Sole Providers

‘How Can we be Lovers if we Can’t be Friends?’ sang Michael Bolton, addressing, yet again, one of the great existential dilemmas of our age. The Mbarara glitterati recently managed to overcome the complex philosophical issues that form the basis of his work by attending a surprise birthday party, themed in tribute to the man himself. The reason for this diversion from good taste was that Mark, the American infectious disease resident who has previously saved my life, shares his special day with Michael (in a similar fashion, plans are now afoot for Kim’s Bonnie Langford-themed party) and has long expressed an admiration for his works.

The Soren Kierkegaard of mediocre 80's balladry

Naturally, Kim’s first thoughts were of clothing, and so she set out to find an outfit composed of leather waistcoat, billowing white shirt and fake blonde hair. Surprisingly, the plan to discover retro-chic boutiques in a provincial town in sub-Saharan Africa was not immediately successful, and so ambitions were downgraded from Reiss, Whistles and Urban Outfitters to the local thrift market. Her description is below:

There was a general scene of chaos with piles and piles of clothing and, everywhere, an unbelievable number of shoppers. My favourite vendor would be the man who sold waist-high mounds of wedding dresses. If I could’ve thought of a use for one, or four, I’d have been sorely tempted. When I began to consider having one altered into a top I realised that I had to move on.

Mbarara Clothes Market

The next notable salesman would have to be the most enthusiastic guy I have ever met (apart from Dave, obviously). Never before have I met a man more excited about dresses than me (apart from Dave, obviously) but I felt I had met my match. This vendor had a random pile of dresses and enthusiastically repeated: ‘Wonderful dresses! Can you believe it? These are so wonderful!’ over and over again. No matter what your reply was to this apparent statement of fact it did not stop the repetition. However, it must have been a very convincing argument as we did buy three dresses (but still no leather waistcoats or billowing white shirts). 

After the overwhelming sensory assault of the wonderful dresses we went for lunch, inevitably picking up a pair of shoes on the way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we were still no closer to looking like Michael Bolton. Things took a turn for the worse when one of my fellow shoppers decided what we really needed was chest hair, something I never thought I would want, let alone need.  After a quick subject change I hoped the chest hair was forgotten and I continued my week’s work, waiting for the highly-anticipated party, feeling safe in the knowledge that I could look normal in jeans and a top.

Unbeknown to most of the group, our friend Helen had managed to find a hairdresser selling fake hair. I’m pleased to report it was synthetic and plentiful, and so a carrier bag full of blond acrylic hair was brought to the party, different than the usual token bottle of wine but one which actually went down very well.  Prior to the birthday boy attending there was a mad dash whilst Wazungu and Africans alike donned themselves with fake blonde chest and head hair in a desperate attempt to look like Michael Bolton. I’ve never seen Dave look so good.

The party was a great success and we danced into the small hours, fortunately by that time having moved from the Michael Bolton-playing initial venue to an African club with great music. Just a routine night in Mbarara – don’t you wish you were here?