A Discourse on Fallen Class, Marital Realities, and the Humour of Human Collapse

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

 

Prologue: When Class Dances with Calamity

 

There comes a time in a man’s life when his necktie no longer speaks boardroom grammar and his cologne loses its power to command attention. That was the case of Tata wa baana, a man once wrapped in the fragrance of power and the silk of international privilege. A bank manager in Kampala. A former World Bank envoy to the UK. The kind of man whose footsteps made car alarms salute. His suits were conversations. His handshake was policy. Even his friends were a curated museum of class and elegance.

 

And me?

 

I was just his neighbour.

 

By luck, proximity, and a bit of inherited humour from my maternal uncle, I had managed to slip into his world—not by bank statement, but by borrowed chair during compound evening chats. And that, my dear reader, is where this story begins.

 

The Fall: Of Silk Ties and Soiled Slippers

 

Retrenchment. That corporate euphemism that wraps poverty in a suit.

 

It came like a thief with keys.

 

From a corner office to a corner of the compound, Tata wa baana slid down the ranks faster than an okra in soup. The man who once ordered coffee by origin—“Brazilian, medium roast, no sugar, just dignity”—now stirred posho with a walking stick.

 

On this fateful day, I visited him—not as a sympathiser, but as a confused bachelor seeking sage counsel. I wanted advice on the mysteries of marriage. Who better to ask than a man who once dated beauty queens with PhDs in perfume?

 

He looked side to side, as though truth had become contraband.

 

> “Muuna Lubogo,” he began, with the kind of sorrow that makes even the sky forget to shine, “nzhe naali wakaabi nnyo. I was the top branch. First class. My woman had to match. Educated, elegant, imported English. Now… things have shifted.”

 

He whispered like a man undressing his soul.

 

> “These days, as long as she’s a woman… that’s enough. Niweekaba kamukeene ndya bulyee.”

 

Loosely translated: I’ve reduced my standards—if it’s edible, I eat. Period.

 

The Wife Strikes Back: The Thunder in Silk

 

And as if the gods of theatre had choreographed it, from behind the curtain of the kitchen, came a voice that made mosquitoes pause in prayer.

 

> “Otyo baba toofa! Otyo bw’okola? Bambi, wakili bwo kwaana kwaana, kwaana ku ba’basinga, so that the whole village doesn’t laugh at me!”

 

Translation?

“At least, father of my children, if you must cheat, please cheat with someone who looks better than me! Spare me the shame!”

 

The entire banana plantation went mute. The birds suspended their songs. Even the house rats seemed to bow in respect of the emotional earthquake that had just erupted.

 

I sat there, chewing dry air.

 

That, dear friends, was the end of our marital talk.

 

The African Wisdom in the Ruins

 

There is an old Basoga proverb that says:

 

> “Enkoko y’owulileeku lwakubula e’yindhi.”

A cock that crows too loud has no rival in the compound.

 

And perhaps that was tata wabaana’s tragedy: He had crowed too loud for too long, and now silence was eating his dignity one teaspoon at a time.

 

There is something profoundly tragic about men who are built for first class but are forced to live in economy. Not because they lack ability, but because life, that reckless driver, sometimes takes a wrong turn with you asleep at the wheel.

 

And yet, in his humility, his words bore the raw truth of marriage:

 

> “Education doesn’t build a home. Fancy does not cook food. Elegance does not wash your feet when you’re sick. Marriage is not about marrying your CV; it’s about enduring the rain under the same broken roof.”

 

Comic Pain and the Reality of Adjusted Expectations

 

There is something both comic and painful in his resignation.

Like a lion licking millet porridge.

Like a Mercedes Benz parked in a goat pen.

 

But in that moment, I understood a timeless truth:

 

> Class without cash becomes comedy.

And marriage without understanding becomes a civil war in slow motion.

 

 

Epilogue: For Every Bachelor Still Dreaming

 

To every unmarried man who believes he must first find a woman who speaks ten languages, walks like a Paris runway, and cooks like a Michelin chef—I bring you the gospel according to Tata wa baana:

 

> “Niweekaba kamukeene ndya bulyee.”

 

Let that settle deep in your bones.

 

Sometimes, the one who stands by your side with patience, prayer, and a warm cup of millet is more precious than the one who sparkles in degrees but freezes your soul.

 

Final Thought

 

Life will humble even the proudest crown.

Marriage will demand more than beauty.

And love, real love, is often hidden in the places where ego dare not enter.

 

So the next time you hear a stylish man whispering about his past glory, remember—it is not the silk he wore, but the silence he carries, that reveals the true depth of his fall.

 

But even in the fall, there is wisdom.

 

> “Empola empola, entamu eya nenkoko bajiwuula.”

(Slowly, even the chicken’s cooking pot gets full.)

 

Let us walk slowly.

 

Let us love wisely.

 

And let us laugh, even when the tears threaten to come.

 

—Lubogo Isaac Christopher

For the broken, the stylish, and the fallen.

 

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