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#99: The case of the suitcases.
Shem Opolot
November 29, 2024
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Happy Friday 🎉 While driving through a posh neighborhood in Kampala the other day, I saw a house with a massive “NOT FOR SALE” sign, which got me wondering: Is everything for sale by default? Or vice versa? Is a giant not-for-sale sign on your perimeter wall the real estate version of an unsolicited “I’M SORRY I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!”?
I have three slots available for Saturday’s productivity workshop. Hit reply if you like nice things.
LIFE.
The case of the suitcases.
"Did You Say 'Bribe'?" by ccPixs.com is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
I skipped and wedged my right foot into one of the metal stirrups dangling from the horse’s side and flung my left leg up and over to mount the racehorse. The leather saddle creaked underneath me as I sought comfort on the horse’s back—in vain. I took the two reins in either hand and tugged them gently but firmly to communicate my intentions to the horse.
Yeah, I definitely didn’t ride a horse, but let’s stick with the horse-riding analogy.
I needed a ride to the airport, so I wielded the strings of capitalism as though they were reins on a racehorse. Lyft in one window and Uber in the other, I pitted the ride-hailing apps against each other, pulled, and galloped toward the lowest price possible.
I settled on Lyft at half the price Uber offered.
That’s exactly how capitalism is supposed to work.
I packed my bags the night before, but I worried about their weight. But that’s life, right? Sometimes you worry about your weight and then proceed to do nothing about it.
I sat on my suitcases to cram all the ‘do you have space in your suitcase for something small’ trinkets in—ranging from lotions and perfumes to oats for the kids and I. You’d think that after traveling so many times, I could sense when the suitcases were overweight, and you’d be right.
But delusion is the most powerful force in the universe.
My Lyft arrived at 2.03 p.m.
The driver earned his five stars by rushing to carry my suitcases once he heard them clattering against the cobblestone pavement. If anything, he was desperate for the noise to stop.
He loaded my swollen bags into his deceptively spacious Hyundai Sonata.
I fastened my seat belt while he lathered me with customer service:
“Would you like mints?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“You’re sweating; here are some wipes.”
“Thank you!”
“Let me turn on the A/C.”
“Marry me!”
That man was so kind, I almost asked him how his day was. But I was scared he might actually tell me. And I was sleepy.
With a breath mint tingling on my tongue and the AC drying my well-moisturized skin, I dozed off for the 45-minute ride.
“United Airlines?” The kind driver’s soft voice woke me up 42 minutes later.
“Yes, yes,” I said, wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth and unfastening my seatbelt.
He merged into the drop-off lane, and when he was close enough to the pavement and the United sign, he parked the car, double-indicated, and hopped out to unload my suitcases.
“I can carry the—“ I said quietly, the way people fake reach for their wallets with no intention of paying.
He lined up my three swollen suitcases before me like toy soldiers.
“Have a safe flight!”
“You too,” I responded like an idiot.
Near the terminal's entrance, two middle-aged Indian men buzzed about the two bag drop-off kiosks, tagging bags and teaching old people how to use QR codes. I also participated in nation-building by helping the middle-aged couple ahead of me, who erroneously tried to make the QR code on their phone kiss the QR code on the flyer affixed to the kiosk.
Rookies.
The metallic platform for weighing suitcases served as the connective tissue between the two kiosks.
It was my turn to check my bags, so one of the Indian men (we’ll call him ‘the bag guy’ henceforth) inelegantly asked me to place them on the scale.
The target weight was 50 lbs per suitcase.
The first bag rang in like an overweight boxer at 53 lbs.
The bag guy exclaimed, while making infinity signs with his head.
The second bag—56 lbs.
The bag guy just laughed and walked away to serve other customers.
I essentially had to lose 9 lbs to fit in my wedding dress for a wedding in three hours.
Was that lotion important? Uganda is hot, after all. Would my sister murder me if I left her perfume behind? (Yes).
Everything in the 53-pound bag was essential, so the 56-pound bag would lose several assets in the divorce.
The containers of oats were the first casualties. Next—the six hard-cover books my friend gifted the kids. I tossed two.
Reweighed. 51 lbs.
The bag guy smiled from behind me, his chin lightly grazing my left shoulder as if we were watching a football game on a Nokia 3310.
The kids have way too many storybooks. Honestly, they’ll learn how to read eventually. I failed my primary school pre-entry reading exam before joining Buganda Road Primary School, but I turned out fine.
So I tossed the rest of the books.
Reweighed. 48 lbs.
At this point, beads of sweat tickled my forehead.
I flayed open both suitcases on the concrete beside the kiosk like cow thighs in a butchery because I had to perform emergency transplant surgery to achieve weight parity.
Reweighed. 50 lbs and 50.6 lbs.
Over my shoulder again, making more infinity signs with his head:
“That’s okay. I take care of it for you. You take care of me,” the bag guy said.
I had a whiplash of familiarity hearing that.
After placing the suitcases back in toy soldier formation before me, the bag guy tagged the first bag, and then right before tagging the second bag, he leaned in close enough to take a prom picture with me and said:
“You give me something?”
I fake patted myself down before mumbling softly but audibly:
“No cash. Venmo?”
It’s the oldest trick in the book. You say you don’t have cash, and all your problems go away.
The bag guy pulled out his phone and opened the Venmo app.
“Shit!” I muttered as I opened my Venmo app.
I sent him $20 out of a possible $200 for an overweight bag.
I couldn’t think of a more fitting way to start my journey to Uganda.
THINGS.
A quote
“Everything must be paid for twice.”
A new novel, for example, might require twenty dollars for its first price—and ten hours of dedicated reading time for its second. Only once the second price is being paid do you see any return on the first one. Paying only the first price is about the same as throwing money in the garbage.
A tweet.
I agree.
The last five years have taught me two lessons about happiness in life:
1. Clean the house.
2. Leave the house.— Irina Dumitrescu (@irinibus)
1:42 PM • Nov 16, 2024
A picture.
I went for a walk with my mama, and we marveled at this tree!
WORK.
I want to save you time.
You have some data:
And you want quick stats from the revenue column.
1. Select your column of interest
2. Navigate to Data > Column Stats
3. A side panel opens on the right with several relevant information on the data in the column.
You’re welcome.
If you need help with Excel, book a session with me or get this guide.
FUN.
The Friday Fix playlist
Shem’s picks
✅ A list of things people blamed on short skirts.
✅ Search any movie scene by word or phrase.
✅ A list of 75+ of the best add-ins, plugins, and apps for Microsoft 365 Excel.
✅ A great article on manifestation.
✅ Why every room needs one ugly object.
Have a great weekend,
— Shem
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