Editorial note: I use pseudonyms for people and buildings in this ethnographic note. I sometimes maintain institutional names for relevant streets and organizations. This ethnographic fieldnote is nearly 5,000 words.
In 2024, I got caught up in an ethical conundrum when my interlocutor, a signpost holder for a repair shop, was arrested by Kampala Capital City Authority agents. I was torn between “saving” my intercolutor from the throes of law enforcement agents and the chance to “follow” the action of his arrest (and eventual extortion). For a while, I had heard and read all sorts of stories about the nefariousness of law enforcement agents in Kampala but this time, I was part of these scenes/sins, and pronto, was I tested?
Jama is visibly a young man – (“omulenzi” in Luganda, which can be used to refer to boy). He is probably in his early twenties. He is holding two laminated signposts: One is emblazoned in red with a generic “Phone Repair” and other words such as “Flashing,” while the second signpost has the text “Free Eye Checkup” (in green).
He is at the main entrance of the Pewi Mall. This entrance is on the northeastern side of the building, on [redacted] street, the road that leads to the roundabout that leads to Zanna Mall building. Pewi Mall is located at a site where downtown Kampala begins. Downtown Kampala is the business hub of kampala but its topography it is literally “down town.” While the original Kampala is built on seven hills, downtown connects the old colonial posts in upscale Kololo and Nakasero to Buganda, the kingdom Uganda is named after, which remained in control of Mmengo (the kingdom’s outpost) and other hills, on the opposite end of colonial Kololo and Nakasero hills. Most of modern day downtown is located in the valley, the malarial spine, that historically connected the British and Buganda outposts.
I had intially planned to meet Boris, one of the new connects, who has a repair shop in Pewi. Boris had told me that he was out and I’d have to wait for about an hour before he returned. I will wait, but for the moment, I’d try to talk to a few folks, young people I’ve been seeing holding signposts across the perpendicular lengths of the building (some at the shorter end of Kampala road and others on [redacted] street, where I met Jama).
Here I am. One thing is striking: there are way fewer signpost holders than usual. But since Boris has told me to wait for an hour, I could improvise. I notice Jama eating fruits by the entrance of the Pewi. Two signposts are by his side, overlaying eachother, with the mobile repair one more visible. He strikes me as one of repair signpost people.
He is dressed in a gray-ish casual t-shirt, a pair of black damage denim jeans, and a pair of black crocs. The denim jeans, however, have two “off white” logos towards the heels on either side. Off white is a famous fashion label founded by Virgil Abloh, one of Kanye West’s former protégés, who passed away in 2021. Of course, the off white logos are fake but this is none of my business. The jeans look fashionable, and above all, he looks comfortable.
I immediately ask him for directions to “Sammie’s” repair shop in the building. Meddie is one of the couple of names, besides Boris that I’ve been told moved from Zanna to Pewi. He doesn’t know Meddie, and I clarify that he is a repairer. No sooner had I made that clarification than he immediately declared that he worked with “Room-12.” That sounded like a cool name for a repair shop but I only learn that that is the shop’s number. He immediately asks to take me to the shop. I agree. We walk into the building and immediately take the flight of stairs on our left to a level below the main entrance, which I learn is X-level. The shop is almost immediately after the the first flight of stairs. The time taken to get into the shop is short. The stairs seem more comfortable and better designed than the irregular staircases in most of the malls I’ve visited in downtown.
The folks in Room-12 are in a shared space. The people at the entrance sell accessories. They have two glass shelves parallel to the walls, almost like in Zanna. There is an aisle that we walk through, and interface the repairer at the back of the room. A bearded man, who appears bored or tired, welcomes me. Jama has motioned to him that I am the client. Promptly, Jama walks out. I take a seat next to the repairer and hand over the phone to him. The broken screen of my Poco F3 has become my probe. The repairer’s back is turned towards my end, and he is examining the phone. I can’t tell exactly what he is doing. He is likely punching details of the phone’s model in a phone or an open laptop that is directly infront of him. Few minutes later, he tells me that the screen replacement will cost me 250k. He asks if I am ready. I am not, but ask him where he’d get the screen from. He says he will order it when I am ready. He doesn’t say where. I prepare to leave. Jama brings in another client, and that client and I almost trade positions. In. Out.
I leave the shop. If I get the chance, decide that I’ll chat with Jama for a moment about his work. I find Jama at the main entrance and he surprisingly is happy to chat. We speak almost exclusively in Luganda. The first thing I tell him is that I couldn’t fix my phone because I didn’t have the money. I ask him if I knows cheaper options, and he asks to see the phone and asks what the exact problem is. I draw the phone from my backpack while explaining to him that it needs a screen replacement.
He looks at the phone. There is nothing much than he can do, although he tells me that he repairs phones. Quelle surprise! I am curious what then he is doing on the streets holding signposts instead of perhaps making more money as a repairer or, at the very least, as an apprentice in a repair shop.
I begin asking him about he started his signpost work, how it’s going, and any potential differences between [income] in the signpost business and phone repair. I claim that I want to learn how to repair and the repair business at large.
He tells me that he started the signpost work before covid. I had prodded and suggested that the business of people holding signposts is relatively new but didn’t know that it was as old as four years and counting. He used to hold signposts for repair shops in various malls/plaza in downtown including Mpozza, Tengo, and Zanna. He seems to be a veteran of holding signposts for the repair industry. Why had he moved to Pewi. He doesn’t have an exactly clear answer. He offers an explanation I find sufficient for the time being. He says that immediately after covid, he undertook a six-month repair from an institute in Makerere (not the university!), one of the institutes running the Presidential Initiative for Skilling the Girl and Boy Child (He mentions the name of this program in English but after a few initial tries; it’s a mouthful of a program name). This initiative started in 2017 under the President’s Office, and one of its core mandates is to skill unemployed or underemployed youth. Jama says that he resumed the signpost business at Pewi, a new venue, after undertaking the course at Makerere.
It’s hard to understand his reasoning. Why is he back to the streets after obtaining such valuable skills in repair? He says that he needs to first make “akawogo” (literally means small piece of cassava in Luganda but used as a figure for money). He only hoped to maybe start his repair practice in the following year. Before we talk figures of his daily grind, I conduct a small knowledge check (up until this point, I had struggled to believe him).
I am asking how he typically learned or what kind of repairs he does. He says that he does most [basic] repairs except ones that involve the ice (the IC, the integrated circuit) on the motherboard (which he calls “board”). He says he can repair the charging system and elements of the mouth piece. In fact, he suggests that when his boss (the bearded guy in Room-12) is not around, he sometimes handles the repairs. The charging system seems like an interesting repair activity, so I ask him about it in more detail. What tools does one use to fix a charging system? He says that one must use a multimeter, and emphasizes the three concepts one ought to know before they can readily handle such kinds of repairs ie., AC, DC, and continuity. Huh! Tell me more, you have my full attention, sir. He is of course explaining in Luganda and tells me that “AC” is the electricity transmitted into a building while “DC” is the power directly in a cell or battery. He says that the multimeter can help in reading the various quantities of these measures. He then adds that “continuity” is how you determine whether current is flowing through a particular circuit. Ok, this guy knows his stuff. In addition, he mentions something about looping (which I am not sure I call correctly). But it is about soldering one point to another. In this way, electrical current can be directed to flow in particular directions. When asked about his former cohort-mates from the skilling program, he says that they are doing all kinds of things (doesn’t specify). When I ask whom of those is directly involved in repair, he mentions some “intelligent” guy who was their class monitor (more like a prefect) and now has a small repair shop in Makindye, which is a busy suburb on a hill in southeast of Kampala.
But Jama prefers holding signposts for repair shops for now. His bosses seem accommodative and pay him on a commission basis. He lives in Makerere Kikoni, near where he trained from, not too far from the city center, and he might take home between 5k - 20k per day from the phone repair shop. However, every Saturday he is paid 20k by the Indian optician, whose shop he also holds the signpost for.
I am surprised he has given me all this time to chat. Hordes of people are walking past the large entrance of Pewi going about their businesses. Jama is talking to me whilst he holds the two signposts. An older bespectacled man almost walks past us but stops in his tracks to reexamine the signpost. The man asks “free eye checkup?” Jama responds in affirmative and ushers the man into the building, and they take a flight of stairs to the upper floors. I’ve been left outside, at the entrance, and at this moment I am thinking whether I should hold the signposts for Jama until he returns. I hesitate. A few minutes later, he is back and holds the signposts as he continues talking to me. He never talks to passers-by nor does he pry on them like the folks inside of Zanna. All he does is hold the signposts, usually while standing and ocassionally while sitted just before the short flight of stairs (or ramp) into the building.
His job seems rather mundane. For a building that has a cacophony of signposts emblazoned all over the face of the building, it is surprising to see “signpost boys and girls.” However mundane or pointless, he directs attention to his bosses’ business in not insignificant ways. It is tempting to think that most of the clients his bosses get are exclusively through him.
His job is precarious too. He says that enforcement agents from Kampala Capital City Authority (KCCA), which he only refers to as “council” often arrest street dwellers who conduct business unlawfully, and this includes people like him. He recounts that one of the guys who holds signposts at the building had been arrested earlier in the day. He has been arrested four times in the last five months. Whenever he is arrested, his bosses bail him out. They bribe the enforcement officers before matters can get escalated to the courts of law. Speaking of the devil. Jama and I are both facing the roadside, [redacted] street. I spot a guy racing towards us in my peripheral view; Jama doesn’t notice because his eyes are firmly planted onto the passers-by. Before I can think twice, this guy has descended upon Jama and is grabbing him. This is council, alas! Law enforcement agents. This guy is tall, donning a light blue tshirt and navy blue trousers and a pair of black shoes.
It is happening and it could be my fault. Jama is still holding the signposts in his hands as he the tall man ushers him away from the main entrance. They stand briefly in the streets, but they are still in my view. I am pondering what to do as I suspect that Jama will only be released upon payment of a bribe. If Jama wasn’t preoccupied with the salvo of questions ringing from my end, perhaps he would have been more alert and thus would have been able to evade these law enforcement officers who seem more interested soliciting as many bribes as possible than they are in “law enforcement.”
I only have 20k in my wallet, and I am pondering whether to hand it over to the agents. Jama should be released! The tall man now hands over Jama to another agent, a shorter man, wearing the same clothing, only that he is wearing a navy blue sweater. It’s hot though. Anyway, this short agent is now handling Jama even more firmly than the previous agent. I walk to him and appeal for clemency. I suggest that it is Jama’s first time and he should be released. I add that it’s my fault that I was indulging the boy in questions as I was only interested in learning how to repair.
The agent is looking at me with a sheepish smile. He probably doesn’t believe my bullshit. He only responds saying that the boy has no issues and that he hasn’t committed any crime. Then he should be released, damnit, I think to myself. Of course, I am pressing more, insisting that Jama should be released. This time around the agent says that the boy is being held for “idle” (being “idle and disorderly” is a colonial-era ordinance that was used to punish indigenous people in urban areas, and this law had been repealed in the past five years or so). I am not going to call out the agents on their abuse of power. They are hard headed. But then I decide that I am never ever going to bribe these men. I strongly believe it’s unethical (despite the arrest having been partially my fault). Besides, I don’t have the money anyway.
Should I stand arms akimbo and watch this scene disappear into oblivion or should I follow the sins being committed in real time? Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I decide that I am going to follow these people wherever they go.
They cross the street immediately after Pewi, on the southern side. There are many interspersing streets connecting to a roundabout, which I am not sure is treated like a roundabout anymore than just an inconvience in a weird junction of potholed roads. Whilst crossing the streets this short agent is still firmly holding Jama’s upper backside. This kind of holding is colloquially known as “okukwata jeki.” It is almost always embarrassing to be held in this way, and it’s common during arrests that are often violent. Jama is calm and not fighting back. I am watching at a close remove as I follow them.
We descend towards Zanna (it’s very near). It’s no longer just two agents but three uniformed ones. They move in small companies, like a ragtag guerrilla unit. We’re at the side of Zanna that is adjacent to Yamaha center and Hanifa (where I’ve previously visited with the prying eyes guy to search for a screen replacement). There are old women who are planning to put their merchandise on the street pavements. One of them is involved in a verbal altercation with the agents whom she accuses of unfairness. The other women are not happy with this woman since she might put them in trouble. The agents have not arrested anyone. Then there is an older man dressed in a wornout longsleeved white shirt that appears from nowhere. He is part of the enforcement team. And he doesn’t say much than observe what is happening. It seems the enforcment team and the women on these streets have a history. They seem to have had all sorts of skirmishes. Now they talk things through and unclear what they have decided.
Meanwhile, the sun is hot and I am feeling the heat in my shoes. I am dressed in my yellow ‘93/’94 arsenal shirt and a pair of blue denim pants. I suspect a young lad lingering behind my back (does he want to pickpocket?); I am now more alert. Much as I am observing the action at a close remove, it’s clear that I am being observed by different kinds of people too. A seemingly young man who knows Jama’s walks by us and stop momentarily to tell Jama that all will be well; Jama responds that this is “our Uganda.” Some kind of resignation to lawlessness. I walk close to Jama and the man holding him. Jama is asking me to leave that he will be okay. He reads me his phone number and says that we shall be in touch.
The enforcement people have left the women alone. They cross the “passenger-only” road. This is at Yamaha center. There are men here, hanging about. One of them is selling elementary school charts (with ABCs) and rat poison. Weird combo. The older enforcement agent in white is asking the street vendor to leave. The vendor remains sitted as he exchanges words with the enforcement team. The man in white is scattering the charts from the pavement. But he is not confiscating them. Neither is he trying to arrest the vendor, who doesn’t seem to bothered. The guys the vendor is hanging out with are cursing the agents, saying that there is nothing they will gain from confiscating rat poison. There is bad blood between these groups; vendors vs. agents. And it seems to have been like this for a while. The retinue of agents is done with the vendors on the streets. They haven’t arrested anyone else. I ask the man holding Jama why they haven’t arrested any other person, and he says that that Jama is whom they have arrested. It is circular logic. It’s as if Jama is their prize hunt of the day.
Off the hunted is being ferried over to somewhere else. It’s east to where we are, towards Nakasero market area; this is the oldest built-up market in Kampala. I am following these folks at a distance from behind. Where are they going? A woman I had spotted earlier at Yamaha center is calling me “rasta.” She searching asks in Luganda if that “person” (Jama) is “mine.” I am caught in surprise. Who is this woman. She is wearing black trousers and tshirt, which is not similar to what the enforcement agents are wearing. I ask who she is, and she says that she works with the “council.” Huh! Why isn’t she wearing a uniform. She says that not all of them must wear uniforms. It’s as if it is self explanatory. I ask where they are taking the boy, and she says that he is being taken to the police cell at Nakasero market. She goes ahead to accost me for not having “finished” the business earlier, as if to suggest that the boy would be in bigger trouble at the police station. I ask her what I should have done. She gives me the look of “c’mon, don’t be too naïve,” she does that half smile. What are the rules applied in arresting street vendors and dwellers like Jama? There are no clear answers. I am pressing why he is the only one who has been arrested yet there many other people who seemingly had “broken the law.” She isn’t offering much other than remind me that “this is Uganda!” We’re walking fast to catch up with the team ahead of us.
The lady and I have gotten to the police post just in time. Jama is being ushered into the cell. This police post is at the edge of the road where the market begins from. It is tiny and made of alumnimum. It looks like a mobile money kiosk, only slightly larger. It is painted in Uganda police colors; navy blue and white. The roofing section is painted white but the whole kiosk looks dirty. It’s ony one man who is uniformed. The rest are casually dressed. I realize the police post has two compartments. One is more of the frontdesk, the other the backstage, where suspects are detained. That other end is dark, looking from outside. There are vertical bars in a small window opening where detainees can be partially seen. Jama is thrown in the cell.
I am standing outside. Coincidentally, there is a mobile money desk next to the police post. On the side of the market, there are women selling fresh fruit and vegetables. They are sitted under umbrellas to protect themselves from the scorching sun. Even though I carry an umbrella with me (in my backpack), I don’t open it to protect myself from the sweltering heat. I am burning up. I am observing the action. Jama for a while has been making what looks like frantic calls. I hadn’t earlier noticed since he did not seem to have been speaking on the phone; only pressing it (maybe texting). This time around, in the cell, he hands over his phone to a person who is non-uniformed. It seems there is an ongoing phone call and this man, who I’ve seen for the first time at the police station is talking on phone. Then he returns the phone to Jama, who is already locked up with other men in the cell.
After about 15 minutes of waiting, one of the market women adjacent to the station asks me to talk to the police officers. I told her I had done so, and she insisted that I talk to them again. One of the officers (the one who received the call) steps outside of the station and Jama is led to him. I advance towards them but stay at a distance not too close yet not too far. Jama walks back to the station but stops at the tiny mobile money desk. He quick withdraws an amount of money. Then he is back to the man outside the station. They are haggling? The main is insisting on something I can’t tell. Jama seems to be pleading. A few minutes later. He is released. He is a free man. He has been released back to the streets with his signposts intact.
The whole ordeal lasted close to 1.5 hours. I am apologizing to Jama for having put him in trouble; he tells me not to worry about is as “this is Uganda!” Everyone works for their stomach.
We’re walking back to Pewi. He tells me he needs to cool down a little bit. I offer to buy him lunch as he unwinds. He says he needs to cool down first. We’re walking by [redacted] street, this street would lead us to the roundabout that is not really a roundabout, before we branch off to his work location. He is angry that his boss in the repair shop had not bailed him out, that the boss had said that they had not made any money that day. When he called that boss again, probably when he was being dragged through the streets, he says that the phone was off. He was bitter was not entirely surprised. I was surprised. We stand by the roadside, with two tall buildings in our immediate vicinity; one is MEGA house and the other is Shopper’s Arcade (the building ahead of us that is adjacent to Pewi). Let’s proceed. Let’s go back to Pewi. Jama asks that I follow him as we branch off to a small murram road. It’s a curved road that leads to an open-air drug den: Marijuana! This is in the middle of city. I was even more surprised. In all the time I had spent in the city, never had I heard of or even seen of this place.
Jama wants a smoke break. There are many young men smoking marijuana in the open. Some are dashing off after their breaks. Jama buys one joint. He has a lighter, which he uses to carefully light up the marijuana joint despite the wind that blows in his direction. He has a small wooden “crutch” that he uses to enable him smoke.
He is hyperventilating as he smokes. He does it in quick succession. He seems to want it to hit him quickly. A few minutes in it; he is laughing sheepishly, telling me that this is how he cools down, catches a break. We’re back to recapping the whole escapade, notably the phone calls he has been making and how was bailed out. He tells me that although he had never called the Indian boss, he decided to call him for him. The man immediately sent him 50k. This is what he used to pay the police and KCCA racket. He adds that when he was haggling with the police man earlier it was over the exact amount. The cops wanted 50k but he had withdrawn 48k (2k was probably withdrawal fees). The cops ended up settling for 45k. Jama said that he had told the Indian man about the risks of the signpost business, and cometh the eleventh hour; the Indian man saved the day. He says that he won’t ask for the weekly emolument from the Indian man. The man had paid for his freedom, even if it’s possible it could be shortlived. Since it had been a slow business day for his repair boss, it’s unlikely that he would get any commission. Going home with any payments wasn’t unusual.
No sooner had he finished the joint than he pulled out what seemed to be a cigarette. This was rolled in a white piece of paper, and off he puffed away. I notice his lips are pale, maybe this is from smoking. He looks hungry. I remind him of the offer to get him lunch. He is happy to take it, and says that he would buy “bongo” (some kind of yogurt) and something like a donut or bread. This is not what I had in mind. I am quiet as he pulls out a fresh pack of chewing gum and begins chewing. Good for disguising breath perhaps. We decide to head out from the open hideout.
We’re now talking about the misfortune that befell him that day. He says that such misfortune hadn’t befallen him in a “long” time. He had last been arrested maybe over a month previously. I told him that it was all my fault. What would he do? Give up on the enterprise altogether. That didn’t seem like an option he was deeply considering as this unenviable episode was probably part of the job, some sort of collateral damage. He goes ahead to tell me of some concoction that he uses to protect him. He got it from his “godmother,” and it comprises seasalt and kabani (a dry plant whose English name I don’t know). He mixes these ingredients with his bath water. And uses them maybe every three to four days. He is convinced they work, and maybe this is the time to use them again. I don’t offer much support than listen to him think out loud.
We’re advancing towards Pewi. We cross the road to the main entrance. There’s a boda boda stage, where a man warmly tells us “welcome back!” A recognition of the travails and tribulations that Jama has been through. I smile back at the man. It is all genuine, camaraderie. We’re in this together.
My lunch offer is still on the table. But Jama wants to take a bathroom break before he goes to see his “repair” boss. I must head out at this point. It’s probably too late to follow up with Boris, whom I’d initially come to see at Pewi. I hand the 20k note to Jama and ask him to get 10k for his lunch. He breaks the bill into 10k denominations from one of the boda men next to us, and hands back to me a 10k note. He is grateful and seems happy. We promise to keep in touch as we bid our adieus.