Adventures in Being By Myself

"They call me sistah and charge me regular price."

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I had been standing on the curb waiting for a Matutu for fifteen minutes and had yet to steal a spot from professional Matutu grabbing pedestrians standing with me on said curb. Maybe this going off alone for lunch thing wasn't the most befitting idea of ideas.
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"Where you go?"
"Oh! Garden City. Do you know how I can get to Garden City?"
The whole taxi park was really chill this particular lunch time. Without my posse of European persuasion, I wasn't a big deal to anybody; I looked like every other African on the street, maybe just less prominent cheek bones, a little bit redder in skin tone, and skinnier in build. They call me sistah and charge me regular price.
"Here, I'll take you to it."
The young kid, introduced himself as Anthony, inquired if I was American, and tried to get me to explain to him what AOL was and why the email an American had given him once didn't work. He was so warm to me when he realized I was African-American and spent the next few minutes wanting to know who I was voting for. I entertain the thoughts of answering McCain one of these times.

I was standing there talking to Anthony, assuring him that AOL was a legitmate email system when (( cue jaws theme music)) this son-of-a-you-know-whats-it walked through the crowd, working his creepness with exceptional creativity and touched me where he was not supposed to. I swung around and looked back catching his eye---the satfisified smirk was unmistakable. We, as a group of women, have had a lot of trouble with the men here, and were just talking the other day about possibly coming up with creative ways of dealing with this instead of violent means; you know, exemplifying the "Jesus Third Option" that always trips people up. I had not thought about it beforehand and ended up sending him my automatic disgusted look. Take that.....you! He disappeared in the crowd, unphased & apt to do it again to some other girl. :sigh: Jesus, could you help a girl out with some pointers?
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Anthony was an incredible guide. He had found a taxi, made sure they got me as close to Garden city as possible and everyone in the taxi agreed, giving me the seat of honor in the front. I was a chick under their wing. Then this Matutu backed up with speed and, BAM, ran into the front of my taxi. It reversed and sped off . The vehile shook and I looked around amazed. A car accident too. I was cracking up and the driver simply clicked his tongue in annoyance and tried to start the van. I saw an tandoori restaurant I wanted to go to and asked to get out early, but they weren't having it. No, sistah. We are taking you to Garden City.
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So I found a sweet, local restaurant next to it, instead of the ritsy food court.
"Can I have the Gotika meat?"
"Oh, we don't have that."
"Oh, okay! What do you have today?"
"Posho, rice, beans, cassava...."
"Do you have chicken?"
"Mmhm."
"Can I have chicken??"
"It is not ready."
"How long do you think it will be?"
"We have chicken at mid-day."
"At twelve?"
"Mmhm. What time is it?"
"It's...11:50. Can I order chicken now?"
"Yes."-leaves and comes back.
"The chicken is not ready yet."
"But it will be ready at twelve?"
"Yes, at twelve."
".....it's 11:55."
"The chicken is not ready."
"Well...can you come back in five minutes and I'll order the chicken?"
" Okay." -and walks away.
(O_O). Bwahaha, and really? It was the best barbecue chicken I've had in Uganda yet.
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The hurried, taxi driver hit his fist irritatedly. "I'm Moslem! I want to go to prayer! and I'm in a jam!" and, torturingly enough, we were stopped right in front of a mosque, the surahs being read on loudspeaker. He had been so kind and I was feeling bad that I had widdled him down so much, trying to get back in time. "I'm just a student!" It was hot and the jam was bad in this part of town. Pulling up to the university, I paid him extra for his trouble, wishing him "Ma'salaama." Surprised and touched, he spoke lug-arabic back to me and waved. I really hope he made it to prayers.