Every ending is a new beginning

The more dedicated readers of this blog may be wondering how the story of our NGO registration ended, at the infamous, Kafka-esque NGO board. The good news is that they haven’t arrested me (yet). On Wednesday, feeling patient, I decided to go back. As I approached those hated gates, I felt a sea of patience swell up inside me. They could have made me thread a thousand needles with a pile of inch-long threads of frayed black cotton and it wouldn’t have broken my patience. I was aching with patience.

I entered the office clutching the battered and torn receipt that was our only official evidence of existence as an NGO. The ugly lady (a new one this time!) took it, picked up her envelope, rifled through its contents, and produced – could it be? Could it possibly our Certificate of Registration? I started to salivate. There it was, on her desk! The thing we had been waiting eight months to receive! The world went into slow motion. She picked up the signing-out book. She opened it at the page. She turned it for me to sign. I took the lid off my pen. I placed the nib in position. Then: “STOP! You cannot sign for this certificate! You are not the Director!”

Previously I would have shown great dismay at this revelation, but not this time. It barely even ate into the surface layers of my abundant patience. Instead, I smiled angelically. The ugly lady then started looking for our file to check exactly who the Director was.

After a cursory search, she failed to locate it so summoned a minion to hunt instead. This was when she took the opportunity to pass her judgment on our charity, ‘Promoting Equality in African Schools’, which she found highly amusing: ‘how useless, there is already equality in African schools!’ This was so funny she shared it with her ugly colleague, in Luganda, of course, so I couldn’t understand. After more than thirty minutes of three different people searching, they pronounced our file lost. Even after all this, my patience had barely waned.

I asked Mike to come down, who was the Director way back when we submitted the application. After lots more waiting and smiling and behaving very politely towards very unpleasant (and ugly) people, they clearly finally abandoned hope of a bribe and surrendered the damn certificate. I mentally cracked open a bottle of champagne, and then mentally cracked it over the ugly lady’s ugly head.

By this point, another gentleman had entered and was attempting to submit his NGO’s application – the stage we were at in February. The ugly lady refused to accept it because the annual report was the other way round to all the other papers. “How will the board members read it?” (It is beyond their intellect to turn it through 90 degrees, obviously). I couldn’t help smugly thinking “you’ve got a long eight months ahead of you, mate!”

Office Hours

As a teacher, I used to grumble about the long hours the profession inflicts upon its purveyors. I would hardly have been allowed to qualify if I had not mastered the skill of complaint, one of the most fundamental within the vocation. I shall now illustrate the relative validity of these complaints with a familiar analogy borrowed from cookery.

Imagine we are all sausages. As we sizzle away in the frying pan, we complain about how hot it is and how we let ourselves get fried without ever doing anything about it. The more inquisitive sausages among us wonder whether perhaps there is a nicer climate in that unexplored territory beyond the rim of the pan. Eventually curiosity draws one among our number to jump out, and we all know where he lands: in the fire! In the language of this inspired analogy, I am that foolish Frankfurter.

I’m working every waking hour and even when I’m asleep – last night I planned an entire meeting through the medium of dream. Sometimes such unrelenting pressure causes unchaste thoughts: working this hard could bring me pots and pots of gold as an Investment Banker in the City! I purge such filthy ideas with the following mantra: “Think of the children! Think of the children!”

Friendometer

I know this section is supposed to be for Ugandan friends, but to be honest, at the moment I don’t have time to make any. For now, let me draw your attention to another shout-out that is up for grabs in this very space – for the first non-Nigel’s-parent to talk to me on Skype. The current contestants – my cousins Eleanor, Lydia and Robert, and Julia, the girl-next-door of my teenage years, have been promised a mention for at least stating their intent in this respect.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

Last weekend I went to Jinja on the motorcycle to watch a car rally. The warm-up act was a spot of motocross (motorbike racing off-road, for the uninitiated). It quickly became apparent that what the considerable crowd liked to see most of all, mainly for comedy value, was riders stack it. As I enjoyed this spectacle, several people saw the motorcycle helmet that I was sat on and asked if I was going to participate. I remembered that I was in Uganda and therefore there was probably no reason why I shouldn’t, and also realised the bike I had was better than every single one currently on the field. So with visions of wheelying over the finish line in a glorious victory, I ambled up to the ‘paddock’ to inquire. Five minutes later I found myself amongst the riders I had only a short time ago been a spectator to, racing around the circuit.

I came very, very last, but I feel that isn’t important when you consider that I single-handedly turned the race into an international event, therefore promoting the winners to world champions. Another great service to Uganda through the fruits of my dedication.

Disclaimer for boss: I realise that this use of the motorcycle contravenes the PEAS asset policy, which only shows my stupidity in publishing the story on my blog.

Disclaimer for mum: I realise that this use of myself contravenes the family asset policy – same goes.

Competition Time

Since you are all useless at spotting mistakes, and the attempted caption competition yielded frankly dire results (although points are certainly due to those brave few who dared to try), I am going to abandon this whole idea of audience participation altogether. Kindly participate by calling me on the phone.

Worthy but hopeless attempts in the caption competition have put my Dad on a joint first place spot with Ben, as well as re-introducing my Mum onto the table (hooray). Phil’s attempt was probably the best of the three so he gets on there too.

Ben 2

Nigel’s Dad 2

Julia 1

Uncle Simon 1

Nigel’s Gran 1

Brother David 1

Volunteer Jo 1

Phil 1

Nigel’s Mum 1