Diary of a Broke Kampala Fashionista – Part 2

Diary of a Broke Kampala Fashionista is a new series on Satisfashion UG. Kampala born Kirabo has a knack for fashion and in another life, she was born in New York City. She dreams of going there but is too broke to even live alone. She lives with her elder sister Mutesi, who treats her like a child because she spends and acts like one. The weekly struggles are all (unintentionally) fashion related. She narrates her story of trying to realize her dreams while sliding in tips of how she gets by looking like a million bucks on a very slim wallet. She interns at a law firm in Kampala. 

See part 1 here.

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SZA once said in a song, “Honesty hurts when you’re getting older” and honestly when I look at the things Mutesi decides to wear on a daily, I just feel pain in my eyes. It’s like she’s blind. Her husband Kato doesn’t seem to mind, but I take great joy in reminding her how boring she looks.

“Ooooh olive green skirt today, special occasion?” I started over breakfast. She lifted her round eyes over her cup of chai and sighed.

“What now?”

“Mmm, nothing, you just look exceptionally uninteresting today, I thought maybe it’s your anniversary”

“Shut up, Kirabo”

She never really is one for retorting. Ever since our parents died a couple years ago, her seriousness which to me appears as blandness has grown to unimaginable levels. She used to be this bubble of pink but is now lost in responsibility and it shows. For some reason, she thinks she has to be my stand-in mom. And it’s super draining. I mean, I’m 20-something, I am a grown woman, I can hold my own. I just need to live rent free for a while. But that doesn’t mean she should mother me.

“Hurry up, aren’t you late for work?” Yes, she is always trying to get me out of her house. I never leave fast enough. Seeing her angry is the closest I’m going to get to see her passion, so, annoy I will. Aren’t I the best little sister?

Eventually, I left the house and this time took a boda-boda all the way to work. It was a sunny day today; I was not ready for the strong smell of sweat in the taxi, baking and forming my own contribution to the sweat bank.

After the other telling-off from Boss Lady I decided to overwhelm her with professional dressing.  So, today I had a yellow button-down shirt inside a plain black spaghetti strap top, tucked into a black office skirt. I looked so chic, I think I spent extra time admiring myself in the mirror in the morning. So professional. The hair was pulled up into two Bantu knots, placed up like pigtails.

Birungi was waiting for me when I got to work because apparently, we had some rich new client who was coming in, although we didn’t know why. Her excitement was about the man. Apparently, he is a tall drink of chocolate and has chest muscles which are so defined, each curve can be seen through his shirt.

Ok now I was interested, I love me a man with some muscle. He was in Boss Lady’s office, so we stationed ourselves at the file cabinet outside her office, “looking” for a non-existent case file. I wanted to see him for myself because Birungi has been known to exaggerate things from time to time.

Eventually, the gentleman walked out of Boss Lady’s office, smiling and telling her how he looks forward to working with her (he’s going to come back!). His teeth! Blinding. His eyes have as if bu diamonds and they curl up in the most endearing way when he smiles. He is bald-headed, which is a strong look to pull off, he does so with ease. He is wearing a shirt and vest coat, alas! Birungi wasn’t lying about the chest! I want to lay my head there immediately. He is a towering figure; he is like 2 filing cabinets stacked on each other. His scent wafted over to me and it smelt like sandalwood and Prada. Beautiful just. He caught my eye as he turned around to leave and I immediately felt my stomach skip.

If it wasn’t for the fried cassava I had in the morning it might have completely left my body (those things can keep a girl in place). I turned back to my busy work and spent the rest of the afternoon looking at my computer screen while thinking about his smile. Only one thing managed to distract me enough, a text message came up on my phone trying to confirm my presence at a cocktail networking event tonight.

Tonight?! How am I going to pull this off? I certainly couldn’t turn down the event, it most definitely has some drinks and snacks involved, and also I need the contacts, you never know. I checked my wallet, sigh, I had only 30,000 shillings. So I went to the bathroom and took a look in the mirror to assess the situation. My whole outfit had to go, maybe the shoes could remain, if I got a shift dress, maybe, maybe a loose T shirt dress. A classy one of course. The bag was too big. But if I run home first I can find another one, right?

So, at the end of the day I signed out and ran downtown, to Grand Corner Plaza; I could rely on it for cute unique second-hand clothing at a quarter of the price. Amongst a million “sister, saloni” requests and catcallers, I reached the level of bliss. I hurried on to one store and asked from the outside, panting, “Do you have shirt dresses?” They ushered me in because no one has time to take off shoes to enter their carpeted shops without first seeing something they want.

The salesman got about 4 different dresses, I settled for a silky blue one, it looked like a T-shirt but not as casual, its hems had gold trimmings which classed it up a bit, not to mention they matched my golden hair. I entered, tried it on, and paid the guy 20,000. I didn’t take it off, just stuffed my old clothes in the big bag and hurried home.

It took me 15 minutes to refresh my makeup, spray starch spray on the dress to mask the smell, and grab a black clutch that’d match with my shoes. I convinced Mutesi to give me some Uber money and rushed off.

To cut the story short, I kinda wish I didn’t. They had no Uganda Waragi at their bar, so I had to settle for some whiskey that made sure I didn’t over drink. I met only a few people, most of the others were acting stuck up as if they didn’t know the type of event they were at. Those that did talk to me focused on bragging about how far they had made it in life and name-dropped so hard you’d think the more popular people they knew, the more influential it made them. It was exhausting. On my way home I stopped by a store, got myself a bottle of Uganda Waragi Coconut and some juice, plus a big bag of crisps.

At least I had left the new season of Blackish at home. I could laugh out my pain there. Upside? At least I have a new dope dress in my closet.

…….

Look out for part 3 next week 

Cover photo by William Stitt on Unsplash

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