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Good evening to my young viewers. And whattup fam to my old viewers. Today we are going to discuss How To Maama Mmere in Kampala.
The term Maama Mmere Woteli refers to a small restaurant in which serves what is variously known as local food, rocko food, real food, and, most pertinent in this economy, cheap food.
It is at Maama Mmere that you find such cuisine as matooke, kalo, sweet potato, chicken the thigh, chicken the back, flesh fish, rice peas, Irish peas, goat, hoof, and ghee nut.
Be careful when ordering Ghee Nut Sauce. It is not what it sounds like at first.
Listen to me: Don’t order peanut sauce. Don’t even say the word peanut, because unlike Javas and Karveli staff, Maama Mmere waiters don’t care if you know that they don’t like you, so, unlike Javas and Karveli staff, they won’t pretend. They will correct you with contempt as convincingly disguised as Peter Sematimba’s “youthful” look.
“Peas we have. G-nuts we have,” is what the waiter will sneer underneath rolling eyes, and then he will wait for you to beela clear.
2. Don’t rush the waiter. Even if you went in knowing exactly what you want to eat, don’t just blurt out, your order, mbu “Rice, irish, goat meat and veg” then turn back to your phone. Like, hello, can you please, please, for Kiwanuka’s sake be a little bit patient for like, once in your life and let this waiter do his or her job? Millennials!
First finish the Luganda greetings: “Gyebare.” “Mmmm. Namwe mugyebare.” “Mmmm.” “Mulina emmere?”
Yes, when you go into this, a food-serving business, you have to ask if they have food to serve before you ask what food to be served.
I don’t believe it is possible that there are no entrepreneurs running Wotelis in Kampala who are from other tribes. There must be Ugandans from all over our nation involved in the industry but, somehow, every single Maama Mmere waiter I have ever had the honour of, when asked what food there is, will only list the items that are considered food in Ganda culture. That is the dry hard stuff. Even Okirol did it.
You have to lodge an follow up inquiry to find out what accompanying moisture (sauce or gravy) will make the food digestible, then you will wait out the recitation of the list: Beef, goat meat, chicken, fresh fish, dry fish et cetera.
Now you can say riceirishgoatmeatveg as much as you want.
If you ask for chicken, just eat the thing and don’t make a fuss. We all know actual chicken don’t have legs that long but complaining isn’t going to rearrange the DNA. Kaloli is going to stay Kaloli so just shut up and eat. You will shit it out afterwards.
If you speak Luganda the way Veronica Akao speaks English, speak English. Don’t assume that just because a person says Lumonde instead Rumontsay that they can’t speak English– Maama Mmere staff understand English, you racist. A person who says “lice river” is speaking proper English. They are just speaking it in one of various forms of propriety via which English is held around the world.
Maama Mmere knows English because they cater for a vastly international clientele. They are always serving bazungu.
If you don’t do your maths properly, you assume bazungu eat at Caffesserie and never at Maama Mmere, but let’s apply some fiscal policy here.
All races are the same, equal and alike. Regardless of our skin colour we all require nutrition and refreshment. This includes bazungu.
But they are very many bazungu in Kampala. They can’t all fit in Caffessarie, so where do the rest eat?
Woteli, of course.
Then factor in this observation: Bazungu in Kampala be when they are broke af banange. Like as if LC staff. That’s how broke. They are ever eyvah sharing bodas and repeating the same kitenge jumpsuit for a whole week.
You think those ones can Caffesserie like us?
No, they eat at eat at Maama Mmere. And until they learn Luganda, Maama Mmere’s staff has to accommodate various accents of English.
Probably why the waiter says Sveet potado and river. Because they learned English from Latvians, Americans and Chinese people.
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Oh, and Adventures of Chandler and Frasier coming soon…
This one goes out to all my beautiful Ugandan peoples whose selfies don’t work. You know yourselves. You are beautiful when you take your selfies because all Ugandans are beautiful, but when the selfie is posted, it is not as beautiful, if at all. How come? You find some other chap out there nga eh! Or some other kyana out here nga ah!
You could spend Kampala Parent’s school fees on the latest smartphone with the most megapixel, highest resolution, most Batman-WayneTech camera but every selfie you take, you will still come out looking like an amphibian.
Caption: #GiftedByNature.
First Comment: What an interesting frog.
You will try to smize, but to the viewer of this selfie, you will not look sexy. You will look like a trauma victim in early stages of recovery.
They will see terror in your eyes; the left one blazing out more fear than the right one because it is bigger and more sinisterly skewed. It looks as if the burdens of your soul lean more heavily to the left, as if that is the eye that sees your nightmares first.
Meanwhile, the left eye looks dead, as if it is going to fall off.
And then your forehead: What the igneous sedimentary rock formation is this? Why do pimples erupt every time you open instagram? When did your skin become allergic to social media?
Why is it that every time you try to slay, you end up looking like a zombie? Walking Dead Ting Dis? As if you are the one who was slain?
It is because with photography, as with cooking, sports and oral sex, it’s not the specs of the equipment. It is the skill of the person wielding the tools.
It’s the artist, not the paint.
That is why there are niggas with macbook pros who still can’t touch my steez and yet I write with a pencil in a picfare notebook. It is the artist, my friends, not the tools.
I don’t come here to just rant. This is a solution-oriented blog so I am going to give you answers.
Be like Lydia Jazmine and Irene Ntale. If you follow them on instagram, which I do, you will learn the secret to success.
I follow Ntale because I am huge fan. I love her music, I love her singing, and it warms my heart to see her smiling and being happy– it gives me hope that talented Ugandans need not be tortured, unfulfilled geniuses. Even though the rest are trapped in Kyanja typing blogs instead of lounging in Johannesburg typing novels, others get to go to Dubai and ride camels happily, joyfully, and photogenically. Thank you, Ntale. You represent us all.
Lydia Jazmine I follow because she helps me focus my depression on reminding me how sexy the women I will never date again are, which is healthier than letting me agonise about the rate at which Uganda is deteriorating. And how the economy is going to collapse as soon as the rule of law implodes. And how we are all going to end up starving in refugee camps. And how People Power refugees form a mafia and end up running the camp I’m which they will make bitches out of us NRM sympathisers. Honestly, it’s safer to be miserable about not dating Lydia Jazime than all that other stuff.
Jazmine and Ntale never take selfies anyhowly. They have talented youth employed to shoot them.
So this is how we shall fight youth unemployment and vagrancy. Go and start an Instagram photography service. There, I have fought unemployment. What’s next?
A word from our sponsors…
The scene. Gyaldem. She is in the cafe with her book, That Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, signifying that this is a highly intelligent, sophisticated and erudite person who not only bes “erudite” but also probably uses the word in conversation.
And properly, not mbu, “Yo, that jazz was mob erudite, gwe you be there.”
(That is how I use it. I am intelligent, but definitely not sophisticated.)
Mandem approaches Gyaldem with intent to vibe.
Mandem: Hey, hi. I couldn’t help but notice you from across…
Gyaldem: Hold on… hold on… (licks finger, turns page, continues reading.)
Mandem: My name is …
Gyaldem (Sighs, takes off glasses, closes book with finger marking page and begins): I don’t think you should be giving me your name, or it is going to end up in my whatsapp group. In a heavily-memed chat beginning with “Would you believe this nigga?” Anything you say can and will be used against you, dude.
Nothing personal– I am sure you have noble and decent intentions, but it’s your timing. Look. I am reading. And I am reading Chimamanda. When you couldn’t help but notice as aforementioned, did you notice that?
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the reigning World Heavyweight Champion of African Books. She is the new Achebe, the current Soyinka and the ongoing Ngugi.
This woman has the best words and the sentences in Africa, the US and UK, dude. The only reason her supremacy doesn’t cover the whole world is because when you translate her works to Chinese, they lose some of the potency, which gives native Mandarin writers an advantage. But if it wasn’t for that, if she was Xi Mamanda, she would be the best in China as well.
This is where you find me. Sitting here sipping this delicious mocha latte with my mouth and sipping Chimamanda with my eyes. What is going here is the sustained imbibing of very high quality intellectual and culinary stimuli. Everything that is happening to me is leaving me very impressed.
If you are going to interrupt this, if you are going to require that I stop consuming the Chimamanda-quality words and take in yours instead, they should be equally articulate, erudite and insightful, if not more so.
In fact, perhaps you might want to actually say the word “erudite” in your vibing lines.
And properly, not mbu, “Yo, that jazz was mob erudite, gwe you be there.”
Ima let you respond but let me first finish what I was saying.
If you do not have any paragraph, sentence or phrase that is higher in quality, composition or volume of trenchant, canny, well-observed social insight than Chimmy line, then you might as well be asking me to put down my mocha latte and share a mug of chai mukalu with you.
Nothing wrong with chai mukalu. Chai mukalu is fine. It is bracing when it must be, soothing when you need soothing. It is the perfect accompaniment to cassava kibuga, fresh dry chapus or Richy maziwa.
Chai mukalu is fine. But it is not as multilayered and full-bodied and rich as this caramel mocha latte which teases me with hints of secret spices and
new flavours with every whiff and sip. This spiced latte is a whole adventure.
I’m just saying, it’s levels to this shit (RIP Meek Mill when you die.)
So, before you speak any further, self-analyse, carry out a quick inner quality test and make sure you are not asking me to stop the mocha and hit the mukalu. Be certain that you are offering me conversation that is worth having me put down this book.
Otherwise, come back when I am reading some cheap, gutterpress trash like The Anita Everything Collection.
And now a word from our sponsors.
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Mr E. Bazanye 