What a marathon of a month it’s been since mid-August! Besides the physical and mental drain, it’s been waves of mixed emotions for me: highs, lows and everything in-between. My mom’s been away in Europe for a little while cos she wasn’t feeling too good. “So, Em, where you come from, when someone’s not feeling good, they hop onto an airplane to Europe?”. Yup! To go on medical vacation! Partly why, as she packed her bags, I insisted she carries a pair of fancy shades to slide on during those evening walks at the beach. Assuming there was one near the hospital! I doubt. But you get what I mean.

Anyway, mom returned only a few weeks back on 25th August, a week shy of a major event on my calendar. At this point we were at the height of hectic preparations for the year’s annual September concert-gala, of which I’m party to as a performing guitarist. Also, it was quite daunting having to shuffle between catching up with mom and focusing on the long hours of rehearsals that had already been on-going for some weeks. Thank God, the event was a great success.

Except, just when I thought I could then have the following couple of days to recuperate from the bustle of the previous weeks, mom unfortunately passes away on Tuesday, 6th September! It’s difficult to express what that felt like. When you lose someone that close, it takes a bit of time just to accept that they’re not around anymore, or that they’re the person you saw lying motionless inside that wooden box! I still regularly get the sense that mom’s out there somewhere. I feel like she’s taken a trip someplace far, and that one of these days she’ll call and say, “Hey son, I’m back!”

For the next few days after mom passes, there’s a hive of activity; plenty of back and forth movement and travel in the countryside. First, to mom’s country home in Soroti, 5hours drive East of Kampala, and then back to grandma’s place in Pallisa, an hour’s drive from Soroti, where we laid mom to rest. By the time we make it back to Kampala on the evening of Wednesday 14th September, I feel like there’s an elephant seated on my shoulders. I’m terribly fatigued!

This is where Sheila, my cousin, comes in. She’s madam Fixer! If you like to get anything moving or sorted expeditiously, this is definitely your go-to girl. You’ll want to have her number on speed-dial! Trust me! Hanging around Sheila for a short while, and it wouldn’t take you long to conclude that she’s probably got the contacts for every major service provider imaginable. I wish I were exaggerating! But I’m not.

Are you looking for the tastiest samosas in town? Or you simply need an expert tailor to adjust your suit? Maybe you’re flying out to Singapore and need a specific cab driver to pick you from Changi airport! Perhaps you’d like to know where to have a fine spa treatment? I certainly do!

The next time you’re in Kampala and craving some mouth-watering samosas, my girl Sheila has got you covered. Just drop me an email!

On arrival from upcountry, it’s a brief pit stop at home on Wednesday night, about 9pm, before we drive out to an exclusive spa in the affluent Kololo neighborhood. The spa closes 10pm, but madam Fixer already made a couple of calls earlier while en route to Kampala, to book us in. Since we checked in rather late, our menu options are sort of limited. Or maybe we preferred not to do much. We’ll therefore only do spa. The other sophisticated stuff can be done over the weekend.

After a lengthy morning-into-the-afternoon meeting on Saturday, the evening finds me driving back home and arriving in the nick of time for us to make our way to the spa. This time, though, we’re going someplace different! We’re headed to a parlor somewhere in Naguru, an upscale surburb in Kampala. It’s a 10-to-15minutes’ drive from home. We arrive and pull over in the parking lot. It’s approaching dusk!

At the reception desk are three ladies. They’ll be—and they’re—doing all the explaining to help the five of us get a better understanding of the available packages and the corresponding rates. Honestly, I’m hardly picking anything they’re saying. I steamed and grilled in the sauna mid-week; so, I’m actually fine doing a massage only. Besides, the packages have got fancy sophisticated names; I can’t possibly recall the one I signed up for.

In a few minutes, we disperse cos everyone’s decided what they’ll do. I’m shown my room, which’s around the corner. I just haven’t yet met the person that’s been assigned the awesome duty of squeezing and rubbing the fatigue out of my flesh and bones. That’s okay, though. For now, I’ll head to the shower. Once I was done cleaning up, I dried up, wrapped that little white towel round my waist and returned to wait in my quiet room.

My massage room had one entry which doubled as the exit! I desperately hoped the exit wouldn’t at any point become an emergency exit!

As I sat there, a memory came to mind of a weird tale that a friend of mine had recently narrated. The story goes that she once visited a massage parlor somewhere in town and things unexpectedly slipped out of hand. Quite literally! She goes ahead and attempts to convince me that everyone’s got a chink in the armor, and that’s all the unprofessional masseuse needs to identify in order for things to get full-blown out of control. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to ask the name of the place she had gone to so I could steer clear!

It’s 5:20pm. I’m getting into an hour-long session shortly. I can’t believe I’m entertaining these crazy thoughts!

At 5:30pm my masseuse walks into the room. She’s a good-looking young lady. About 5ft tall. There’s a mask over her face. While I lay there on the warm massage table, she locks the only door to the room and then turns off the lights! What’s left is some really dim ambient lighting lining the edge of the ceiling. Sounding softly in the background is a playlist of every Kenny-G classic, particularly from his Breathless album. How convenient! Now I’m starting to feel like I could lose my breath anytime! I’m praying to God that this won’t happen in the hour!

Kenny G’s deeply expressive music has got a knack for setting the atmosphere for quite a number of intense activities!

As I lay there facing the ceiling; with a white towel wrapping my vitals from the waist below; she approaches and says ‘hello’. Her name is—I’ll not say her real name for purposes of privacy. For this story, we’ll call her—let’s call her Samalie.

Samalie then issues the first instruction. “You have to take off the towel!” She says. Trouble is that with the towel away, I’m totally bare. My personal belongings will be on full display thenceforth. But let’s see how far this goes. Tell you what: if playing with fire was a person, that would definitely be me! So, I get onto my feet and I’m set to drop the towel. I do, and now I’m completely nude!

Samalie is standing across on the other side of the massage table. We’re literally facing each other at the instant I drop my towel. Am I finished or what!? The only thing in the way of Samalie beholding my glory is a thin white bed sheet that she’s holding full-stretch in front of her face. She can’t see a damn thing!

“Let me know when you’re done!” She says. In a flash, I’m back onto the table, face down. She then drapes the sheet over my body. This girl could do anything to me now and I wouldn’t know what to do. There’s a drawer somewhere in the corner in the direction of my feet, and I can hear her drawing and picking a few items that I soon discover to be massage oil bottles.

For the next thirty minutes, Kenny-G’s classics are playing back-to-back as Samalie traverses the entire surface area of the reverse side—neck to heel—of my oily body with her extremely soft hands, occasional elbows and—at one moment there I swear I felt like she may have climbed onto the table and sat on my legs! Strange as that sounds, the real awkwardness was the silence of that initial half hour. You could hear the reverberation of a pin drop. Not only am I wondering what’s going through her mind, but also hoping that by the time I flip to face up, I will have established what exact direction we’re headed to. That notwithstanding, everything appears to be going well so far. For every section she’s done fixing, she covers back with the sheet.

It’s not unheard of that some massage parlors in Kampala double as brothels. [Internet photo]

In a bid to figure out what’s on her mind, I tactfully break the ice so I don’t get caught flatfooted. I’m well prepared and leaving nothing to chance. “Your boyfriend is really lucky to have you. I hope he doesn’t take you for granted!” I cleverly remarked. “Is it husband or boyfriend?” I quickly added.

“Boyfriend!” Samalie answers. Phew! Right then, I’m quite relieved to know that there’s a man in the picture. The relief is knowing that she’s got a caveat and most definitely has boundaries. I need to keep this conversation going.

“Is he okay with you touching other men in this fashion?” I’m curious. It’s such a dumb question, though, cos, Em, how do you expect her to do her work? Massage you using the back of her foot? Samalie informs me that her boyfriend, who works in Juba, South Sudan, has absolutely no clue she’s a masseuse! According to her, it’s a part time job. I’m guessing her man is only aware of her other job. Samalie doubles as a hairdresser.

Even while it‘s only a sheet covering me, I’m now comfortable enough to turn over and face up so Samalie can begin to work on my side-B. As we continued to conversate, I got to realize that my masseuse is actually a decent young lady [in her mid-twenties, she told me] and she was only trying to eke out a living working two jobs.

I’m beginning to feel concerned for Samalie especially seeing as the profession hazards associated with her trade are often sexual in nature.

“Don’t some clients give you a difficult time?” I inquired.

“They do!” She confesses to regularly receiving sexual advances from her male clients. Perhaps females too–who knows! It’s a weird world we live in these days!

“How do you deal with that?” I ask.

“I take my stand and tell them off!” Samalie says, innocently.

“Is that all?” I ask in disbelief! “Why did you lock the door earlier? Do you have a panic button?” I’m desperately curious.

“No, I don’t,” she responds, “But if a client insists, I walk out the door and don’t return.” Samalie assures me.

Her defense approach is hardly convincing and I’m hoping she can devise something better than that! However, I’m glad that my hour-long session with Samalie is drawing to an end on a wonderful note. She was extremely professional. Though on one or two occasions she came to within a whisker and an eyelash; Samalie didn’t touch me in any place that I rather she didn’t.

That, right there, was a happy ending for me and perhaps the element that will help you distinguish a brothel from a massage parlor the next time you visit one in Kampala.

Follow the conversation on X:

Subscribe for updates
Share this: