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Taxi Memoirs: Having A Threesome In A Taxi On A Highway

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I am at that age when wives become invisible to their husbands. I am quite used to my lord and master’s grunts behind his newspaper as I rabbit on about my day. But I don’t mind because I grew up at a time when girls were told not to be so conspicuous.

Among others nuggets of wisdom dispensed onto us were that makeup was for whores, red nail varnish for harlots and if you happened to wear tight fitting trousers then the whole neighborhood would talk about how you were becoming a shameless slut.

This attitude combined with the fact that AIDS was rampaging the nation at the time I was first dating my husband, made our relationship rather uneventful. I spent most of that time trying to avoid him as much as possible because our mother made us believe that if you as much as smiled at a boy, then your lymph nodes would swell, and if you held him then you would contract carposis sacoma.

Matters came to ahead when my mother found a white handkerchief with two red hearts in the center in my suitcase and I refused to divulge its origin. She promptly marched me off to AIC for my first HIV test. I wonder what she would do if she saw what teenagers have on their phones today.

Anyhow, as you can see, my dealings with men are always disadvantaged by the above factors. While other women go out with the intention of catching men’s eyes, my deepest desire is to not draw any male attention to myself, because deep down I still equate the wrong kind of attention with an unwanted and traumatizing medical exam.

But today as I board a taxi to Mbarara to bid farewell to a dear friend, I sit in the front seat which I share with some guy.  The man whom I shall refer to as Mr. Nice greeted me warmly and struck up a conversation which was more of an interrogation about my life. He was so keen to know everything about me, asking me very personal details as if he was going to write my biography.

In Lukaya, the taxi stops for people to use the bathroom stretch their legs and buy food for the last leg of the journey. Mr. Nice excuses himself and returns minutes later with a paper bag full of delicious meat. “Beatrice I have brought something for you.” He says. I turn around looking for the lucky Beatrice only to realize that he is talking to me.

My first instinct is to say no considering he is calling me a strange name plus my history of the aforementioned hankie.  But you know how tempting meat is. So I give in receive the meat and eat it slowly and delicately like a lady is supposed to. Mr. Nice keeps encouraging me to eat supposedly against my will and I eat as if I am just doing it for him. I pull off the façade so well that I give myself an imaginary star on my forehead for myself control, because normally I would have been chewing one piece with two in my hands.

In Masaka, Mr. Nice buys hot Gonja and I accept only half of it although I am dying to have several. In Lyantonde he buys me maize but this time I successfully decline. So he decides to keep it for me in case I get hungry later. It’s been many years since anyone anticipated and my needs so my heart begins to race.

When we get to the L. Mburo national park area, Mr. Nice takes it upon himself to point out every interesting creature in sight. The only downside is that he insists on calling me Beatrice. Beatrice have you seen the zebras? That’s a Uganda Kob. Look at that warthog. The driver now joins him and reduces speed to show me everything in the area great and small. By this time I am so mortified by the attention which makes me feel like I am having a threesome on a highway in the morning. The mortification burns so badly that when we get to our destination I put on shades the whole time trying to hide the expression on my face. I am wondering what our friends in the back must be thinking of me and the attentions of Mr. Nice.

The embarrassment is so much that after the burial I sneak away on a boda boda to Mbarara without saying goodbye to anyone, jump on the first bus out of there. Not so surprisingly, after the burial, Mr. Nice delayed the taxi for one whole hour as he searched for me high and low. Although  I felt sorry for inconveniencing everyone and I apologized as best as I could, I had to get away from Mr. Nice because I got this strong feeling that he was not a missionary just trying to end world hunger but was after what German psychologist Sigmund Freud said is usually on a man’s mind.

I know some of you might think that I am just a mubbi-bubbi or a munyazi-bunyazi but all ate were just pieces of meat and where I am concerned that doesn’t count.

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