Blame it on the police. Apparently, the police believed tracking down people who flaunt what their mama gave them was more deserving of their attention than catching the crooks dipping their hands in the public purse.

So the girls were always on the move, showing up at one of those seedy places unannounced, doing their flesh thing in a flash and disappearing.

I, too, was always on the move, in anticipation of where they might show up next. Somehow, I always got it wrong. Once, a friend called me from some place in Nakulabye to say that the show was on. I drove from Ntinda like the McLaren kid Lewis Hamilton but by the time I arrived at the place, the show was over.

The one time I nailed the Kimansulo girls down somewhere in Kansanga, I was turned away at the door. Apparently, the show was exclusively for Asians. I was sure this was illegal, but then, I couldn’t go and complain to police that I had been turned away from Ekimansulo show because I happen to be black? It’s like going to the police to report that you had gone to steal someone’s television only to find that someone else had already nicked it.

Anyway, I soon gave up chasing the Ekimansulo girls. So you can imagine how happy I am since arriving in New York where you don’t chase after Ekimasulo. Instead, it comes right at you. From television to your neighbours to strangers on the street, it is Ekimansulo everywhere. The best part, you don’t have to pay for it.

The other day, I was going to the laundry room in the basement and who walks into the lift? My neighbour, completely naked, save for a G-string or something equally invisible. She greeted me cheerfully, with a broad smile. I replied sheepishly, trying very hard not to stare. What if I “looked” and she asked me what I was looking at?

But then again, how may times in a lifetime do you get Ekimasulo at such close quarters, even here in America? I said “kama mbaya mbaya” and looked. And guess what, my neighbour didn’t seem to mind at all! I caught myself saying “thank you” when she waltzed out of the lift.

Then another time, I am walking to work in the morning only to find these two girls wearing nothing but their panties and some little things that even a blind man wouldn’t mistake for bras, handing out leaflets promoting a new pub in the neighbourhood.

I went round the block and came back for a second leaflet, and then round again for the third. If it wasn’t for fear of being fired for arriving late at work, I would have spent the whole day going around the block and collecting leaflets from the girls.

For once, I was happy that I was in New York rather than Kampala, where “services” are brought nearer to the people without any risk of police interference.

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