By Nimusiima
Ah, I am Ugandan. I know that even though I haven’t received my citizen ID. I know I am Ugandan and I have reddish Ugandan blood flowing in my veins. I am Ugandan and where I come from (in Uganda), we hate our own. We make minced meat of them. We loathe them. We hate them. We feel bad when others are climbing ladders of success. We grab them by their swaying garments and pull them back to our level. It is just the way it is. And that makes me more Ugandan. A proud hater of our own citizenry.
When someone breaks out and starts on a journey to success, I try so hard to halt his/her journey he/she has set out for him/herself. It breaks my heart. Why do they want to leave me in tatters, in pits full of poverty and filth and self-hatred? Do you remember when Uganda Cranes worked their socks and boots off to qualify for the African Cup of Nations, but failed miserably like a cat on an oily roof? I danced in celebration, in effusive ululations. I had a beer party at my place, called my friends and drank to that. We tossed our glasses to the gods for having not allowed our Cranes to qualify for the biggest soccer tournament on the continent.
Along came Big Brother Africa. When two girls-Ellah and Esther-were announced that they were going to represent us, those bad news scalded my ears. I hated them. I smacked my thighs in anger. I nearly plucked off my ears in anguish. Why would they allow them to go? Then before I could blink, Esther was evicted. Words can’t explain how I felt. I was happy. I was delighted. I wallowed in bliss. I bolted out of my little abode and danced in the rain. Ah, it was a ball of delight to hear that Esther was thrown out. See, I never wanted her to stay long in the house. I never wanted her to be a continental figure and hoist the Ugandan flag aloft in the skies. I never wanted her to make a name for herself. And now, where I am seated, I am staring down at my watch like a grim reaper, waiting impatiently to see Ellah fly back home, back to us, back to the potholes, back to the dust, and back to our struggling life. It will give me peace.
But then again, I have already tasted the peace because, you know what, Miss Uganda is here. Leah. I don’t even want to know her second name. Who in his right mind crowned her? I hate Leah. I won’t lie. This is my confession. Take it. Spit or swallow. I loathe her. I was happy by the barrage of hatred she garnered on social media. I literally danced to her grave. Why was she given the crown? I know. I know, I didn’t send my sister. I didn’t send my beautiful cousin. I didn’t send my smoking hot friend to the auditions. Hell, I didn’t send my cute mum, and my ailing grandma (she still has her looks, eh). But still, I never wanted to see Leah. Ah, her dreams? Who cares? See, I am Ugandan. I don’t really pay attention to such hogwash claptrap that are her dreams. She could be smart and eloquent and confident, but I don’t give a damn about it. I hate it. Someone pull her down please, someone make her trip and fall. Maybe as she trips and falls, that crown might fall in mud and she won’t wear it again. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I hate my own. I never appreciate them. I never celebrate them. They make me sick to the stomach. Because, you know what…
I am Ugandan!
