I check my wallet for small change. The boda will only be maybe two thousand to the restaurant in Kabalagala. I greet Mze on my way out. Daddy. Jaja. The old man. He likes to sit at the dining room table over a pile of papers and books, and talk with me as postgraduates do. Mze was a lawyer, a businessman, a member of parliament. I left a bunch of my politics and anthropology books from university in his library, and he thoroughly enjoyed them. Now he teaches me about Uganda.
Mze would prefer that I walk or drive whenever I go out. I think he preferred to live in denial about me riding bodas, but I denied him that pleasure when I got a helmet. Honestly, I don’t really want to drive in Kampala. Traffic is crazy with potholes everywhere, cavernous ditches on the sides of skinny roads, and aggressive traffic that involves SUVs and taxis, trucks, bodas, bicycles, wheelbarrows, young women and babies, hawkers walking between cars anyhow trying to sell newspapers and mosquito zappers, and if you can’t imagine a greater anarchy, then it rains.
Walking in Kampala is not that much safer when there are rarely ever sidewalks, just jagged edges, traffic and ditches, and people everywhere with different ideas in their heads. It’s important to have some sharp ideas of your own.
My local boda guys are not available, so I greet my police neighbour-friends at the main road and think of what I’ve learned about choosing a boda on the move. I see one coming down the road without a passenger and check: is he wearing a helmet or does he even have one? Is he driving straight and steady? Does he see me, slow down, and park well, like he’s alert and sober? Now, once he’s closer, how sober is he, really? Are there any scars on man or bike, like maybe he had an accident recently? I once met a boda man with an IV still in his hand, because he was going back for more malaria treatment later – like maybe after earning the money?
The boda man who found me this time is wearing a bright safety vest. I’d count that as a plus. After a few words back and forth, I don’t see any red flags, and he seems like a man of integrity, so I hop on, tuck my purse between us, and tugende!
But is that really enough to put your life in a man’s hands, though? Judgment based on a thirty second exchange? That’s why I depend on a few boda guys I’ve known a while, who were referred to me by trusted friends.
Imagine: what if some very tricky traffic situation goes down and the boda man you just met is not on point. He’s not aware of his surroundings, he doesn’t check his side mirror, and his reflexes are slow. Maybe he chooses a risky pass and doesn’t properly anticipate the next move of the other vehicles around him.
Eh, driving a boda is more than just “mpola mpola.”
I wear a helmet, and I won’t lie to you, it can be a little embarrassing to walk into respectable corporate offices and tuck my helmet under the boardroom table. But those people in the boardroom value my brain, and I’m not trying to waste that all over Kampala pavement. Mze warned me too many times about boda bodas. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. We still have so much to discuss, like #RegulateBodaBodas.
Mze would prefer that I walk or drive whenever I go out. I think he preferred to live in denial about me riding bodas, but I denied him that pleasure when I got a helmet. Honestly, I don’t really want to drive in Kampala. Traffic is crazy with potholes everywhere, cavernous ditches on the sides of skinny roads, and aggressive traffic that involves SUVs and taxis, trucks, bodas, bicycles, wheelbarrows, young women and babies, hawkers walking between cars anyhow trying to sell newspapers and mosquito zappers, and if you can’t imagine a greater anarchy, then it rains.
Walking in Kampala is not that much safer when there are rarely ever sidewalks, just jagged edges, traffic and ditches, and people everywhere with different ideas in their heads. It’s important to have some sharp ideas of your own.
My local boda guys are not available, so I greet my police neighbour-friends at the main road and think of what I’ve learned about choosing a boda on the move. I see one coming down the road without a passenger and check: is he wearing a helmet or does he even have one? Is he driving straight and steady? Does he see me, slow down, and park well, like he’s alert and sober? Now, once he’s closer, how sober is he, really? Are there any scars on man or bike, like maybe he had an accident recently? I once met a boda man with an IV still in his hand, because he was going back for more malaria treatment later – like maybe after earning the money?
The boda man who found me this time is wearing a bright safety vest. I’d count that as a plus. After a few words back and forth, I don’t see any red flags, and he seems like a man of integrity, so I hop on, tuck my purse between us, and tugende!
But is that really enough to put your life in a man’s hands, though? Judgment based on a thirty second exchange? That’s why I depend on a few boda guys I’ve known a while, who were referred to me by trusted friends.
Imagine: what if some very tricky traffic situation goes down and the boda man you just met is not on point. He’s not aware of his surroundings, he doesn’t check his side mirror, and his reflexes are slow. Maybe he chooses a risky pass and doesn’t properly anticipate the next move of the other vehicles around him.
Eh, driving a boda is more than just “mpola mpola.”
I wear a helmet, and I won’t lie to you, it can be a little embarrassing to walk into respectable corporate offices and tuck my helmet under the boardroom table. But those people in the boardroom value my brain, and I’m not trying to waste that all over Kampala pavement. Mze warned me too many times about boda bodas. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. We still have so much to discuss, like #RegulateBodaBodas.
