Is Wabudeya writing her political death will?

The fever is slowly catching on. People are setting eyes on several prizes ahead of the 2011 political festival. One huge anticipated race will be that between the Presidency Minister Beatrice Wabudeya (NRM) against Nandala Mafabi, the chairman of the Public Accounts Committee, for the Budadiri West seat in Sironko District.

What we shall witness, after Wabudeya declared she would no longer go for the Sironko Woman seat and instead move turf to Budadiri West, will be a culmination of two dissimilar journeys of politicians largely known.

Wabudeya jumped into the political fray in 1996, taking the Mbale Woman seat in a grueling battle with then UEB boss Irene Muloni. Coming from a humble veterinary profession, hers was a real coup—but the even bigger surprise was her inclusion on cabinet as a Primary Health Care minister thereafter. Of course this political foundation was mainly attributed to the silent support she got from then powerful NRM Political Commissar and Speaker of Parliament, James Wapakhabulo. Wabudeya and Housing Minister Werikhe Gabafusa were Wapakhabulo’s two projects that he helped not just win seats but find slots for in cabinet.

And yet for Wabudeya—hers was never a clear political path. Largely said to be aloof—it occurred to her that fighting for the Mbale Woman seat was going to be a tall order—she tactfully withdrew to the Sironko Woman seat in 2001—good enough the new-district craze had caught on.

She then took a tour through the education ministry and ended up at the doorstep of the presidency—as the minister in charge. It is a position she’s held ever since she made it through the 2006 elections—where she literally had to shoot her way to victory. With a little-known accountant taking her on the FDC ticket, it took deploying security agencies and literally stuffing ballot boxes—with skirmishes at Sironko Town Council—for her to score victory.

Compare that with Nandala Mafabi. Largely unknown before 2000; he leaves a well-paying job in the World Bank and makes it on the opposition ticket as MP for Budadiri West in 2001. The early days see him named in a few corruption scandals (the Mukwano case) but he later makes a sterling performance as chairman of the House’s National Economy committee.

He then shoots to prominence as chairman of the Parliamentary Accounts Committee; he becomes the face of Parliament’s fight against corruption; grilling district and government officials accused of plunder by the Auditor General. Nandala by no mistake is a great accountant. He has a laser-precision of seeing through documents—especially when they are about accountability.

Such are the CVs of these two big politicians who have finally chosen to lock horns—with different motives. It is obvious that President Museveni wants Nandala out of the House. He’s helped expose the murk in the regime—many times just falling short of implicating the Presidency—like in the CHOGM theft scandal. Like Museveni did with Maj. Kazoora, Hon. Sabiiti and Augustine Ruzindana in 2006; Nandala is a marked man for 2011. That the President has taken time to go to Budadiri West and alert the peasants there about his dislike for Nandala is no surprise.

But whereas Janet Museveni might have found it easy to unseat Ruzindana in Ruhaama, Wabudeya may not just have it smooth in Budadiri. Nandala in Mbale is popularly referred to as “the king of the Bamasaaba”. It is a title won very hard. He fought tooth-and-nail to take over management of Bugisu Cooperative Union—the one-time pride of Mbale. Despite stiff opposition from the government, which at one point tried to change the law to bar Nandala from contesting, he went ahead and swept the poll. Today, barely a year after he assumed that mantle, the union is registering billions in profit, up from the heavily-indebted apparatus it had become.

For this single sole reason, Nandala has become a messiah of sorts. The small-bodied man, who walks with a slight stoop and always has his sleeves rolled up (Obama style), has taken Mbale by the storm. At no previous point in Bugisu’s history (maybe with exception of Masette Kuya and Wapa at some point), have Bagisu rallied so concretely behind a politician—let alone one in the opposition. He sponsors over 200 university students from his constituency, giving them part of their tuition. His numerous petrol stations are a source of employment for many.

That exactly is the difference between Nandala and Wabudeya. As minister—and knowing how politics has come to be defined in this country—many Bagisu though Wabudeya’s positioning would enable them access jobs or related benefits. How mistaken they were! Either out of principle or stinginess, this has not happened much. When Wabudeya was education minister, Bugisu was among the worst-performing regions in national exams. She watched as the only giant school, Nabumali, slid to anarchy. Even when she was in health, the state of hospitals never changed—instead facilities like Bududa Hospital continued to become fossilized. I met a frustrated student who thought by being from Mbale, she had a good shot at a government scholarship to study abroad—because Wabudeya was minister. I later learnt that many young Bagisu had suffered similar fate. Not even the presence of Ms Gabona, another daughter of the soil as head of the scholarships board in the ministry could help. And yet the case was different for people from another region!

A few weeks ago, I made an appointment with someone who was to become a new friend. It turned out it was Wabudeya’s daughter—fresh from school. She was asking if I could help her get a job—and wondering why—she told me her mum could never peddle influence to get her an appointment. Now, this can either be a plus or minus depending on where one stands. Principle or stinginess?

That said, it is clear Nandala is the more popular—but Wabudeya has the state machinery. The story is that Nandala was actually intending to run for the Mbale Municipality seat after Wilfred Kajeke threw in the towel. When news made the rounds that Wabudeya was eyeing his home turf, he cancelled the idea, instead opting to have the face-off.

But also with the news that Principal Private Secretary to President Museveni Amelia Kyambadde is jumping into elective politics--the done deal is that she will take the Presidency Minister slot--if she goes through. This makes it even more important for Wabudeya to snatch the Budadiri Seat; but if she fails--I see her political career plummeting from then on. With such high stakes, this makes a real dream contest!

Homosexuality is not our biggest problem!

So, our biggest problem is homosexuality. As a country, what plagues us most is the thought of seeing one man kiss another—or some middle-aged woman fondle a colleague’s breasts. That, colleagues, is our biggest problem.

Otherwise what would explain the fact that an MP and our ethics minister (yes, we have that portfolio) are dying to pass the Anti-Homosexuality Bill, which will not just criminalise the act of same-sex affairs but also in some cases offer punishment of death.

Our government is so resolute in passing this legislation, that it has told donors to keep their aid if they will tamper with our pet project. “We shall not bend over for aid,” Ethics Minister Nsaba Buturo, asserted, as he vowed to make Uganda an unsafe place for people with a homosexual disposition.

I have always insisted that homosexuality is a biological sexual disposition. My only problem is when its crusaders parade it and try to put t in everyone’s faces. To that extent, I believe they are not in order.

But when a whole government spends hours to legislate on a matter that concerns perhaps less than 0.005 of our population, then I am compelled to pick issue with it. Never mind that the philosophy behind this hate campaign is “to protect our children from corrosive external influence”. Yes, our government cares so much about our children to protect them from a measly number of homosexuals but not the thousands of vampires called public administrators and managers—who suck public funds (about Shs500 billion annually) at the expense of social services and utilities.

The Nsaba Buturos of this world and Bahati are so worried about our children becoming gay—but unfazed that those children’s parents are engaged in extra-marital relationships explaining the stagnating HIV/Aids prevalence at 6.5 per cent—and yes, those parents are heterosexuals.

In punishing gays and keeping silent on other behavioural “ills” like fornication, voyeurism, multiple sex partners, etc—what the heck do we think we are doing?

But like I have argued before? Who deserves the death penalty? The homosexual couple kissing in the confines of their bedroom or the thieving minister who dips hands in taxpayers’ money, ensuring we lack drugs in hospitals and clinics? Who should we shoot by firing squad; the two consenting women fondling their breasts or the public servant who steals money meant for roads, ensuring a poor infrastructure, accidents and deaths?

And just asking; if MPs are meant to air their constituents’ concerns; how big a problem is homosexuality in the rural Ndorwa West Constituency?

Make abortion legal

The above picture taken by Stephen Otage on Thursday November 19, 2009 shows residents of Kifumbira Zone in Kamwokya , a Kampala suburb look at an aborted foetus estimated to be about six weeks old.
According to the Police, this was the third such case in the last three weeks. The impression this revelation gives is that there may be a single abortion a week, but that’s not true. In fact Ministry of Health statistics indicate that annually in Uganda, there are about 600,000 unwanted pregnancies. Of these, probably more than 50 per cent end up being expunged before the nine-month maturation.
But because our Penal Code makes it criminal to abort—unless to save a woman’s life—a lot of the abortions are practiced in hidden, unsafe conditions that many times expose the girls/women to even greater health risks—like uncontrolled hemorrhage.
Opponents of abortion either point to religious dogma or the question of life’s sanctity. They never care about circumstances of conception or its attendant realities.
In Uganda, in districts like Sironko, local research has shown that girls become sexually active by age 12. No amount of sex education is changing this—considering that some of these areas are nearly as traditional in setting as they can be. Tips on sex and sexuality are gotten from the village wells, peers and misinformed talk of adults.
But even their urban counterparts are in no better position. Internet influence, TV soaps, early exposure to notions of contraceptives—are all stimulating their curiosity for sex. Teenage and young youth sex is something we are going to have amidst us—and resultant pregnancies. Question is: Should we make it illegal to abort yet we know that thousands of our young girls are going to conceive without really seeking to? That is the reality.
When we make abortion services criminal, we arrive at a situation like that in Kifumbira Zone. A foetus crudely removed and left next to a rubbish skip.
When we push our girls into aborting in the dark, we shall have many more bleed to death in silence—increasing not only infant mortality but maternal mortality too.
Let girls/women be given the free choice to carry or cut. And when they choose to cut, let’s make sure they can do it freely and hygienically to avoid other problems. A lot of pregnancies in our country are by chance—and to ask that people keep them against their will is to subject them to an eternity of misery.
I have not opted to talk about pregnancies from rape, defilement, incest, one-night-stands, orgies, because I suppose these are fairly straight-forward—and yet we know they saturate our societies.
Please—let’s decriminalize abortion!

Mistaken identity

I watched life drown out of him. His hand was reaching out to me, begging for that last squeeze, that last embrace. He fell midway the sitting room, as he crawled towards me. I stood there in fright, my stool running freely down my legs, forming a small pool at my feet.

“Hamuka wewe,” the command in Swahili jolted me. It was the taller one. His mask on. He towered towards me. “Where is his passport?” he barked. “I don’tttt know,” I stammered back.

“Go get it,” he commanded.

I stepped into the small pool, splashing some on him—earning me a slap. I dashed upstairs. I knew where Moses kept his passport. It was always in the big case stacked in the upper shelf in the bedroom. As I struggled to stand on a stool and pluck down the case, I felt my body shiver. My hands were trembling—drops of sweat streaming from my head—midway mixing with leftovers of the stool.

As I fumbled, the thickset arms moved fast, pulling down the case—and bringing me along—sending me tumbling downwards, hitting my head on the nearby bed.

I could scarcely see as he opened the case—plucking out the passport that was lying atop of books. The rough fingers then made their way to my hair. Grabbing me and dragging me along downstairs—back to the sitting room, where Moses’ body now lay lifeless.

“Inaonesha nini,” asked the smaller, darker one who had remained down, the pistol still glued to his fingers.

“He last travelled two years ago,” the burly one replied, in perfect English. “To Nairobi.”

“What?” the other replied, surprise written on his face. “Nothing to do with Juba, Kinshasha?”

“No. And look. He is Masaba Moses.”

“Not Mabasa?”

“No.”

“Holy shit! We got the wrong person,” the burly one spat. He quickly stole a glance at me.

“You,” he pointed at me. “How were you related to this guy?”

“He was my husband.”

“For how long were you married?”

“Three years.”

After what looked like an eternity, the smaller one turned to me.

“Madam, we are sorry. Looks like we got the wrong person. Is this 11^th street?”

“No,” I stammered back, my tears gushing. “It is 10^th.”

I could see the bigger one look at me with a grin. The magnitude of their error just seemed to dawn on him. He spoke to me.

“You may never really know who we are. But we were looking for someone who has in the past six months been moving out of this country, going to neighbouring states with what we believe are ill motives against our government.” He paused and after ages returned to the narration.

“The people we work for told us he has been going to Juba and visiting Zaire. He was mobilizing guns to uproot this regime. It is unfortunate that we got some of our facts mixed up. But that is how we operate. In our world, it is called collateral damage.”

The smaller one interjected.

“Consider yourself lucky. We could have taken down both of you. At least you can live to get another husband.”

I stood there rooted like a statue. How could these men who had brought my innocent husband’s life to a grinding halt speak to me thus? Who the hell did they think they were? I was now ready to put up a fight. With my fists slowly clenching and in a trance, I moved towards what I thought was the smaller man. I hurled myself at him—only to hit the chair hard. They were nowhere to be seen.

Bukenya, Kazini deaths--why can't the conspiracies go away?

When news trickled in the newsroom Sunday morning that the Vice President’s son, Bryan, had died of injuries sustained after a motor accident 19 hours before, we all were heartbroken. It was not much so because he was the VP’s son—but well, it was a young life gone too early.
Twenty six years old, a Law graduate from a reputable UK university, promising cadet, a young woman and child left behind… But just as we were going about doing the story—people began asking questions. So, how come he’s the only one who died in a car that had four occupants? And how did the driver manage to disappear—only to be traced later—at a brother’s house looking every inch unharmed?
And this was a boy in military academy—what was he doing out at 5am yet the rules are clear on cadet trainees? Was he getting preferential treatment being the VP’s son? And the mother of them all came from the driver’s statement: Bryan kept telling me to drive fast but when the car crashed, he was fast asleep! Ok, would this guy break his sleep, issue instructions at the driver—and go back to slumberland?
I now understood why the conspiracies could not just fade away despite Police explanations saying the accident was just that—an accident. I understood when people began philosophising on Prof. Gilbert Bukenya’s political ambitions, his courting Baganda Generals etc and the possibility that by sending his son to the army—he was embarking on creating his own turf. Remember majority of PGB boys now were actually Muhoozi’s recruits. I understood why the conspirators could not just let the accident be an accident.
Then, in the same week comes Maj. Gen. James Kazini’s death. It is visible that he was killed by a lover at her house. Draru, the lover, says she did it in self defence as the General moved to strangle her—and was pointing his gun upwards. Again the tongues begin wagging. First, where did the woman derive the confidence to tell all folk and sundry that she was responsible?
Surely, which murderer rushes to admit culpability with no single strain of fright? She was either deeply in a trance—or again at the conspirators argue—was aware of a stronger backing. But again—did she say the General was holding a gun—and detectives on the crime scene did not see any such gun—not until three hours later when Kazini’s official pistol was discovered wrapped nicely in a brown handbag in his car?
What about the claims of using a handle of a carpet cleaner to hit the General? The pictures from the crime scene show a white metal bar lying next to the soldier—obviously a frame but not of a carpet cleaner. And it is a bland instrument, how it effected a deep cut is strange. So, in the bars and elsewhere—the theories went into full drive. Kazini was a troubled man. Accused of creating ghost soldiers, charged, convicted and abandoned.
But could it also be true that he was paying for sins where not only him was the sinner? Was there fear that with his appeal rejected he was on the path of full disclosure? What beans was he about to spill? Might Draru actually be an extra in a scene dominated by bigger actors? What of talk that the General had some good millions on him—and there could have been people trailing him—for whatever reasons?
The Police have again asked people not to speculate. Draru has confessed before a magistrate that she killed Kazini. But citizens, of this increasingly cynical country, will not just keep quiet.
Question is: Has the government lost credibility so much that even when it explains away a straight event people can’t just take it. Reminds me of the tale in primary school. Of the boy who while herding cattle in the forest kept shouting that wolves were attacking and whenever villagers ran to his rescue discovered nothing. They got tired and when he shouted they ignored him. But one day, the real wolves struck. He screamed and screamed—but everyone knew it was a prank. The wolves devoured the cattle and the boy.
Food for thought.