Many a sunset, as the sun whiles away its final moments of the day on the other end of the horizon, Kampala breathes a new life. 9-5 commuters make their way out of Kampala –for home, as dusk to dawn Kampalans start sip through Uganda’s capital.
As the city wears a new human face, its inhibitions begin to peel away with the growing darkness. The once pale grim looking concrete jungle wears neon lights. Pavements on many a city street wear business merchandise, largely groceries, as vendors take seats on pavements to make quick a sale to Kampalans heading home. Sidewalks suddenly wear waiting tables and stools that sit a pint or two, a plateful of Katogo and mulokonyi. And, dark street corners and alleys are taken up by scoundrels and scumbags and the ladies of the night.
Nightlife slowly takes the place of daylight. Traffic slows down. Motorists are more patient as they let Kampala nightlife ease its way onto the scene.
As the night wears on, Kampala further loses its daylight inhibitions. Decency and societal moral awareness are tucked away for dawn. Foul mouths are left to run loose. Buildings without proper lighting start to wear a foul repugnant stench after numerous litres of bowl matter are hosed against their walls.
And then, in the dead of the night, they come out; Kampala’s fairer sex suddenly appears on the scene in drones.
Clad in dresses, skirts, blouses, and hot pants that try in futility to cover hither and thither, the girls of Kampala, who single-handedly make or break the mood of the party scene, throng all happening nightspots. The outfits are brazen, skimpy and barely fulfilling the basic purpose of cloth; one needn’t undress many of the girls of Kampala by this time to see her unpacked modesty. It is there for you to see –that’s if you have time on your hands to feed your eyes.
As the party scene tears and wears more hours off the clock, clothing that was metres long earlier in the night appears to be only a few centimetres long. If one is not sober, the shortened short dresses and short shorts appear miles shorter.
As girls twist and turn, often suggestively, to exorcise the demons in their overly-exaggerated derrieres and busts, the short clothing rides up further their bodies. A dress that was skirting a few centimetres close to the knees, by the time many a girl made her way to the dance floor, is fast-approaching her nether regions by the time she is staggering out of a nightspot. For some, the hemline rides up before she even sets foot on the dance floor.
As hemlines ride up and down layers of birthday suits, ladies start playing a game I will call tag at it. Every once so often, for those that are aware of the diminishing rate of their modesty, a hemline will be tagged at, until it has at least rode back down thigh-land to near modesty. Unfortunately for many girls, they have lost consciousness of their moral compass, by now; the night has blessed them with a high that has rid them of all their ladylike inhibitions. They don’t bother to indulge in tag at it.
But none of this is my business. I am neither the dress being hounded, repeatedly, to behave and get back to its prior position nor the hand being ordered repeatedly to pull the poor hemline, by its ears, back into position. Most importantly, why do I care if one’s modesty has been traded for constant stares in a dimly lit environment?
My case is only but a thought. If indeed you have lost (or intend on losing) all your inhibitions, in the dead of the night, why should you keep hounding that poor hemline? Clearly, the dress is yours and acquiring its ownership gave you a right to treat it as you please, but don’t you think it is ironic (and foolhardy) that you keep tagging at a dress that you wore very well knowing it was going to ride up beyond your unmentionables?