The Faces of Kampala’s Boda Drivers

My name is Ronald, and I am a Boda Driver.

In August of 2012 I left the northern province of Arua, Uganda in search of work. The village I grew up in had become increasingly unstable and work was scarce. One of my 3 brothers, Rogers, had moved out from home in 2008 to Kampala, the city of opportunity. In his time there he would share tales of bright lights, beautiful women, and late nights driving until I used up the little Airtime I had each week. I feel asleep wondering what my future held, and where Rogers was in Uganda’s heart. I had not seen him for many years but when I turned 20 he offered to have me stay with him in his small apartment in town. He was a boda driver and introduced me to his friends at the stage upon my arrival. They were jovial and fun, but I could tell the hot sun, dust, and bustle had weathered them from years on the road. The crowded streets were overwhelming at first, I had only been to Kampala once when I was very young and spent most of my days in my village working in the fields.

After Rogers showed me around the city I started to get my bearings and learned the places most commuters and the occasional mzungu needed to go. After a few weeks of looking for work it was clear that thousands were in the same position as me, out of a stable job and forced to be their own entrepreneurs. For many, this was selling fruit or cooking chapati on the side of the road. Others tried their luck selling clothes at the Friday market. Some even worked for free as long as there employers paid for lunch. The lucky ones were able to become security guards or even had there own shops, but you had to know someone to get there. Without a minimum wage its a slippery slope into uncertainty.

One night when I was out with my brother and his friends, I got talking to one of the men named Joseph about my failed job search. He told me the man he was renting from had a Boda available but it would go quick if I didn’t rent it soon. I had heard stories of drivers getting side-swiped in the traffic or even mugged by their riders, but at that point I was willing to take the risk. I asked Joseph if I could speak to this man first thing in the morning, he agreed.

The next morning Joseph took me to Donald’s office in the center of town. I had not yet explored this place much but the day heated up quick and soon we reached the garage. As we spoke to Joseph it was clear that owning Bodas made you more wealthy than renting them. Joseph’s grizzled confidence showed years of experience renting and I knew this guy was a pro. Having no driving history or credit I had very little negotiating power with the man as he asked me few questions about where I was from, who I knew, and if I had any past experience. He requested I pay 60,000 shillings per week in exchange for the Boda he had in his garage. The vehicle was shiny but clearly well used. The dials and gauges had stopped working years ago and the chipped paint and dents showed signs of heavy usage. I really didn’t know if this was a reasonable rate, but had discussed with my brother how much he was paying and it was close.

The first couple days were wild. The bustle, the night-life, I was finally gaining some control of my income, but it wasn’t going to come easy. Now that I had my own vehicle the hundreds of bodas that swarmed around me everywhere I went was ever more apparent. I quickly came to learn that one always has to be on high alert. Watching where people are standing, how they are walking, what they look like (especially the Mzungus), and their eyes, the eyes always tell you their intention. I had many other drivers cut me off as I darted to reach a customer, at first I was bitter, but soon realized that this is just the way of the business. We are all competing, we are all renting, we all have a mouth to feed and some of us with many mouths to feed, I couldn’t blame them for being aggressive. Boda drivers are opportunists and with traffic jams that last for several hours, people are willing to take the risk and pay the price to weave through traffic to get where they need to go.

After a week it was clear I needed a helmet. I had been bumped into a few times by other drivers and was even forced off the road by an aggressive driver fed up by me cutting down the middle lane. I had been lucky, but I knew my luck would run out and I need to be prepared. I had managed to save up a few thousand shillings and after talking to my brother he said he could find me one, but it wasn’t going to be in the best of condition. The next day he returned with a red helmet. There didn’t appear to be a brand name on it, the visor was gone, and it had a large scrap running down the side but it would work, it had to work.
Driving had its ups and downs, I was able to afford my rent the first couple months and had to borrow from a friend when my kid got sick. I was aggressive and tenacious when it came to finding customers. I yelled, I shouted, I smiled, I introduced myself, I offered a fair price (a little higher for the Mzungus), I hustled. Driving wasn’t easy, but I found that I liked it. The drivers seemed to be one big community. Yeah we got into our arguments, sure we bashed each other from time to time, but in the end we all were there for each other. We helped each other drive passengers when only one of us knew where to go, we watched each other while taking turns napping on top of our vehicle, fearful of the stories about drivers who had their Boda’s stolen while sleeping, most of all we talked and laughed through the night.

Yes we had late nights, yes our job was dangerous, but we aren’t afraid. We are the symbols of Kampala’s growth, the blood flowing through the heart and back again. The heart that never stops, the heart of a city with talent, personality, and always quick to smile. We know that over 3000 people die on our streets, but we are a community with a vision for itself. We value education and we strive to keep our families fed and happy. We smile and laugh because we know that despite the smog, the dirt, and the heat that we are a community of growth thriving in the fertility of the equatorial sun.

*Note: This is a fictional story