Ok, so, this has been the most entertaining and frustrating events since my return back home. I have been to two police stations. No, I was not arrested. One time I was the victim of a very unruly taxi driver (at the end of the ordeal, he was on his knees begging for forgiveness. The second time, I was a witness in case where a student was taken out of school by her father without the consent of her mother. I guess the air is clear now. I did not want you to think your angel had gotten off track.
I will write as though I am writing about one incident and one police station because, truth be told, they worked in the same exact way. I guess we have a central disorganization training unit in the city. Here is how it went, and usually goes, I am certain.
I walked into the station; found 2-3 un-uniformed officers behind a desk. If I did not take the initiative to ask where I should start, I would have been standing there for 10 minutes without anyone noticing because they were busy listening to another officer questioning a detainee behind the desk. After I spoke, I immediately became the most import object in the room. Again, if you’re not firm and outspoken, their approach might send you running out the station. You may seriously think you will be detained as well for just showing up. I almost did! After they learned the reason why I was there, one took down my particulars as the rest turn back to listen to the questioning. I have to say the person who was taking down my details only had 50% of her attention to me, for she would pose and comment every after so many seconds.
After the long process of taking my name, occupation, number, and address down, I was told to wait. At this point, I became an observer. This is what I saw:
When the detainees come in, the first thing they do is take off their shoes and belts, and sit down or on benches if they are available. Their particular are taken, while an officer is interrupting to narrate their offenses. At unexpected moments, the officer taking down the details will stop several times to add to/comment on the questions/answers. I am 100% sure this was not unique to these two days.
When the particular are finally recorded, the “real” questioning/commenting begins. When I say real, I mean, free style. Any officer comes in, learns some of the details and lashes his anger. Question normally goes like this:
Officer: So you did such and such?
Detainee: No; and the detainee normally wants to say more
O: So, you think other people are telling lies…
D: …….
O: Who do you think you’re? You think you’re a big man/woman, but you’re not
D: ……
O: We can lock you up forever
D: …..
Officer 2: Now look at this one; you think you’re smart; you’re stupid. We’re going to lock you up. Now what are you looking at? Look at him/her. You look…
O1-infinite: (All laugh, and laugh some more)
O1, 4, 5, 8: (All at the same time): continue same line of questioning.
That goes on until something interesting comes up. They continue to jump back and forth from new to interesting, until the Lord hears my prayer. In between their unconventional questioning techniques, they remember that I am important to the case. Unexpectedly, they ask me a question. At first, I think they’re calling to an officer near me, for I could think they would take me to a private room to give my statement. But no, they want me to say everything in front of all the officers, detainees, cleaner, wanderers, etc. At this point, I am thinking the officers have said enough and they will just let me speak. But their interruptions (to detainees, each other) of “did you hear that?, oh no! And then you sit here and lie”, laughter and lots of it; some of it real, some sarcastic.
While the statement is being taken, the same officers are trying to solve/reconcile different cases at different stages. Here is how it goes…
O: So, then he said what:
Victim/witness: So then he said….
O (about another case): So madam, did you forgive him? Where have you reached?
Madam: You know this man….
Man: …..
Os (several now – taking such great interest in the madam/man’s case):…
That goes on for a while before the officer realizes my eyes have never left the piece of paper on which she was writing; 1, because I want to be done and go home; and 2, because the paper is full and I am wondering what she has to go through to get some more paper. I was afraid she would send me to buy some more on my dime since that is what they do with forms. If you need any kind of form, you are told where the copier is (usually not attached to the police station), so you better pray that the reason you’re there is not because someone has snatched your purse/wallet from you - you will have to pay for your copying. Luckily, there was some more paper nearby. After finding the paper, another officer came to her accusing her of taking his pen. So they talked about the whereabouts of a missing pen for a minute or two. Again luckily, another pen was found under the several books laying on table….and we finally got back to my statement.
By the time I am done giving my statement, the officer taking the statement has managed to try to solve 2-4 cases; I have listened to a wife vowing never to share a bed with her husband and the husband voicing his content (don’t know what the case was about); I have seen the police play around with a weapon used in a gruesome attack; the people on who I have opened a case have come to negotiate with me several times; I have seen police “interrogate” a teen into obeying her mother; I have seen the pale faces of two truck driver who where hired to transport a bus engine, only to find out that the engine was stolen and the guys who stole it had jumped off the truck after they saw the police after them; and so much more.
All in all, things finally get done…today, tomorrow, some time. I was lucky to be done in a few hours.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Monday, September 01, 2008
A Year Later
Hello All,
I cannot belief we’re way past the middle of 2008. And guess what? I am still alive. I know the last I wrote something substantial was in May of 2007. I always promise to keep it up, but I do not seem to live up to it. So, I will not promise when I will write again, but what I know is I miss you and I always look forward to hearing from you. Well, this one will include some really old news and some new, but it will not be that long, I hope.
My place:
June of last year, I moved into my own place. It’s a little row house with two bed rooms, living, bathroom and kitchen. It’s cozy and just enough. It really feels great to be on my own and independent. Budgeting is a daily lesson and I am improving a lot.
Cappoeira:
For a couple of months last year, I ventured into the world of cappoeira. Man is it fun, energetic and exhausting! I learned a few spin kicks, I am working on my cartwheels, I learned to balance and I believe I can really protect myself if need be.
A sad day:
July 11, 2007 – the saddest day of my life. My sister lost her 6-year old son, Phillip to sickle cell anemia. You would think death really hit home for me when I lost my parents, but this was a whole new experience. I really do not understand why God would bring a child into the world, spend all that time falling sick and then take him out six years later. I know it happens everyday all over the world, but I cannot seem to make sense of it. My sister does not talk about him and his pictures have not returned to the living room. Well, I know he is in a much better place (free from pain). And my sister is doing much better that I believe I would. So, don’t be sad for me…I am just sharing news.
Only in my country:
Ok, something funny. I usually jog outside, well not anymore these days because my knee started giving in, and I got tired of competing for road space with cars, motorcycles (boda bodas), bicycles, pedestrians, dust and goats. So, now I go to the gym. Anyway, when I jogged outside, little children going to school would stop in their way and call me “mzungu” (white person). Ok, in Uganda, and I am sure in many other black communities, you may be called white because you’re light-skinned, but you always know they know you’re black, just not dark enough. But these kids did not know the difference, and I thought it was really funny. Well, I thought the neighborhood had gotten used to me until a few kids called me a mzungu two weeks ago. Sometimes I don’t blame them since my hair is dyed, and the sun makes it lighter by the day. The funniest moment was when a group of five children were going to school. The littlest one saw me and said, “eh eh, omzu…”. The rest of the group bust out laughing saying, “no she is not.” Then the poor fellow started defending himself, “no, I was not going to call her mzungu.” Children…precious!
Loudness:
This is an announcement to all Africans who live in the US and think Americans are loud. My friends, you have a rude awakening, you're too. The only exception is my friend Jane, who mastered the art of whispering. The rest of you, “true” Ugandans whisper when they answer the phone, when they go to an office and ask if someone is available, when they’re ordering food, in internet cafes, and so on and so forth. Again, the only exceptions, at least in my opinion, are taxi conductors, drivers and brokers for land, houses, etc. Honesty, after 2 years here, I have not become a whisperer and it drives me crazy when people do whisper unnecessarily. The reason normally given is that we’re really private people, but I have another explanation. My people looooooove side deals; whenever there is a deal, there is another possible deal within that. So, people are so used speaking so softly so no one ever has an inkling of any difference between the original and the final deal. People do that so much that they now cannot even order their food without whispering. At least that’s what I have observed and believe.
Lunch served with wound dressing:
So, can you imagine having lunch and watching Fear Factor? It has not yet happened to me yet this year, but last year, I happened to go to several restaurants and cafés that had TVs and it so happened that they would have something gruesomely nasty showing on TV. The funny thing is that some of the clients would be eating and watching. I managed to have some turn it off. One manager told me he could not find the remote; I found the socket and unplugged it. In some, I just had to turn my back to the TV. I have learned not to return to those restaurants and I will avoid more in the future because many do not see why dressing a wound on TV would affect anyone’s appetite.
Land in Uganda:
Besides my daily work at Empower African Children (please check out our new developments at www.EmpowerAfricanChildren.org), my year has been dominated by our land search to build a secondary school. I have learned so much about the land market, law and just the simple (proven to be difficult) act of searching. Here is how it usually goes…
You can begin by telling anyone what you’re looking for and you will sure find someone selling land within minutes. I have worked with both independent brokers and broker companies. However, even when you work with broker companies, they will sure lead you to many independent brokers, who all want to be the first line of contact to the interested buyer. By the way here, you can wake up one day and decide to be a broker. I will write about the independent brokers.
It’s amazing how poorly informed some of them are about the land they’re trying to sell you. Sometimes their information is more than several months old, whereas prices and sellers’ interests may change in a week. So, sometimes they assure you they have a piece, you reach there and they don’t know where the stones are placed; some don’t have the title, but they assure you they know the owner; you finally get to see the title and it has a different owner, or worse, several owners, some of whom may not be willing to sell. You then decide to either sift the details or move on. And the cycle continues.
I ran into a very interesting situation earlier this year. This was a piece of land I was led through a company, but the main contact was an individual broker. I was led to an amazingly beautiful piece of land. I knew our school had to be built there. I called my team with such excitement. I had our lawyers conduct a search on the title at the Ministry of Lands. The lawyers did not find the title where it was supposed to be. I moved onto meeting the owner’s lawyer. In his office, the lawyer immediately informed the company and I that the land is owned by an illiterate old lady, and there are some people trying to take the land from her. She had inherited it from her grandfather, whose name was still on the title. They gave us a copy of the will written in 1974, leaving the land in his granddaughter’s name.
He showed us letters from the court showing that the old lady had opened a case against the intruders. We were informed that the judge would close the case within a couple of days, and the title, which was in the hands of the minister for land, would be reinstated back in its place. We took that case number to our lawyers to find out where the case really was. Our lawyer came back and said the case had been contested. The seller’s lawyer quickly said he was not aware of a new case. A few moments later, he produced a new case document. That is when I started smelling a rat. We held on for a little while with the promise of reinstating the title. In that time, I got a chance to speak to the old lady, who was supposed to meet us, but ended up going to a burial. After the story by the lawyer changed a couple of times, we abandoned the deal.
Several months later, our architect got connected to someone who was selling that same piece of land. Talking to him, he learned this gentleman was informed about this old lady and her partners, who had been trying to steal this land for a while. This gentleman represented the real owner. He shared the whole story and the true land title, which was at the land’s office, protected by the commissioner because some employees at land had started conniving with the thieves.
To make the already long story short, the most interesting part was the history of the plot number. Land here, and maybe everywhere, is divided into blocks and then into plots. Block numbers stay the same, but when plots are mutated, they take on new plot numbers, entirely different from any of the original plot number. So, what opened my eyes about this whole saga was the plot number. The “supposed” will written in 1974 referred to a plot number that was not created until 8 years later. So, these thieves looked at a recent title and decided to plant a date on an old piece of paper and call it a will.
Well, how is that for a year of silence? Lots of love to you all and wonderful wishes for the rest of the year.
I cannot belief we’re way past the middle of 2008. And guess what? I am still alive. I know the last I wrote something substantial was in May of 2007. I always promise to keep it up, but I do not seem to live up to it. So, I will not promise when I will write again, but what I know is I miss you and I always look forward to hearing from you. Well, this one will include some really old news and some new, but it will not be that long, I hope.
My place:
June of last year, I moved into my own place. It’s a little row house with two bed rooms, living, bathroom and kitchen. It’s cozy and just enough. It really feels great to be on my own and independent. Budgeting is a daily lesson and I am improving a lot.
Cappoeira:
For a couple of months last year, I ventured into the world of cappoeira. Man is it fun, energetic and exhausting! I learned a few spin kicks, I am working on my cartwheels, I learned to balance and I believe I can really protect myself if need be.
A sad day:
July 11, 2007 – the saddest day of my life. My sister lost her 6-year old son, Phillip to sickle cell anemia. You would think death really hit home for me when I lost my parents, but this was a whole new experience. I really do not understand why God would bring a child into the world, spend all that time falling sick and then take him out six years later. I know it happens everyday all over the world, but I cannot seem to make sense of it. My sister does not talk about him and his pictures have not returned to the living room. Well, I know he is in a much better place (free from pain). And my sister is doing much better that I believe I would. So, don’t be sad for me…I am just sharing news.
Only in my country:
Ok, something funny. I usually jog outside, well not anymore these days because my knee started giving in, and I got tired of competing for road space with cars, motorcycles (boda bodas), bicycles, pedestrians, dust and goats. So, now I go to the gym. Anyway, when I jogged outside, little children going to school would stop in their way and call me “mzungu” (white person). Ok, in Uganda, and I am sure in many other black communities, you may be called white because you’re light-skinned, but you always know they know you’re black, just not dark enough. But these kids did not know the difference, and I thought it was really funny. Well, I thought the neighborhood had gotten used to me until a few kids called me a mzungu two weeks ago. Sometimes I don’t blame them since my hair is dyed, and the sun makes it lighter by the day. The funniest moment was when a group of five children were going to school. The littlest one saw me and said, “eh eh, omzu…”. The rest of the group bust out laughing saying, “no she is not.” Then the poor fellow started defending himself, “no, I was not going to call her mzungu.” Children…precious!
Loudness:
This is an announcement to all Africans who live in the US and think Americans are loud. My friends, you have a rude awakening, you're too. The only exception is my friend Jane, who mastered the art of whispering. The rest of you, “true” Ugandans whisper when they answer the phone, when they go to an office and ask if someone is available, when they’re ordering food, in internet cafes, and so on and so forth. Again, the only exceptions, at least in my opinion, are taxi conductors, drivers and brokers for land, houses, etc. Honesty, after 2 years here, I have not become a whisperer and it drives me crazy when people do whisper unnecessarily. The reason normally given is that we’re really private people, but I have another explanation. My people looooooove side deals; whenever there is a deal, there is another possible deal within that. So, people are so used speaking so softly so no one ever has an inkling of any difference between the original and the final deal. People do that so much that they now cannot even order their food without whispering. At least that’s what I have observed and believe.
Lunch served with wound dressing:
So, can you imagine having lunch and watching Fear Factor? It has not yet happened to me yet this year, but last year, I happened to go to several restaurants and cafés that had TVs and it so happened that they would have something gruesomely nasty showing on TV. The funny thing is that some of the clients would be eating and watching. I managed to have some turn it off. One manager told me he could not find the remote; I found the socket and unplugged it. In some, I just had to turn my back to the TV. I have learned not to return to those restaurants and I will avoid more in the future because many do not see why dressing a wound on TV would affect anyone’s appetite.
Land in Uganda:
Besides my daily work at Empower African Children (please check out our new developments at www.EmpowerAfricanChildren.org), my year has been dominated by our land search to build a secondary school. I have learned so much about the land market, law and just the simple (proven to be difficult) act of searching. Here is how it usually goes…
You can begin by telling anyone what you’re looking for and you will sure find someone selling land within minutes. I have worked with both independent brokers and broker companies. However, even when you work with broker companies, they will sure lead you to many independent brokers, who all want to be the first line of contact to the interested buyer. By the way here, you can wake up one day and decide to be a broker. I will write about the independent brokers.
It’s amazing how poorly informed some of them are about the land they’re trying to sell you. Sometimes their information is more than several months old, whereas prices and sellers’ interests may change in a week. So, sometimes they assure you they have a piece, you reach there and they don’t know where the stones are placed; some don’t have the title, but they assure you they know the owner; you finally get to see the title and it has a different owner, or worse, several owners, some of whom may not be willing to sell. You then decide to either sift the details or move on. And the cycle continues.
I ran into a very interesting situation earlier this year. This was a piece of land I was led through a company, but the main contact was an individual broker. I was led to an amazingly beautiful piece of land. I knew our school had to be built there. I called my team with such excitement. I had our lawyers conduct a search on the title at the Ministry of Lands. The lawyers did not find the title where it was supposed to be. I moved onto meeting the owner’s lawyer. In his office, the lawyer immediately informed the company and I that the land is owned by an illiterate old lady, and there are some people trying to take the land from her. She had inherited it from her grandfather, whose name was still on the title. They gave us a copy of the will written in 1974, leaving the land in his granddaughter’s name.
He showed us letters from the court showing that the old lady had opened a case against the intruders. We were informed that the judge would close the case within a couple of days, and the title, which was in the hands of the minister for land, would be reinstated back in its place. We took that case number to our lawyers to find out where the case really was. Our lawyer came back and said the case had been contested. The seller’s lawyer quickly said he was not aware of a new case. A few moments later, he produced a new case document. That is when I started smelling a rat. We held on for a little while with the promise of reinstating the title. In that time, I got a chance to speak to the old lady, who was supposed to meet us, but ended up going to a burial. After the story by the lawyer changed a couple of times, we abandoned the deal.
Several months later, our architect got connected to someone who was selling that same piece of land. Talking to him, he learned this gentleman was informed about this old lady and her partners, who had been trying to steal this land for a while. This gentleman represented the real owner. He shared the whole story and the true land title, which was at the land’s office, protected by the commissioner because some employees at land had started conniving with the thieves.
To make the already long story short, the most interesting part was the history of the plot number. Land here, and maybe everywhere, is divided into blocks and then into plots. Block numbers stay the same, but when plots are mutated, they take on new plot numbers, entirely different from any of the original plot number. So, what opened my eyes about this whole saga was the plot number. The “supposed” will written in 1974 referred to a plot number that was not created until 8 years later. So, these thieves looked at a recent title and decided to plant a date on an old piece of paper and call it a will.
Well, how is that for a year of silence? Lots of love to you all and wonderful wishes for the rest of the year.
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