The queue shows no signs of letting up anytime soon and every time they let people into the voting area… they never return. That’s doing nothing for my confidence. Is there a parallel universe beyond that barricade? Does it have a revered lion with Samson’s hair predicament? How about tigers and bears? Oh my…
Of course people are going to ‘jump the queue ‘. I just wish they were polite about it rather than forcing their way in like some pimpled teen with raging hormones would when he realised the school’s social function (Sosh) was coming to a close and only by thrusting himself at some ‘unsuspecting’ lass could he earn his place at the table of other horny men. You get the idea.
Add to the misery, a young lady… no, woman who is sashaying about the place with her mammary glands trying to make a break for it. I’d quip,`Prison Break’, but she is doing everything to let us know there’s no bra holding them in. ‘Breast power’ she retorts as a randy old coon acknowledges their presence.
I find myself wishing for a blackout.
Her choice of wardrobe suggests a lack of literacy that consequently bars her from knowing how to place a tick next to the picture of her preferred candidate. Also, given her decidedly wayward demeanor, it’s likely she is saving her fingers, prints and all, for some other ‘ballot box’ lest she fails to find a suitable ‘standing’ candidate. I can only assume, therefore, that she intends to vote with her areola. Bit of a shocker, really.
Progress. We have done the shuffle, thus creating the illusion of some sort of progress. I look around and notice my footprints are so close to each other, I might as well have been practicing the early stages of the moonwalk.
A gentleman at the back of the line starts to yell. He wants someone to ‘tell them they are too slow and yet we have things to do’. The irony is not lost on me, the reason we are not at work doing those ‘other things’ is that we have to be here. Lining up. Marinating in our sweat. Some guys are holding bottles of beer. They have the right idea.
A would be beauty contestant catwalks past me. That’s a bit reaching, she’s more a ‘socialite’, all dressed in black. Her skirt stops a couple of centimeters under her cheeks. Guess she misheard, it’s ELECTIONS, not ERECTIONS. She buys a packet of milk from one of the nearby shops and a part of me feels that I may have judged her too harshly. What self respecting ‘socialite’ would stoop so low?
‘Perhaps she is an apprentice,” the sun helpfully offers.
‘Maybe,” I concur, “I’m Ivan, by the way”
“Enlightened” it beams. “So what’s going on here anyhow, beauty contest? “
“No such luck,” I mutter with a sigh, “we are auditioning for The Scorch Trials. The Grand prize is the purple finger”.
“Sounds like an STD,” my friend in high places observes, “I say, do the agents from the commission have to dress like that? What’s the deal with the reflector jackets?”.
“Well, we need some reassurance that we are dealing with a ‘bright’ lot, don’t we? And we are notoriously ‘visual’.” I offer.
At this point I’m stuck smack in between two umbrella wielding people. The way they keep hitting me with them suggests that they might have missed a few classes somewhere.
“Where did you go?” The sun calls out.
“Here, between these two boobs,” I call out to the overly attached celestial body.
“You’ve gone and turned into a beer bottle then?” There’s panic in his voice.
I’m a little confused. Then it hits me… the umbrella from in front. Fuck!
“Oh, no. I’m not between Shockers knockers, I’m over here.” I call out.
“Ah, yes.” So what’s up?”
I refuse, purely on principle not to take the dangling bait, “I’m chilling. You? “
I realise a little too late that I may have offended the sun’s sensibilities. Especially given how hard it has been working.
“Hey, wanna see a trick?” The sun asks cheerfully. Talk about dispositions.
“Look, over there… watch… Tada! Sweat stain!”
I applaud Solar Voldemort for his show and go back to my thoughts.
Some weed head just proclaimed that he is a ‘powerful person’. Apparently he didn’t have to line up as long as we have and now he is done and he is going home to have sex… or dance. In my language these things sound the same. I know, I know, same thing.
I was a little cagey when I was picking out clothes to wear for this. I wouldn’t want to be a victim of color clashes if things went South. I went with neutral colors so nobody could wag his finger at me saying I supported this or that candidate. There are several people in the line who clearly didn’t get the memo. Probably updated their social media pages thus, “voting and chill” or “gonna vote and get turnt”. Oh, that’s right, they couldn’t have; Uganda Communications Commission has blocked access to Whatsapp, Twitter, Facebook And Instagram.
They have also blocked access to Mobile Money, but I am still preoccupied with the Instagram thing. Are we staving the threat of selfies at the ballot box? What hash tag is going to fan the flames of dissent? #myvotegotnofilter next to a close up of a purple finger?
I can’t imagine what the hold up is. I figure you just have to go and identify yourself, get the paper whatsit and move on. I don’t want to be too harsh, our names might have been written in binary.
Ah, there’s the sun again. And an idiot screaming out, “One Uganda”. Probably his assessment of the number of people that have turned up at this polling station.