Ugandian ground-based Kampala Casino - The Second Report

February has been my worst month at Kampala Casino. I have lost every gamble I made, and Mama Kisanja was so furious the other day when I staggered home at 3 a.m. and confessed I was as broke as a church mouse because ‘the machines’ had eaten all my money.

“What do you mean the machines have eaten all your money?” she fumed.
“Those machines at the casino. I am sorry, sweet heart. I won’t gamble again!” I pleaded with her.

Unfortunately gambling is like a drug – it is so addictive.
I started it as an occasional pastime, hit an occasional jackpot when I did not expect to win; and it became a habit. It slowly turned into a craze, and it is now an addiction. Just can’t stop!
And it is not my fault really. Gambling is in my blood; it has been running in the family for generations.

Here is the story of my grandfather, and how he gambled his way into poverty – until he had nothing to stake but his wife.
Grandpa was, by village standards, a very rich man: his cattle herd was more than 1,500 – and we simply had too much milk we did not know what to do with it. In fact the aroma of milk and ghee enveloped the whole homestead.

Today, we have no single cow – thanks to grandpa’s gambling habits.
Grandpa and his friends used to pass time playing a local gambling game – zaala. They used coffee beans as their dice, and it often engaged them from dawn to dusk.

In the beginning, it worked in grandpa’s favour. He would stake 50 cows at a time, and win 100 or 150.

Then he started losing. One day he staked 200 animals and lost all. So he staked 300 in the hope that he would win big and recover all that he had lost. But the more he raised the stake, the more he lost.
My grandma’s pleas that he stops gambling fell on deaf ears as grandpa became even more desperate to gamble, and win.

After one week of intense gambling, grandpa’s once huge herd was down to just 50 animals.
His world stood still: should he make a final gamble, hoping his luck would return?

The whole village was watching too – with anxious spectators standing over the gamblers who sat under the big muvule tree that was the rendezvous for many village functions.

My grandma was crying, begging her husband to stop and not risk gambling away the family’s last 50 animals.
But the man was so desperate.

He gambled. And lost!
From a rich cattle owner, he was suddenly a pauper without a single animal.

Then he made the most incredible decision. He would stake his wife, my grandmother!
His gambling opponent warned him not to take the risk.
Grandpa refused.

A quick calculation between the two men put the value of my grandmother at 150 cows. That is, at least three games for grandpa - at 50 animals per game.

The coffee beans were cast. Grandpa lost round one.
He lost round two as well.

He was sweating profusely, and his whole body was wet.
He cast the final coffee beans – and he lost a wife, my grandmother.
And it was no joke, because back then villagers took bets very seriously: all terms and conditions had to be honoured to the letter.

My grandfather wailed, seeing his wife going to another man. My grandma cried too, but she had no say as the die was already cast against her. She had to leave immediately with her new ‘husband’.
But as she packed her bags to leave, the other man reconsidered my grandpa’s plight and forgave him.

“I have taken all your animals. The only thing you had left was your wife. It will kill you if I take her. Keep her!”

Grandpa fell on his knees and kissed the other man’s feet.
He never, ever again gambled until his death 15 years ago at age 101.
Yet, I am now here at Kampala Casino, following right into his risky footsteps!

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