Africa-Press – Uganda. Not so long ago, my partner and I were strolling home one evening when we were approached by a woman. She was lean, looked a little haggard and when she spoke, it was in a low measured tone.
She introduced herself and apologised for interrupting our walk, making it clear that she wouldn’t have stopped us if it hadn’t been important. She then told us that she was on HIV treatment – plucking two prescription bottles from her handbag for evidence – and had been at the hospital to get a refill. We were in the middle of the 42-Days lockdown, so, apparently, the health centre hadn’t been able to provide the accompanying nutritional pack.
She didn’t have a job and hadn’t had a meal because she couldn’t afford one. She had called a friend, James, – I think – who had told her to go over to his place so that he sees what he can do. Problem is, James, wasn’t home and his phone was switched off, so she had waited all day for naught. When she stopped us, it was approaching curfew time and she was rushing home. If we didn’t give her anything, she was going to sleep on an empty stomach.
We gave her whatever we could and parted ways. The rest of our walk was punctuated with conversation about the effect that the lockdown was having on especially the most vulnerable people; on wondering why James had invited her over instead of simply sending the money – and why he had then pulled a disappearing act; talking about the state of things that is forcing a lot more people into the indignity of begging from strangers just to survive; and on gratefulness that somehow, we were still here and somewhat secure in our ways. About a week later, I was sitting in a restaurant down the road from where we had met her, when I saw her again. I started to smile, albeit awkwardly, as she walked up to me, thinking that she had recognised me and had come to express her gratitude for last week. She hadn’t.
Instead, the scene played out exactly as the previous one had. Polite salutation, apology for interrupting my day, prescription bottles out of the handbag, James’ disappearing act, and the call to action.
I didn’t interrupt or stop her through all of it because I didn’t know how to. I was both amazed and perplexed, and wondering how I was going to handle it. Did she not recognise me? Perhaps it was the mask. Which bits of it were true and which ones were a lie? If she was lying, how much was this affecting those who genuinely needed help but would then be bundled up together with her as conmen (con-women). Also, if she was selling a con, why was her operational base so small that she risked running into her victims again? Or did the need to survive erase her ability to think through and care about any of this stuff?
Anyhow, when she was done, I removed the mask and said, “Madam, I don’t know if you don’t recognise me but you told us this exact story last week, just around the corner over there.” To help her along, I also advised that if she couldn’t edit her story, the least she could do is at least try to remember who she had told it to and be sure to avoid them the next time; or at least expand the radius of her operational area.
She mumbled a few words as she walked away. If you think about her story as a con and try to answer those questions, you realise they are Legion. You also wonder why they just don’t count in us any clever, and believe that they can get away with it.
Think about those who call national addresses to claim that government doesn’t torture and conduct extrajudicial killings of civilians; or politicians who always seem busy or make public pronouncements but nobody can point to anything of value they have done. It could be social entrepreneurs or civil society types who weave crafty dreams and sob stories to fleece funders. Whichever it is, the people are getting played while no work gets done to fix any of the brokenness. So, they too have resorted to ‘tying biwaani’ (scamming).
Mr Rukwengye is the founder, Boundless Minds.
Twitter: @Rukwengye
