Ugandian ground-based Kampala Casino - Trying hard to get a Jackpot

The jackpot at Kampala Casino was a cool Shs 17.5 million. Each of us secretly prayed to hit it – with a tactical ‘investment’ of Shs 500,000 at most. It was never to be.

Most gamblers soon lost interest in the jackpot and played other machines, just for fun.
Then one Wednesday night an inner voice told me: BP why don’t you go to the casino. Tonight is jackpot night!

However, another voice said: No. BP. Don’t go to the casino tonight. Remember you swore to Mama Kisanja that you would never go gambling again.

As the two voices fought inside me, I drove round and round Kimathi Avenue, past the Kampala Casino, back to Kampala Road and back to the casino…

The hesitant inner voice grew even stronger: Please, don’t go in… Go home now…
I drove away, leaving half my heart behind.

I returned to the casino the following night only to find my opportunistic fans moaning: “Yi, BP. Where were you last night? Someone hit the jackpot at 2 a.m. That should have been ours!”
How much was it? I asked.

“He got Shs 17.5 million. That is quite something, eh?” one said.
Many must have felt a personal sense of loss because whenever I win, I give them ‘something’.

Losing your stake is, however, always a very lonely affair – fans or no fans. You arrive at the casino with all the Shs 500,000 you could draw off your ATM. Within 20 minutes, it is all gone…

Your legs feel wobbly and you do not want to look at anyone. Even the booze so generously served on the house is suddenly so bitter. You wish you had kept the Shs 500,000 instead of gambling it all away. But it is too late.

The last time round, I even abandoned my drink at the counter. All I wanted was to run away, far away from the casino.
The moment you lose, all your ‘ardent fans’ melt away – one by one. You stay there alone, broke and so lonely.

Gambling can also be great fun, though: it raises your adrenalin.
Sometimes you come so close to hitting the jackpot; then your heart misses two beats as you miss it again, and again, by just one line.
Next time, the machine swallows your Shs 500,000 in less than 30 minutes – forcing you to abandon it in disgust. But someone else comes after you, plays just three coins (Shs 3,000) and hits the jackpot!
You kick yourself.

Off the machines and tables, the casino is a good place for unexpected re-unions.
This week I suddenly bumped into this Rwandan babe, a former coursemate at Makerere University. We were both ‘Lumboxers’ – she lived in the Box (Mary Stuart Hall) and me in the Great Lumumba Hall. Her name is Perfect Kaberuka.

Back then, we knew her as Perfect ‘Namuleme’ and we all thought she was a Muganda and Ugandan.
It was only in July 1994, after the Rwandan Patriotic Army (RPA) had captured power in Kigali that Perfect finally announced she is Rwandan – and was, therefore, on her way ‘home’ to rebuild her motherland.
That shocked even us – her close friends. We could suddenly recognise the shape of her nose, the hips and all the other Tutsi-like features that made her the perfect babe she was. She was so unlike the real Baganda girls, whose most outstanding attribute are those large, shapeless noses.

Perfect has changed now. Those days she was rather thin and bony, though always very beautiful. She must be doing so well in Kigali, because all her bodily features are now so full, even tempting.
We reminisced over those good, old days of the ‘Lumbox Solidarity’: How we used to sneak into Perfect’s room for the night, although university rules made it “illegal” for men to remain inside women’s halls after midnight.

One night we were trapped inside the Box after an evening of binge drinking. We couldn’t return to our own hall because the guards downstairs wouldn’t let us out without a hefty bribe. Our bladders were really bursting after too much beer, yet we were too scared to visit the toilets in a women-only hall.

As we pondered whether to pee in small pails inside Perfect’s room, our hosts came up with this bright idea: Just dress up in our dresses, disguise your face with a headscarf and walk to the bathrooms like any other woman.

It almost worked until an observant resident noticed that the ‘fellow girls’ she was sharing the bathroom with had male beards as well.
The silly Boxer screamed as if she had just seen her father’s naked ghost.

We dived back into Perfect’s room as if a thunderbolt had just struck us – with all the urine still running down our legs…

Perfect still remembers everything, and that night, at the casino, she teased me: “Banange BP, how is your bladder these days!”

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