How to be a good victim of sexual abuse

By Lindsey Kukunda. Originally published in WazaOnline: https://wazaonline.com/en

Have you experienced sexual harassment? From someone you know or a stranger? At least twice a week, you say? Well, have I got some great news for you. 

It’s your fault.

That’s right. I said it.

It took three kind policemen to show me that life would be a jolly good affair if women would only go about behaving themselves.

Three men had sexually harassed me on the street one day, and I (oh bad mannered me!) delivered an ‘F’ bomb in their direction. Understandably upset, they ganged up on me for my temerity to not see that they were deserving of immediate sexual capitulation.

Because, you know, I knew them so well.

In what I now see was a moment of madness meriting admittance to a mental institution, I trotted to a police post a few meters away, and reported the matter. Blithely unaware of my part in the whole affair, I awaited a swift deliverance of justice.

Fortunately for me, the policemen turned out to be good Christians. Spare the rod, spoil the child, etc.

They told me that if I had only not abused the men, I would have had “a case”. I had “aggravated the situation” by “taking the law into my hands”. There was no way they could help me because I was a bad girl. Hit the road, they sneered.

Well, how nice to come face to face with such frank honesty! A fresh view on crime!

I have taken the liberty of compiling a step by step guide on how women (you hot sexy things) can endure sexual harassment while being good girls.

MIND YOUR LANGUAGE

Hush now! Don’t say a word to your tormentors. When you go to a police station and report the matter and the police ask with keen eyes: “And you, what did you do after he touched you?” – you can hold your head up high and say “Nothing. I came straight here”. They can nod in satisfaction as you have given them sufficient justification to want to help you. Who’s a good girl? You are!

ARE YOUR MORALS IN ORDER?

You know, some of you women are fornicators who flirt in public and have more than two lovers a year. If everyone in your neighborhood knows you for the slag that you are, and a man (quite rightly too) judges you as deserving of a buttock groping, I beg you to save us and not disturb the police. They only help married women and virgins.

SPEAKING OF WHICH…

If you don’t dress like a virgin, please be sure you have invited whatever sexual reactions you elicit. I’ve seen women with exposed cleavages, lord a’mercy. If you’re not a lady, don’t expect to be treated like one.

THERE IS A TIME TO CARE, AND A TIME TO STEER CLEAR

I have an acquaintance who went to a police station at two in the morning, make-up heavy and dress all a’glitter, as she reported a case of sexual assault.

“But now you”, they told her. “Out at this time, all alone. What do you expect?”

Duh.

REMAIN CALM UNDER ATTACK 

I know a girl who reacted to an attempted robbery by beating the thief in question. Quick as lightning, a police truck arrived and she was hurled into it, and on her way to the police station before shecould say boo hoo. The thief was not disturbed by the police or eyewitnesses.

Now if she had simply cried and screamed for help, instead of taking the law into her hands with her shameless display of self-defense, she’d never have been arrested. 

YOU’RE NOT MARRIED? OOH LA LA!

Nowadays African women like to embrace ‘western’ culture. Co-habiting and what not. Acting like it’s proper. Please. If you’re not married to a man, you have no reason whatsoever to enter a police station and complain about him sexually abusing you.

I mean, hello? You have feet. Walk away. Your sexual partner must be accompanied with a ring before your complaint becomes legit.

ALCOHOL AND CIGARETTES ARE FOR MEN ONLY.

I once performed a dance of avoidance with a cheating, married Neanderthal who, in a last ditch effort to punish me for rejecting his sexual advances, said “Why are you pretending to be decent when you’re a smoker?”

Decency mademoiselles. Decency is the thing.
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Does anyone know why supermarkets and their friends need to hold our laptops for us?

So there’s this thing where an office or hotel or whatever tells you a retarded rule and if you object to it you’re told ‘you can go if you don’t want’.

For the sake of my future blood pressure I go along with most of these policies until last week when I guess my inner warrior was dying from lack of warriorship.

I was in an ‘important’ ‘upscale’ supermarket chain when a security guard approached me and told me I wasn’t allowed to enter with my two bags. I had to leave one at that counter. You know the counter where they have this disclaimer that if you leave your valuables there, they are not responsible if they are stolen or damaged?

That counter.

So I told the guard, “I have a laptop in this bag on my back and my handbag on my shoulder. You want me to leave one of them at your counter?”

“No, you can keep your bag”, he kindly obliged. “But you must leave your laptop at the counter”.

So I asked the guard, “Would you tell me to leave my mobile phone at the counter?”

“No”.

“Well, my laptop is as important as my mobile phone. It’s staying on my back. You are free to screen my handbag on the way out if you think I’ve stolen anything but none of my electrical equipment is going to your counter with 10,000 disclaimers”.

“Madam, it is the policy”, he sneered. “If you refuse, you will have to leave the supermarket and find somewhere that’s your level”.

Oh Negro, you didn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere”, I smiled sweetly at him. “I’m going to shop and you are going to look for the manager and tell him or her to drag me out of here by force because I’ve refused to leave my laptop with you. Peace!”

And so I shopped in peace. But man, oh man, I need me an explanation from someone who understands this rule. Why are customers told to leave valuable items in places with disclaimers against theft and damage?

Part of the reason I have serious issues with this policy is that I once forgot an item at those counters and remembered days later. When I returned it was no longer there because disclaimer. Go figure.

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These ones get to inspect the items they force you to leave there. And that, children, is what we refer to as an oxymoron.

Witchcraft is a two way street

“She bewitched me with her looks” – He says.

“She put something in your food”- His mama says.

“I saw her going to a shrine” – Says the personal investigator mama hired.

This is more or less the talk that occurs when a man is marrying a woman and his loved ones either don’t approve or are threatened by her impending inclusion into the family.

Have you ever wondered why a man is seldom, if ever, accused of similar underhanded tactics by his woman and her kin? Men can’t be witches. Or can they?

It is my pleasure to inform you of the greatest artillery of witchcraft a man can have in his arsenal. This artillery is-wait for it….

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The weapon of dance

A woman will forget how many men she’s slept with (you little slut, you) but she will always remember the men whose hips didn’t lie.

If you date a man with money chances are the money makes it easy to date him. If you date a handsome man, his face does perk things up a bit. If you date a guy with important friends and connections, ditto.

But Lord have mercy if you find a man who knows how a dance floor is meant to operate. You will be swept off your feet and you will have trouble remembering the laws of nature.

I attended a conference one evening and was mingling after it was over. I found myself speaking to a Dutch gentleman about nothing in particular. Then one of these waltz pieces song came on over the speakers and I mentioned how I could never dance to ‘this Muzungu music’.

Taking me by surprise, he placed my hand on his shoulder, took my hand in his and swept me onto the dance floor, expertly weaving me in and out of tables. I will always remember that dance because now I know that with the right man, I know how to waltz.

Another time I was at the national theatre attending one of their open salsa dances. I can’t dance salsa for shit and said so loudly. Without listen to my entreaties, this grey haired elderly man launched me onto the floor a-let me fan myself first-made me do things with my legs and feet and waist I did not think were capable.

I think I know how his wife fell in love with him.

I was not romantically attracted to these men, and others who have taken me out of my comfort zone in a similar manner. I’m hinting that as a man it may help if, in addition to your charming personalities and ‘making it rain’, you may use the language of music and dance to woo your intended.

Music speaks to the soul for a reason. That’s your witchcraft. Use it.

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Remember Son, all rock stars get girlfriends. Even the really ugly ones.

Please sleep, Splackavellie

You know that scene in the movies when a couple is in bed in a cheap hotel and they can hear another couple loudly having sex through the wall and they giggle and you who is watching the movie you also giggle because oh, it’s so funny?

It’s really not.

I had been traveling a couple of days through Tanzania and on one of my bust stops, I had a four hour layover. I was exhausted and got a cab to a cheap hotel to sleep for a couple of hours.

I collapsed on the bed with exactly two hours of sleep scheduled, closed my eyes and had begun to drift away when it started. The sounds coming through the wall were as clear as if they were at the head of my bedside.

Squeak squeak squeak! That was a bed, I guessed.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Those were its occupants, I suspected.

I pulled the pillow over my head but could not drown out the sounds of the couple screwing next door.

Thud thud thud! The bed was now slamming against the wall.

I gave up after ten minutes and, lying on my back, crossed my hands over my chest and adopted the facial expression of a long suffering saint as I waited for my neighbours to finish having sex so I could go to sleep. It took a few more minutes before I could hear the promise of an end.

“Whoo! Whoo! Hah! Hah! Gggaaaaaaaaah!” That was the man. It sounded like he was climaxing.

“Haaaaaaaaaaa…” This one came from the woman and it came out low and soft and drawn out. She had also come it seems. I nodded my head, satisfied. I curled up and drifted off. Ten minutes later my eyes snapped open. Katonda wange. Had they just taken a cigarette break?

Because they were at it again!

Sorrow coursed through my veins. I had hours of travel ahead of me and these-these-these sex fiends!-were ruining my nap.

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Get the fuck out of my toilet

I was in a foreign country (which I don’t feel like mentioning because it’s not important and I don’t even know why I started by saying that I was in a foreign country but anyway, let’s carry on).

I say, I was in a section of this foreign country (I really must stop saying that) where Karaoke is a thing, so some new friends I had made took me to a karaoke bar. I must confess, it was indeed de ‘ting. People sang and rapped so well there was no need for a DJ for some time and we all were ‘getting’ jiggy with it’ when I felt the need to go pee.

There was a girl standing in the hallway of the bathrooms and I could see that the only two stalls were empty. My plan was to pass her and enter the toilet on the left. Her plan, when I passed her, was to grab me by the waist, push me up against the wall and feel me up. People, she groped my boobies.

“Eeeek! Wooooaaah!”, I swatted at her hands as I tried to shrink away but she was still leaning in too close to be normal. “What the hell?!”

“You’re so pretty, baby”, she slurred. Although I have never experienced getting in a fight with a drunk chick in a toilet, I know that a fight in a toilet with any person has me squarely in the losing position. Small size and all that. I prepared to keep this civil.

“Okay”, I said. “But I’m here to use the toilet. Let me pass”.

“When were you born?”, she demanded.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just tell me when you were born”, she purred.

“No!”

I pushed past her and entered the toilet and was turning to close the toilet door when she stepped into the doorway and blocked it. I don’t know why of all the people ‘getting jiggy with it’, no one felt the need to come pee and help me out of this predicament.

“When were you born?”, she was yelling. Was this kyana insane? I gave her as politely hostile a stare as I could muster and said nothing.

“If you won’t tell me when you were born, I”ll tell you when I was born. I was born in 1985”.

Jeez Louise. I was being molested by a baby? A tad offended, I was still glad at a chance to end her search for a soul mate. If I was not too old, I would hopefully be too poor. No car, etcetera.

“I was born in 1984”.

“No”, she said, angry. She suddenly was very angry. “Stop lying to me!”

“Listen, Kid, I don’t owe you shit. If I tell you an age, that’s the one you take!”

“But-“ she protested. “But you don’t look like you were born in 1984. You look like such a pretty baby”.

I had had quite enough. I pulled myself up to my full 4 feet 8 inches, adopted the tone of a stern teacher and said haughtily.

“Young woman. Get the fuck out of my toilet!”.

 

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This takes ‘turf war’ to a whole new level

I’m getting real sick and tired of your luganda to be honest

I’m going to do that racist thing where I say, “Hey! I have Baganda friends. We hang out and everything”.

Now that’s done, let’s discuss this excuse taxi touts use to bore people who don’t speak Luganda. With me it usually goes something like this:

Me: Excuse me please, how much is it to-?

Tout (in luganda): Don’t bore me! Speak in Luganda!

Me: Also you don’t bore me. I don’t speak Luganda. Do you want a customer or do you want Luganda?! I can walk off and leave you with the language if you want!

It usually works and the tout and I part friends. Last night though, what happened was bizarre.

I’d taken a taxi and I think the men lied about where they were going. I kept asking (in Luganda by the way) if they were going to drop me at say, King Kong. They kept responding:

“We’re going to Jumanji”

“Yeah, but are you going to pass via King Kong?”

“We’re going to Jumanji”.

I wasn’t taking chances. In English, I asked to leave the taxi.

“If you don’t want to answer my questions, you can stop here”, I said.

The driver screamed: “Speak to us in Luganda”.

Sincerely a pause was in order. I turned in astonishment to gasp at him.

I could swear I’d spent the last ten minutes speaking to them in the language of their preference. It seems the rules state conversations must end that way too!

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Munange. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

A cure for loneliness

If you are of a certain age-that is to say anywhere from your very late twenties to I don’t know yet coz I ain’t there at present-there comes a time when plot is hard to configure. People have gotten married, others are becoming responsible adults and the rest don’t want your idle arse around.

Which is where the kanfundas come in, praise Jesus. Over time, Kafundas have evolved from being places for the poor and unemployed to respectable venues for the elite who are allergic to solitude.

There are two categories of kafunda attenders.

Category 1: The ones who gat a legit kafunda

You’ll see them in bars in Kisementi, Kabalagala, John Babiiha Avenue (no longer Acacia-keep up); and then there are those in Serena and Golf Course but even thinking about touching on those mortals depresses my bank account so I shall stick with the familiar.

Like I said. If you have a kafunda, you also have friends who attend that kafunda. On specific days you know that you can just hop on over, have a seat and even if you’re alone, a pal will join you and in thirty minutes it will be a party.

That’s the legit kafunda.

Category 2: The Kaunda flukers

These are the people who have failed to ingratiate themselves into a particular kafunda. But that should not dissuade you comrade. This is Africa. Kafundas are open to all. Even Bazungu will giddily summon you over to their table if they’ve been in Uganda long enough. So put on your clothes, go to Que Pasa and simply stare. Someone you know will shout, “Yo, warrup? Come join us!”. If nothing of the sort happens, you must walk about, look busy muttering, ‘Excuse me, looking for a friend’ until you spot one. Say hello and that friend will automatically sidle over to make room for you.

It has worked for me on numerous occasions. Tonight is the end of one year and if you don’t want to be alone you don’t have to, friend. Should you belong in Category 2 (bambi), put on your drinking cap and go find that cure for loneliness.

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Or you could just stay home and treat yourself