in my residential neighbourhood of Muyenga that had hired a PA system and cranked it to the max. The over zealous DJ switched from one song to another every ten seconds, though in the transitions each song bear no rhythmic or melodic resemblance. With an apparent desire to reach sensory overload, the DJ threw layers of random noises on top, from horns to ringing phones to his own shouting “owulila?” (yes, I hear you), while singing along off key over the entire song. At one point, the DJ began to make noises on the microphone that could have been an attempt at something like beat boxing, but instead sounded like the result of a large serving of beans. At that point, the whole charade felt like one of those humorous moments on a TV talent show when a horrifically inadequate contestant cluelessly and catastrophically failed with enthusiasm, and I began looking around for the button that I as the celebrity judge could push to make it stop and say “sorry buddy, try again next year.”
This is when, at 19:45, I turned to my new support group: the Bukasa-Muyenga Neighbourhood Watch Whatsapp group, a forum for my neighbours to communicate with the local community police (note: speak to your local officers about joining one for your security). As politely as possible in my exasperated state, I asked: “Dear police friends, when is noise pollution too much and we can legitimately seek action?” Knowing that my delicate ears may be clashing culture-wise with the Ugandan appreciation for a lively beat, I was seeking advice on how to approach what I had identified as a common problem in our residential neighourhood. I cited Hotel International as a frequent annoyance in playing loud music, and tried to explain how the sound echoed against my hill in a way that made it sound like my bedroom was right beside the DJ booth. I received no reply for an agonizing period, through which time perhaps the plentiful group membership checked the group and thought: “eh, this muzungu wants quiet on a Friday night? Leave her.” Then finally between 9pm and midnight I received two replies: one advised that I call Hotel International directly, and the other advised that I contact the Muyenga OC officer. After midnight, the noise showed no sign of stopping, so I did both.
It is not the first time I have called Hotel International asking them to please turn it down. Yes, that’s me calling, and I’ve been told that Dr. Ian Clarke tried this for years with the result of instilling a late shut-off, yet there has been no end to the echoing madness. This time, I was informed that the hotel number was not currently available, and at 00:03, I briefly wondered if perhaps the manager had not re-registered his SIM card and voice calls had been switched off. I waited until midnight to call the hotel, because last time this happened, they responded with a tone of confusion, explaining that they would turn off the PA at midnight, not understanding why blasting dancehall music might interfere with my Wednesday evening program of Netflix and chill (for the record, Sheebah’s “Farmer” does not blend well with particularly solemn moments in Black Mirror).
Then, I sent a Whatsapp message to my OC, explaining that some function down the hill (at the hotel or perhaps elsewhere) was very loud, and could he please respond to the noise pollution as a matter of environmental protection, appealing to the Environmental Police Force attached to NEMA, as advised by one of my neighbourhood watch members. The OC then informed me that the noise I was complaining about actually came from the wedding party of a divisional police commander, and it would soon come to an end. Awkward! I had landed in one of those Ugandan situations where my complaint was actually directed at the police themselves, so who could I go to for help?
By 1am, I was rolling back and forth in my bed with a level of frustration and hopelessness last experienced in a particularly terrible bout of rain-induced traffic jam on the way to an important appointment, and I was now regretting that I had planned a night in at all. I could have gone out on the town with my friends and actually danced to decent music, if I had known I would be cursed by this sonic oppression in my own bedroom! That is when I took to Twitter and, having been broken by the last straw of my exhaustion, I wrote to UMEME pleading with them to shut off the power in my neighbourhood!
As my Twitter followers enjoyed a good laugh, I began praying that the police commander would decide it’s time to go consummate the marriage and call it a night.
Ten minutes later, my prayers were answered! (Lesson learned: there are times in this country when only God herself can save you.) UMEME responded to my tweet with sympathy, but did not shut off the power, which was probably for the best. An hour later, I fell into a blissful sleep punctuated by bizarre anxiety-induced dreams, and a few short hours later I awoke to repeat the cycle. Oh Uganda, I love you. Police, I appreciate you keeping me safe (if at times a little insane). DJ, please go get some mentoring on how to do your job like a professional entertainer (there are plenty of great ones in Kampala that you can turn to). Dear readers, please let me know when you feel like a peaceful evening of introverted reading, yoga and sleep. You have a friend in me.
Ten minutes later, my prayers were answered! (Lesson learned: there are times in this country when only God herself can save you.) UMEME responded to my tweet with sympathy, but did not shut off the power, which was probably for the best. An hour later, I fell into a blissful sleep punctuated by bizarre anxiety-induced dreams, and a few short hours later I awoke to repeat the cycle. Oh Uganda, I love you. Police, I appreciate you keeping me safe (if at times a little insane). DJ, please go get some mentoring on how to do your job like a professional entertainer (there are plenty of great ones in Kampala that you can turn to). Dear readers, please let me know when you feel like a peaceful evening of introverted reading, yoga and sleep. You have a friend in me.