Comrades, The Roads Will Come

If you are in a rush, you will end up frustrated, yelling about how the government has not helped you.

But please, allow me to reassure the good people of Najjera, Bulindo, Kira, Kyaliwajjala, and beyond.

The signs are there. That yellow bulldozer parked awkwardly at the corner, looking tired and stuck? That is not defeat. That is faith with grease on it.

But what is Kampala without ranting corporates?

The city feeds off banter. People suffer through dust while those in charge sip tea and scroll through your sarcastic tweets.

It is a complicated love affair.

Now, let us be honest. You all chose to build in the middle of these wrong roads.

So, before they even talk about tarmac, authorities have to first evict you emotionally.

They do this gently by digging up half the road and feeding you dust for a month until you are strong enough to face the next part.

It is a much-needed but very dusty healing.

And please do not forget that all this takes money. Your taxes are working hard to balance between compensation and the real work of building the road.

So next time you step into a pothole, remember that somewhere, someone is being emotionally prepared to give up their plot for a brighter, less dusty tomorrow.

To that girlfriend taking a boda to visit her soft-spoken lover in Najjera 2, I see you. I feel your pain. Not even a car can save you from the journey of dust and self-sacrifice.

You arrive looking like a hardworking builder, and that man has the audacity to say you are not put together.

Do the potholes come before the dust allows for the phrase “put together”?

This same man even distinguishes between colors like soft pink, peach, and beige. Wow, the audacity!

Then he judges you for leaving a dusty footprint on his white carpet, quickly forgetting how he pressed you so hard to come “pass by.”

Then the cleaning lady adds salt to the wound with the line, “Banange Uncle Bwete, why don’t you just buy aunt a car?”

A question that often lingers for the rest who come after you.

Honestly, take that boda. Leave the cleaning problems to the host. Keep those multivitamins in your bag and boost your immunity. You will arrive dusty but healthy.

After all, even those with cars are in the garage every two weeks fixing their shock absorbers, a more expensive venture.

The Kyaliwajjala market women who know you because you pass by to grab some food stuff for your ungrateful couch potato, Bwete, wonder how much sacrifice one can make.

They have already started wearing masks before the president issues a directive.

We can hardly distinguish between root tubers and leafy vegetables; they are all draped dearly in dust.

But you know what, I will never slander this dust. It has saved us from very unnecessary visitors.

You tell someone you live in Najjera and they immediately say, “Ah, the dust.” And you smile, “Yes, the dust.” “Oh my God, the traffic!” and you retort, “Oh yes, the traffic.”

Why did you want my house to be convenient for you in the first place? Exactly.

When all is said and done, we remain encouraged by people who have walked this dusty path before us.

Buwate was once hopeless but today they post pictures when it rains.

Kulambiro cried tears of dust clouds hovering upon their roofs. Now they host parties on their humpy-dumpty roadsides.

Kungu, your faith is one for the books. You stood firm until the day you beheld your miracle.

Comrades of Kira, Bulindo, Najjera, and Kyaliwajjala, I implore you to be patient. Our time is coming. Roads are coming.

Let us just hold hands and cough together for now.