Ten trims hair; shocks acquaintances…

Ebenezer T. Bifubyeka (Ten),

Biafra, Mbarara, western Uganda.

RELATIVES, friends, neighbours, workmates and in-laws held their breathe on Valentine’s Day of 2010 – after I (Ebenezer Ten Bifubyeka alias ‘Igwe’ of USB – United States Biafra) trimmed my six-inch long hair for the first time in a decade!

On setting their eyes on me (an Environmental Journalist, Poet, Lyricist, Playwright, Novelist, Blogger and Designer), some people gasped, raised their eyebrows and became speechless. The majority uttered out all sorts of remarks – positive and negative:

‘Ten, I have to suspend my call and tell you this, ‘You look very handsome. Please maintain that,’ Betty Komujuni, a sales representative for Radio West says, covering the front side of her mobile phone to bar her correspondent from hearing. ‘You mean he has not been handsome before?’ smiling, Amon Natweta, Mbarara-based Correspondent for The New Vision, asks Komujuni. ‘Not this much,’ Komujuni replies, gazing at Ten. ‘But Ten has always been handsome,’ adds, Hawa Ssali, the Orumuri Correspondent.

‘You look sweet,’ supplements Judith Ayebare, the sales representative of The New Vision, Mbarara Bureau, ‘Ten, have you taken a picture?’ ‘No, I haven’t,’ I respond. ‘Please do,’ she says, ‘you will admire yourself too.’ ‘Ten shi oshazire eishokye? Eshi valentine eyine amaani (Ten, did you trim your hair? Valentine is really powerful’), says Olive Namara, the administrator of Radio West and Orumuri, Mbarara Bureau.

‘Oriya shi ni Ten? Obwira ogira enkomo nungi kwonka otaaha ogisherekire omw’ishokye (is that Ten? All along you have a nice back head but you have always hidden it inside the hair),’ staring at me like he has seen an angel himself, Fred Kabango Turyakira, Mbarara-based Correspondent for The New Vision, says, smiling!

‘Honestly speaking, I hadn’t recognised you, Ten. I was wondering over a stranger seated on Ten’s computer. You have changed,’ Wilson Style Kwatagye, a Correspondent for Orumuri, joins the wonderers, ‘Oyine ekikanu ky’abakama (you have a nape of the wealthy guys).’ On hearing Kwatagye say this, Mbarara-based The New Vision Correspondent. Abdulkarim Ssengendo peeps at me and says, ‘Okikozze (you did it).’

‘Is that Ten (Director) of Ten’s Innovations?’ asks Vincent Atwine, a sales representative of Radio West in Mbarara. ‘A new year with a new style,’ Atwine adds, gleaming. ‘Hey! Ten, what a nice handsome good looking man now you are! Thanks for trimming your hair; you really look fantastic. Maintain that,’ says Clare Mirembe, the sales representative for The New Vision, Mbarara Bureau.

‘Ten, you look good; you are really handsome. If you doubt it, take a picture when you are humble – not smiling like you did on that picture,’ pointing at my picture hang on the wall in my sitting room, Liz Atuhaire, the Radio West Cashier, remarks. We terminate the subject to watch 24 (Mexico) by Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland). Before we finish the first episode, Atuhaire reintroduces the hair topic, ‘Bwenu Ten wabonera (you really look nice, Ten).’ I turn and look at her only to find her smiling, with her eyes staring at mine. ‘You can say that again,’ I respond.

‘Ayibambe Ten eishokye ryawe! Oritegyire ki shi (Ten, your hair; o my! Why did you trim it)?’ Ronald Humura, the sub-Editor of Orumuri, says, ‘kare ryanshaasha; kuriraaze kukura kwingana kokuribiire riri… (I’m hurt; by the time it grows to the level on which it was…);’ he incompletes his statement and stares at my head before the regional sales representative for The New Vision, Alex Mbabazi butts in to say, ‘noreeba Ten kwayine ekitwe kirungi (do you see that Ten has a nice head)?’ We all laugh.

Lauben Matsiko, the sub-Editor of Orumuri, fixedly peeps at me from his office window before he hurriedly follows me to my office. He stands behind me, widens eyes and says, ‘Ten, what prompted you to make that decision?’ I smile. He shakes his head and leaves.

‘I have heard boys say that you have changed. To me, you look simple; and you still look the same,’ comments the Deputy Editor of Orumuri, Abraham Ahabwe alias Abe. ‘I knew you were looking for attention,’ Ahabwe adds, laughs and walks away.

After staring at my cut hair for a about two minutes, Dorah Atwongyeire comes too close to me, perhaps to confirm that I’m really the one. She wears sympathy-radiating eyes to say, ‘Ten, this is the first thing to shock me this year. Let me leave before I collapse!’

‘Ten, hiine obiire yakugambire ng'oboneire (Ten, has anyone told you that you are handsome)?’ Rona Rita Ninsiima, Radio West news anchor, lets out her opinion. ‘Mazima otagaruka kukuza eishokye (honestly don’t grow hair again); many people get many different impressions about a man with long hair,’ the smiling Ninsiima adds, looking at my head.

‘You man, you are changing like Kony (Joseph, a rebel leader of Lord Resistance Army); now you look tick,’ smiling, Aggrey Wambi, Mbarara-based western regional marketing officer for Vision Group, says, making thumbs up with both hands. ‘Ah; Igwe, your head has reduced. You totally look different; I didn’t recognise you from the back,’ says Elioda Nabaasa, the administrative assistant of Radio West and Orumuri.

‘Ten; to me, you have changed. You now look like a baby, a very beautiful one,’ says Miria Magurunyonyi, Ten’s neighbour in USB. Maama Gail, also Ten’s neighbour in USB, gasps, smiles and calls her daughter, ‘Gail, look at Ten.’ Jokingly, I run inside the three-story complex before Gail sees me.

Loudly, Maama Gail calls out Maama Ariguma (Alice), ‘Maama Ariguma, come out and see Ten.’ Maama Ariguma rushes out immediately. ‘Eehhh…’ Maama Ariguma utters out, smiling. ‘Ten, is that you? I didn’t recognise you immediately; stop confusing people,’ asks Joseline Nanyonga, other Ten’s neighbour on the second floor.

On meeting me beside Bank of Uganda (Mbarara Branch), Miria Twikirize, the second year student of Development Studies at Mbarara University of Science and Technology (MUST), back-bites me with my niece, Marion Birungi, ‘Check Ten ‘upstairs.’’

They both stop walking and laugh, bending down! Later, Twikirize gawks at my hair and comments, ‘Ten, you look very smart.’ On contrary, Birungi tells me, ‘You look ‘shabby;’ too ‘shabby’ for life!’ Without looking back, I walk away, leaving them behind.

‘Ten, you look good; really nice. Your hair is black and beautiful,’ wearing a deep smile, Winfred Kansiime, a third year student of Development Studies at MUST and also Ten’s neighbour in USB, says. ‘When I returned last evening (from a three-day tour at Nabugabo Beach), Emily (Ahumuza, Kansiime’s roommate) immediately told me, ‘Ten cut his hair,’’ Kansiime says. Ahumuza had seen me earlier in the day and laughed a lot.

‘O my God, thanks be to God! Don’t you see that now you look very young and too handsome? I wonder who is behind all this,’ says Moses Ahimbisibwe Greens, my cousin brother, who had come to my USB residence to pay me a courtesy visit.

‘No one is behind this. But the fact is that it was a very hard decision to make,’ I respond. ‘I know,’ Ahimbisibwe says, ‘one time you boldly swore to me that you would rather commit suicide than trimming your hair! Anyway, I’m delighted; and to express my happiness, I will pay your salon costs for two months,’ Ahimbisibwe pledges.

‘Mugisha (Emmanuel Bifubyeka, my elder brother) must hear this,’ Ahimbisibwe says; ‘by the way, does this have anything to do with the Valentines’ Day?’ ‘Not at all,’ I answer, ‘it’s due to climate change. Temperature is rising and I sweat most of the time; and sweat has often spoilt my hair shortly after treating it, and treating it is costly. Besides, I get busier each day and hair takes much of my time to comb and beautify it.’

Shortly after, Mugisha meets me along Mbarara High Street. Immediately, a smile raptures on his brown face. ‘Ruhanga biri abagayo mwiguru oku (God is really there in heaven),’ Mugisha alias Emma, remarks in Rukiga, pointing his right index finger at the sky. ‘Egi ni miracle! Biri za mirako ezi abarokore bagambaga, n’amazima zibagaho (this is a miracle! Truly the miracles the born-again normally talk about truly happen). Okorire ekintu ky’amaani (you did a great thing),’ Mugisha appreciates.

‘Ten, you look very, very handsome. And you have resembled late Matsiko (Manasseh Bifubyeka – our first born). I wish your mother was alive to see what a handsome boy you have become. Thank God for that,’ shaking my hands, visiting me in USB two days after I had trimmed my hair, Monicah Kwikiriza Bifubyeka, my elder sister, says.

‘Maama nuunu! Yesu ahuriire okushaba kwangye. Bwenu oboneire; n’abantu barateekwa kuba barakiibuuza (Mother dear, Jesus heard my prayers. You really look cute; people must be wondering), smiling and holding out her arms to hug me, Dorah Kashaija, my young sister, says on meeting me at Bananuka Drive in Mbarara town.

After hugging me, Dorah says, ‘Natukunda (Apollo Bifubyeka, my elder brother) must hear this.’ She immediately dials Natukunda’s number and tells him, ‘Tumwiine amwere eishokye!’ Then Dorah tells me, ‘Natukunda says it can’t be true because one time he suggested that you trim your hair and you almost slapped him. Anyway, we must hold a party; I’m going to budget for it. There must be something that prompted you to do this.’

Natukunda calls me, ‘Is it true you cut your hair?’ ‘It’s true,’ I confirm. ‘I suspected something unusual when it rained here in Kampala for two days. This news should be published on face book. Besides, I have asked Dorah to organise a party. I will buy a suit and a cake,’ he pledges too. ‘So tell me, how many rats and wild animals were hiding in that bush you carried on your head?’ he asks before bursting into a prolonged laughter!

‘This is a new life,’ smiling and shaking my right hand, Deborah Kashaija, Dorah Kashaija’s mother-in-law, says, adding, ‘I hope there will be a party soon following this.’

In an open-mouthed bewilderment, my nephew, Kevin Ayebare Matsiko Bifubyeka alias RDC of USR (United States of Ruharo), meets me along Mbarara High Street, halts, stares at my head and states, ‘Perhaps the world is ending in seconds!’

‘I didn’t recognise you,’ Ayebare goes on to say, ‘I only recognised you by your walking style and I almost fainted! What happened?’ I smile at him and say no word. ‘Abandi babariitenga eishokye rireingwa kandi rirungi k’eryawe, iwe orimweire (other people wished to have long and nice hair like yours; for you – you cut it)!’

‘Abaana Ntare (School) kubabarakureeba weijayo beetana (whenever students at Ntare [School] would see you there; they would call each other), ‘Boys, come and see a black American.’ Reero baza mu madirisa kukuringuriza; mbwenu bagaruka kukureeba tibarashoberwa (then they would peep through the windows; won’t they be perplexed when they see you again)?’ says Ayebare. ‘Shana bagaruka kukureeba baraza kutekateeka ngu ori twin-brother w’oriiya mushaija w’eishokye (maybe when they see you again, they will think you a twin-brother to the other man with long hair)’ he adds.

‘Eishokye shi rigyire he (where did your hair go)?’ smiling, Aunt Kyarimpa Mukukuma asks, touching on her head. ‘Tindamanya (I do not know),’ I reply, jokingly. ‘Orugireho waatega (you have trimmed at long last)? Grinning, my 10-year-old nephew, Walter Emmanuel Byaruhanga alias Buubu Lee, wonders.

On going to my ancestral home at Ruharo, Kamukuzi in Mbarara, my father, Benon C. Bifubyeka alias Baba, sees me, smiles and makes no comment. His wife, Diana only smiles. My six-year-old step-sister, Kamurungyi Kushemererwa Kabakuru breaks the ice:

‘Eishokye oritegyire ki? Rirekye rikure (why did you cut the hair? Let it grow).’ Smiling deeply, she rushes and whispers to her twin-sister, Kabarungyi Kusiima Kabato that, ‘Tumwiine yatega eishokye (Tumwiine has cut the hair).’ Kabato smiles too. My two-year-old step-sister, Koburungyi Kwebaza also smiles, staring at me. Perhaps she notices that I have cut my hair and I look different.

Simon Tugume alias Santiago Gonipa (from the Gonnipera), the sales representative for Radio West at Mbarara bureau, says, ‘Now you are done, Ten. When did you last cut your hair?’ ‘In 2000,’ I respond. ‘You really look nice,’ says Santiago. ‘Eishokye ribirekyi koritegyire (what happened to your hair for you to cut it)? Mrs. Joan Turyamureba, an Educationist in Mbarara town says, ‘Warebeka kubi (you look bad)!’

‘It got an ‘accident.’ Besides, I’m too busy nowadays and it needs much attention,’ I respond. ‘You are right,’ nodding; Mrs. Turyamureba responds and walks away. ‘Ten, you are no longer my friend; how could you do that to your beautiful hair? That was bad of you. I won’t greet you,’ says Moreen Nayebare, Ten’s neighbour in USB.

I have always feared to ask you that, ‘What happens if you cut your hair?’ Thank God you have cut it,’ reveals Eliam Nsasiirwe, my former neighbour in USB. ‘You now look fantastic,’ he adds with a flash of smile. ‘But I have lost friends like Nayebare simply because of cutting my hair,’ I regret. ‘Bagyende kuri, (let them go),’ Nsasiirwe rejoins.

‘As I don’t know this guy,’ says the News Editor of Radio West, Freddrick Mugira, ‘oh, it’s you, Ten. How do you feel in your head now; warmth or coldness?’ We laugh it off. Staring at my face, Kyomuhendo Muhanga, the director of West Link Agencies, wonders, ‘Ten shi Hariho ki (Ten, what’s going on)?’ I just smile.

Unique Penny, the secretary for Uganda Cranes Creameries Cooperative Union, meets me on Mbarara High Street, stops besides me and smiles. ‘Nga your ka-head is different,’ putting her right thumb up, Penny says, adding, ‘You look tick.’ ‘Thank you,’ I respond. De Gabriel Twongyeirwe, the sales representative of Radio West and also former subject of USB, looks at me, smiles and says, ‘Ten, you look kawa (nice)!’ ‘Thanks,’ I reply.

End.
Word count: 2,281.