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#29: Favour ain't fair
Shem Opolot
July 21, 2023
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Happy Friday 🎉 Last Friday, I MC’d an event for content creators where there were as many men as surprise pieces of meat in your katogo. I wore a nice shirt and loafers, worked the crowd, collected names and followers, and had an all-around fantastic time.
What nobody knows is that the tiny midgets in my stomach were trying out for the Olympics that whole weekend, and only God gated my guts for the entirety of the gig.
And the second I dropped the mic, I had to go.
On a more solid note, I’m serious about this public speaking thing, so book me. The vibe I’m going for is corporate and interviewing presidents. Not your wedding, please. I don’t want to say the food is coming for the millionth time.
Estimated read time: 8 minutes (worth it, trust me)
💡 1 thing I've learned
Favour ain’t fair.
Source: GIPHY
I had the scariest visa experience this week, and I had to share it with you.
If you’ve applied for a U.S. visa before, you’re familiar with the mini-concentration camp they run in that coliseum. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, believe it or not, I envy you.
I had an appointment at 7.45 a.m., but I was done at noon.
Visa appointments and airport runs are the only occasions on which Ugandans muster punctuality. I got to the embassy at 7.15 a.m., and the crowd huddled under the paltry pergola, avoiding the angry sun, was already threatening to spill into the street.
And don’t tell their bosses, but the overwhelmed guards were beginning to cut corners on the frisking. I only once got my balls grazed by that beeping gun. Way below average historically.
All visa seekers become lemmings. A group of visa seekers is a perfect target for robbery with a neon orange plastic pistol; they’ll follow any instructions.
“Empty your pockets, put the contents in the basket, and step through the machine.”
“Yes, sir”
“Give me your national ID, your firstborn child, and a blood sample.”
“Yes, sir”
But we left that high school canteen and moved onto the next shade—a sturdier pergola inside the embassy. The new pergola came with perks like dedicated seating: a section for people waiting for fingerprints, a section for people waiting to be interviewed, and a section for those who didn't know which section they belonged to. They’d find out soon, though.
We got instructions from a stiff, towering, slender man whose confidence came from his expertise in managing lemmings. The stiff man—we’ll call him Simon—paced the gaps in between our chairs, dispensing instructions and fear left and right in equal measure.
“Get Forms A, B, and C, tuck them in your passport, and wait your turn,” Simon said, essentially but much less eloquently.
After Simon’s repetitive speech, the damsel next to me, who had been fidgeting for a while, finally nudged me. I watched her struggle out of the corner of my eye because I had nothing better to do, but I waited for her nudge, even though I knew it was coming.
“That Form B he’s talking about, which one is it?” The damsel we’ll call Leila asked with exam-room discretion.
I’ve done this many times, so I helped Leila, and my advice led her to scamper out of the embassy. We’d hear from her again at around 11.30.
I’m using time liberally here, by the way, because they took my watch, my phone, and my dignity and self-respect.
I advanced to the “to be interviewed” section of the pergola. Our chests were broader there, and we turned our noses down at the rest—such plebs!
In front of me was Peter. Peter was restless, shifting in his seat and rubbernecking. Again, I know this because I had nothing better to do. Eventually, our eyes locked, and I asked him why the f**k he wouldn’t settle down.
He said he wasn’t nervous and then proceeded to list all the reasons why he was nervous.
Directly behind Peter, and beside me was John. A funny fellow. John commanded the confidence of a thousand U.S. congressmen and spoke about the happenings inside the embassy like he was an ambassador.
But John had never been to America.
Peter, John, and I small-talked about the horrors of visa appointments and the painful fact that our country forced us to these degrading lengths.
Our mouths dried up and our hearts pumped furiously as we played musical chairs all the way to the front of the line. Seriously, the heartbeats were furious because how else could you explain John’s buttons opening and closing involuntarily?
We entered the interview box, and it wasn’t what it used to be (I thought to myself). I didn’t want to be that guy, acting all experienced.
There used to be chairs in the cold interview box for those awaiting the firing squad, while the interviewees battled in a soundproof cell, exchanging hush-hush conversations with the interviewer as you do with the bank teller in your bank before they tell you the system is down.
But now there were no chairs, the cell was open, and everyone in the interview box could hear the bank teller say your account was empty.
Peter went first, and it was brutal. He stepped out to join us once and was clearly distraught but wouldn’t say anything. We couldn’t ask. He went in again. We held out breaths. He emerged with a smile and a blue form—the “YES” form. We collectively exhaled.
John and his confidence were next.
I was at the cell door while John fought for his life, trading gesticulations with the bank teller across the glass.
There was a clock in the interview box, and it was 11.30 a.m. when Leila walked in for fingerprinting. She looked at me and smiled, and I returned a toothless smirk and a nod.
Suddenly, I heard: “NO!”
The bank teller shoved John's papers under the glass, looked past him and his wounded confidence, and invited me into the cell with her eyes.
It all happened so fast, and I didn’t get a chance to speak to John (but what would I say?).
My interview lasted less than two minutes once the bank teller, an advanced-aged white lady with a face full of folds that told a hundred stories, mentioned we’d attended rival schools. I attended the SMACK to her Namilyango, and at that point, my posture relaxed. I even cracked a joke about how terrible her Namilyango was.
She gave me my YES form and a smile.
Favour ain’t fair.
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🚀 Pro tip
Make a list and check it twice ✅ ✅
Excel is still superior to Google Sheets, and this is an objective statement.
But when Google Sheets does something well, it’s excellent.
Case in point: checklists.
Context: You want to assign tasks.
Google Sheets is perfect for this:
1. We start with the data
We want to add a Status column that shows whether the task is completed, and Google Sheets makes this super easy
2. We add a Status column, select the range where we want to insert the checkboxes, go up to Insert, and click Checkbox. Done ✅ .
Now you can check the tasks as they’re completed, and this article shows you how to take it a step further.
🧩 Where fun goes to flourish
Brain teaser
Brought to you by Braingle
How can you make the following equation correct without changing it at all?
8 + 8 = 91
Answer below
🔥 Shem’s picks
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🤖 This AI company made in Uganda will save you loads of time*
🥺 Which Pixar movie made you cry?
*This is sponsored advertising content
❓Riddle answer
Answer:
Look at it upside down.
16 = 8 + 8.
Have a great weekend,
— Shem
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