Fuck Alex Ndawula. Baz for President 2006

Were I to become president of Uganda- which is the dread situation I am here to write about- I would begin my reign by instituting sweeping social and political reforms. The fact that I call my tenure as leader a”reign” should be a good indicator of what shape these reforms will take. That’s right: dictatorship.

The first thing I shall do is abolish democracy and snatch all your citizen’s rights away, because it has become evident over the past 20 years that, not only do you not appreciate them, you don't deserve them either. You don't register to vote, you don't know your LC chairpersons, you go to Makerere and fail to understand that the word “peaceful” when paired with the word “demonstration” does not permit looting of shops or throwing of stones.

Ugandans with democratic rights are like children with sharp objects. Yes, there are some who can find a way to put them to good use, but in general, a responsible adult needs to come along and take them away before someone gets badly hurt. The solution to Uganda’s problems lies in disenfranchisement and redemption from our woes can be found only under the yoke of tyranny. My tyranny.

THE ECOMONY
Take for example the way you use the gross domestic product. Its steady increase has benefited some of you a whole lot more than it has benefited others, but what do you fortunate few do with it? Make yourselves a nuisance to the rest of us. You buy bulky gas-guzzling automobiles which clog up the roads ensuring traffic jams that make a two kilometre trip into town take an hour to complete.

A normal walking Ugandan occupies at least one square foot of space. A rich Ugandan in a Pajero occupies more than fifty times that much. It is all that extra space that causes traffic jams, which, as we all know lead to increased stress, which leads to overconsumption of alcohol, which leads to sexual impotence which leads to a lower birth rate which means Uganda itself diminishes- less Ugandans means less Uganda. You understand why I should be the one who decides who gets to drive what and when?


MEDIA AND FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION
Not only will I personally oversee the distribution of wealth, I shall also take a firm stand as regards the press. Now, everyone who knows me knows that I am a fanatic when it comes to freedom of speech. If someone shouts fire in a crowded theatre, you should shout "She's lying, there is no fire" in a louder and more authoritative voice. And I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend your right to say the most absurd, bigoted, misguided, ludicrous, obscene and silly things. As long as sense has the right to respond by calling you a blithering idiot. However, I do believe there is a limit to freedom of press. Wait- let me finish expressing myself here.

There is a limit. Radio Deejays who fake accents. Class A felons. There will be a special concentration camp just for you.

RELIGION
Separation of church and state is vital for any nation to succeed, especially one with as many different faiths as Uganda. But then again, there is a pastor in Kireka who makes us wonder whether we should not reconsider. The pastor drives a Lexus SUV. This is clearly a sign. Everything in the world already belongs to God. But I think it wouldn’t hurt to let Caesar take what belongs to him. Tax tax tax!

After we tax the pastors, the church and the state shall work together to devise a system of taxing people for the various iniquities they commit (so they literally pay for their sins). Both parties stand to gain, for example, if fornication carries a high tax, because the church can claim that it is a deterrent, and the state, which knows that there nothing that can serve as a deterrent when it comes to fornication, can collect large sums every weekend.

These are just some of the few ways I shall usher in an era of peace and prosperity for myself if you made the mistake of electing me. And I am not the worst possible choice. So, do vote, because I may be just joking around here but there is someone out there campaigning who is wrong for this country, and only your vote can prevent him or her from getting into power.

The Christmas Story

Who is Santa? An excuse for pedophilia. That’s not paranoia, that is prudence. Think about it: old sexually frustrated white male, breaking and entering serially, picking only homes inhabited by children he deems ‘good’, buying their silence with lavish gifts. Rather let Michael Jackson in your kids’ bedrooms than this freak.
Let us look at the origins of Santa Claus, the man, the myth, the sex-felon.

Santa Claus originated in America. He was originally drawn up as a feature for a Coca Cola advertising campaign. Is there need for more damning evidence?

Nothing good ever comes out of America. America’s sole purpose in the world is to spread depravity and wickedness, and to turn us all, all us righteous, God-fearing pagan savages, into self destructive hedonists, doing drugs, turning tricks, listening to and performing rap music, and saying “its like” four times per sentence.
Coca Cola are the parents of Santa Claus, they are his whoring mother and his pervert trenchcoat-man father. Coca Cola, the manufacturers and distributors of consumer narcotics.

Santa should be shot. Preferably with a Russian made sub-machine gun. The barrel of this gun should be angled in such a way that whatever bullet emanates from it should travel unerringly in a direct line into Santa’s colon, via his bum. Yes. And the shooter should be practiced in this speech, which he should deliver as he dispatches Santa to the realm of the colonically perforated. This is the speech: “Ho ho ho this, dickwad!” Say it with vim. Say it like you mean it, soldier!

You are doing this for the kids, remember.

But what will this achieve? Revenge for revenge’s sake? That is futile, wasted action. There must be tangible benefit visible at the end of the tunnel. Ah, but there is.
For starters, Santa will not be able to creep into our houses with the same impunity, because now, everywhere he goes he will leave a trail of sickly yellow crud from his leaking alimentary canal. The FBI will be able to track him down by following the trail.
Then they can catch him and reward him aptly for corrupting the morals of the new generation.
They will probably feed him what was left over from Britney’s famous “knee” operation. With a nice chianti. And some fava beans.

Hey, it's Joe

I was going through the older entries in this here chronicle of my adventures and found something disturbing. There is a place earlier on where I referred to the president of the DRC. I said he was Laurent kabila. Laurent. Well Colour me idiot!
The president of the DRC is not Laurent Kabila, the president is his son Joseph Kabila. Duh!

It was an easy mistake to make. Let me explain. You see, when I looked to my left to see who the new dude was that had replaced Mobutu I saw that the man was quite a spectacle: unkempt, unwashed and bedraggled like he had just arrived from the bush, yet as plump-cheeked as any hotel-dwelling Chardonnay-sipper on the Riviera.
The thing that I was most interested in, though, was his shape. It was bulky. And box-like. He looked like someone had taken a carton of head and placed it on top of a carton of body. Very clever.
But I soon returned to the more vital questions of domestic politics—what can my country do for me etc—and forgot about box-head.
Until someone mentioned in 2001 that there has been another change of president in Congo.
Who is it now?
Still Kabila, just a different one.
I was very busy channelling public funds into private accounts with my fellow Ugandans so I didn’t pay very much attention. Just a quick glance, noticed that this fellow’s shape was not as amusing as his father’s, and back to work, immediately forgetting about him.
So when, after so long without thinking of a Kabila, I am called upon to speak on the subject, and I mention Laurent, where I mean to say Joseph, please forgive me. It is not my fault.
It’s just that Joseph’s head is the wrong shape.

All The Other Slim Shadys

Friday evening, and there is a palpable quickening in the city’s heartbeat. Kampalans are watching the clock, waiting for the second they can fold their files, shut down their computers, give their boss the finger behind his or her back and head out for forty-eight hours of rest and relaxation. It is Kampala, the weekend, and time to chill.
Well, it is for most of you. For the rest of us, it is time to punch out of one job and get started with our other one.

Cos these drugs ain’t gonna deal themselves.

The market for marijuana has been steadily growing, as has the market for virtually every other essential commodity in Uganda, and this has meant competition. However, as businessmen, we welcomed it, and took it as a challenge to improve our services and the quality of our product. The benefits have been felt by our hundreds of thousands of satisfied customers.
However, since Eminem songs started playing on local radio, the industry has gone crazy. Eminem songs, with the never-ending list of narcotic substances they advertise, have thrown the industry into panic. Dealers like myself, together with bodabodas and the hardworking peasants of this, our motherland, had created a reliable and well-understood distribution network for the weed. But now we have a mad scramble to get our hands on the exotic and rare drugs Eminem has created a huge demand for. We need to locate not only cocaine, heroin and crack, but also ecstasy, vicadin, percocet, shrooms, purple pills… It takes a lot of work, and more often than not, interaction with Russians, who do speak English, just not very well.

And this particular weekend the kids are back from school, so it’s going to be hectic! Sigh. Well, another night, another several dollars…

Kiss and Tell II: Hillary Rodham Clinton

I am no longer sleeping with Hillary Rodham Clinton.

When Mrs Clinton was in Uganda with her husband on a state visit, I was in the press entourage, there to cover the proceedings from an objective and impartial point of view.
The objective and impartial point of view they gave me was right in the back of the room, and so, standing only five-seven in my socks, it was obvious that I would not be seeing very much.
So, as the other reporters jostled and pushed for Bill and Yoweri’s attention, I was left to wander the grounds dejectedly, having given up.

I loitered outside and round the back, which is where I bumped into her. She had snuck outside to have a smoke.

“Gotta light, homeboy?” she asked. (That is how Americans talk.)
“For shizzle!” I replied. In Ebonics, an American dialect, it means For sure.

She was impressed that a person so far away from America was so conversant with its lingo and I was impressed by her large, heaving, voluptuous…. proximity to the seat of power.

It was supposed to be a one-night stand, and I didn’t expect to develop these feelings for her, but I couldn’t help it. That one night was magic. As we smoked a joint together in the moonlight, and talked after making love, I saw that behind the ironwoman façade lies a sensitive, caring, and deeply lonely little girl. And when I saw that girl, I fell in love with her.
However, just as I was about to tell her how I felt and present plans for me to come to Washington, get a green card and an expense account, perhaps sleep in the poolhouse, Bill walked in on us.

He was really pissed off. As you know, he doesn’t smoke weed.

Now she never returns my calls, and all my emails bounce. It took me a while to get over her, and I am not sure I am completely over yet.

I will always love you.

Sociological studies show

How, many people ask, do rumours get started. This question was recently adressed by Paris-based anthropological organisation Timex Social Club, who came to the conclusion that they are started by the jealous people, who can be found getting mad when they see something they had that somebody else is holdin.
The temptation, apparently, is very hard to resist. It has been observed that these wicked women just persist.The Timex report warns that maybe you could think it is cute, however, girl, they are not impressed. They declare firmly that they will tell one time only, and that this will not be repeated, but with their business, you are sternly warned to not mess. After all, look at all these rumours surrounding me every day. I just need some time, some time to get a way from all these rumours, can’t take it no more. My best friend says there’s one out now about me and the girl next door. What's mine is mine, I ain't got time for rumors in my life. I'm a man who thinks, not a man who drinks, so please let me live my life. What's mine is mine, I ain't got time for rumors in my life I'm a man who thinks, not a man who drinks, so please let me live my life. What's mine is mine, I ain't got time for rumors in my life I'm a man who thinks, not a man who drinks, so please let me live my life...

Coming back from the Congo: The reason why

It was while under the impression that I was getting in touch with an official from the Ugandan government that I ended up receiving this phone call, which is what made me finally decide to leave Laurent’s land and return to my native Uganda. It was my duty. I had to save my country. Cos I am that sort of a guy, the Jack Bauer type.

WKB: Is this Baz, deadly ninja, lethal marksman and generally unstoppable ass-kicker?
Baz: It is I. Better recognise.
WKB: Great. I’m glad we caught you when you were still in the Congo.
Baz: Is this the gentleman from the Uganda government?
WKB: Not yet.
Baz: I beg your pardon?
WKB: This is Kizza Besigye. I have this organisation called the PRA based in the DRC, and we think it would be totally cool if you could, like, join us.
Baz: Warren, I am flattered that you should ask me, but I am sorry. I retired from the music business…
WKB: No, no. PRA is not a Lingala band—it is an insurgent group. It is an armed revolution—
Baz: You mean rebels?
WKB: I personally don’t like to think of us as rebels. I like to think of us more as liberators.
Baz: Warren, the last time we asked you, you said you don’t do those things of rebels.
WKB: I lied. Dude, let’s not quibble over those days. Let us talk about our future together.
Baz: Warren…
WKB: I mean you and us, the PRA. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Baz: I have to give you an absolute and final No Can Do on that one, sorry. I am a loyal and law-abiding citizen. I cannot participate in armed and extra-legal opposition to the government of the Republic of Uganda. Perhaps you should ask my buddy Mataachi.
WKB: Law-abiding? Baz, you are in the Congo hiding from the cops because you contracted a hitman!
Baz: First of all, it will soon come to light that that was not a real hitman, but rather it was a prank pulled by that devious Sidney, which means I just thought I was breaking the law, but in reality was not: my record is as pure as the driven snow. Secondly, resolving a small workplace dispute is different from plunging the entire country into the chaos and turmoil of a civil war!
WKB: Blah blah blah Yadda yadda. Since when? You know what I think, Baz? I think you’re chicken.
Baz: Fuck you. Come over here and call me chicken to my face.
WKB: No, way, dude. I might get bird flu, hanging with such a CHICKEN!
Baz: Quit calling me chicken. Your momma’s a chicken.
WKB: Chickie chickie chicken! Chicken-baz! Chicken-baz!
Baz: Warren, I swear, cut that out. I am not chicken.
WKB: Then prove it. Join PRA.
Baz: What do you think I am, seven years old? You think I am going to engage in illegal insurgent activity just to prove to your crusty ass that I am not chicken?
WKB: Who are you calling crusty, you chicken? Take that back before I come back to eastern Africa and beat you into chicken paste.
Baz: I shall not continue with this puerile schoolboy behaviour, Warren. In fact, you should stay put, because I shall be returning to Uganda presently, and the moment I get there, I am telling them about this little club your severely crusty ass is organising!
WKB: Listen, you impertinent little turd, I am a colonel. I served in war! I have been wild in the killing fields, I trod shit in Luweero! And I am coming to get you!
Baz: Come on back. We’ll only arrest your crusty, insurgent-recruiting ass the moment you get off the plane!

The rest you know.

Warren G. Not to be confused with Warren Kizza Besigye, Col (Rtd)

Kiss And Tell I: Malinda Williams

I am no longer sleeping with Malinda Williams. Our relationship was brief— it had to be. Enduring relationships are never built on lies, and, considering that ours had such a deep falsehood as its foundation, it was doomed from the start.I met her at a Manhattan bar where I served as senior janitor. I was having a dry martini when she walked up and asked if I was, by any chance, Samuel L. Jackson.

Now, first of all, you must understand that this is Malinda Williams.

So, after I gave the obvious answer, she made a tentative observation.“You sure sound different in real life from the way you do in ‘em movies. You sound like you’re from like Africa or somthin’”

“Of course, I sound different in the movies. It’s called ‘acting’” I replied, but I said it in such a way that she was not offended by the sarcasm or put off by the rudeness. Instead she was irresistibly drawn to my earthy African charm and found my then-bald head irresistible.

We proceeded to enjoy a wild and energetic romance; we left the streets and parks of New York littered with stolen kisses and memories and citings for lewd public conduct. It was paradise until 51st State came out and sucked. She demanded that I give her back the dollar fifty-five she had spent on tickets. I was in a corner. I had to tell her the truth. Either that or part with my hard earned money, and you can bet I wasn’t going to let go of $1.55 over that crap-pile of a movie. She yelled a bit, and cussed a lot then she walked out finally, after calling me a “triflin’ nigga”. Last time I saw her, she was getting into a cab with Taye Diggs. I was inconsolable and could not stay in New York anymore. I handed in my resignation and caught the next plane back home.

No Comment

Ugandans and proper channels of communication: To one the other does not exist. I shall just switch off the comments bit of this blog because instead of complaining there, people complain to me personally, like in real life society, when I have even forgotten what it is I blogged that they take issue with.

Like dude who recently voiced his dissatisfaction with the conclusion of the Black Captain Kills Sidney story. Felt that I chickened out and left the whole thing to a limpid and weak ending. It really dented my self-esteem, that.

Because he was right. I shrugged. Sometimes the instinct to preserve good taste prevails over the desire to make a good story. I know I am now competing with The Matrix Trilogy and premature ejaculation for most disappointing ending, but what can I do? Sidney sits right next to me at this office. After a while you start to feel a bit guilty.

Let me see you one-two step, I love it when you one-two step.

And, I know this is a wierd thing to complain about, but why is it impossible to find an Internet picture of Toni Braxton with clothes on?

If you have been wondering why James Banda has been walking with a slight limp lately..

Scene- Evil Overlord’s Lair. 0130 hours. Henchmen bundle in a dishevelled metrosexual; his black Armani suit tattered and torn, his designer shave scraggy, a trickle of blood running down his chin messing up his foundation. Evil Overlord in swivel chair swivels round to face them.

Henchman 1: Sir, here is the bastard.
Metrosexual: (Defiantly) I am not a bastard. My name is Banda, James Banda, agent 077.
Evil Overlord: I’ve been expecting you Mr Banda. Have a seat. Would you like a drink? Chibuku, shaken not stirred?
Banda: Negative. My mouth is not working. Not after the beating I just got from your henchmen outside.
Evil Overlord: I presume you know why I brought you here?
Banda: Affirmative.
Evil Overlord: You lied to me, Mr Banda. Your website said a Nokia 2600 will be able to receive Yello Pix and Yello Live but then your customer service people turned around and said it cannot. And by then it was too late. I had already bought a damn Nokia 2600. You lied to me, Mr Banda. And no one, (voice rises to a furious shriek) no one lies to BAZFINGER!
Banda: Um. Okay. No one gives Bazfinger a breath mint either, apparently. (Overlord was screaming into Banda’s face).
Bazfinger: We shall see how clever you are in a few seconds. (Rumbling sound in the background).
Banda: What is going to happen?
Bazfinger: I’ll give you a hint. Three words: “Torture reaching levels of cruelty you never before imagined possible”. Ten words, I mean.
Banda: You expect me to talk?
Bazfinger: No, you lying bitch, I expect you to shit yourself from the pain! Look at the phone I bought! It’s fucking useless! No Yellopix!
Banda: I am not afraid. Do your worst…
Bazfinger: Oh, I’m not the one going to be administering the torture. I shall be leaving shortly to watch the show from a comfy sofa in the next room. Those cameras you see mounted on the walls shall relay the proceedings live to my plasma screen in the home theatre next door. And I have henchwomen to bring popcorn… Ah, here come my torture experts. Frau Frabissina and…
Banda: (Incredulously) Steve Urkel?
Bazfinger: No, that’s Martias, formerly of EATV.
Banda: (The horror finally dawns on him) Aaaaaargghh!!!
Bazfinger: Yes! Martias! Muahahahahaha!

Dans La Republique Democratique

There was no shortage of clients in Kinshasa. Demand for foreign gigolos is high because most of the native men are gay. They are all dancers in Lingala videos. However the economy, in case I haven't mentioned it before, is as miserable as bollocks and unworthy of any metaphor more sophisticated than that, therefore, though I got several propositions, I had to turn them down, explaining that I do not do La Position De Grand Cheinne E'Quille, and I certainly do not do Le Credite.

The rate of mobile phone density and coverage in the Congo is very low, if you are in the mood for understatement. I entered the country with my Nokia and, thanks to that, the DRC mobile phone rate rose by 33.3 per cent. That's right. Without me there were only two cellys in the country.So it didn't take a lot of invesigation to find the president's phone number. The sim card they gave me was number 079 000 003, so I called 079 000 002, and when it turned out to be a missionary in the western jungles, the rest was common sense. It was a no-brainer. 079 000 001, I dialed.
"'Allo?" said the voice on the other end.
"I'd like to speak to Laurent, please."
"Paradon madame, paradon monsier?"
I repeated myself. This time making sure to pronounce the name Laurent as Honghah.
"Oh! Le President! Une minute, cil vous plait."
Education is the key.

So far away from home

Life as an exile in the DRC was not easy. First of all, you don't realise until you get there just how decrepit Africa can be. You know all those Tarzan movies?

I trudged through miles of bush and jungle looking for people, passing small encampments of gorillas and chimpanzees. After a couple of days I began to wonder if maybe I should have taken a closer look. Maybe those were not chimps after all. Maybe the natives of rural Congo just haven't been able to afford Gillette products since their economy is so bollocks.

But that was just the rural areas. I eventually managed to secure a ride by public transport (seven of us on a swaybacked mule) to Kinshasa. I, however, could not find work as a journalist there because, as you probably know, the economy is so bad that the leading daily in Kinshasa comes out only twice a year. Sometimes, to cut costs, they repeat the same Modesty Blaise strip.

I needed to get a different source of income. So I looked to my other great talent and became a high street gigolo. It's not a bad way to make a living, by the way, once you get over the client's scabies.

Checkmate

Sidney is alive. The whole thing was a con. It transpires that Black Captain was Sidney's cousin, Francis, and the entire business was a set-up. Sidney is back at work grinning and humming to himself with smug glee, and looking fatter, I must add, doubtless because of several pork meals bought with the money I paid out for the Deluxe Platinum Package. I told him I shall report this to the cops and he said, after rolling around on the ground and soiling his trouses in mirth, that I should go ahead and tell the cops that I hired a contract killer.

The money isn't the bit that pisses me off. The bit that angers me is that I was IN FUCKING CONGO! Do you have any idea what that is like?

For starters, people there are so racist. They look at a black skin and assume that you are lazy and stupid and cannot get a job. And that that is why you haven't bleached yourself yet.

Where have I been? I’ve been in Congo

After extended exile in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where there is no internet, I returned to the office to face the consequences of my rash actions. It had been plaguing me and haunting me so. I was also irritated by the fact that I could not do a simple thing like hire a contract assassin without destabilising my sleep patterns. Ambition should be made of sterner stuff, as Tupac once said.

Wherein the joke is that the quote is actually from Shakespeare. Tupac said “Load up the clips and open fire”.

There I was battling with my conscience, then this was exacerbated by a feeling of self-loathing, hating myself for being so weak. Solome didn’t help things when I told her. (Don’t worry, I didn’t give her any details. Wouldn’t want the facts of my deal with Black Captain broadcast to the entire salon). I just explained that I was having pangs of conscience. Severe ones. They were interfering with my eating.
She said, “That’s because you are a sweet kind of guy.”
What the f.. Sweet? Excuse me, did I or did I not contract an assassin?

Then the third emotion came in. Fear. I had not heard from Sidney for two weeks. I had not heard from Black Captain in two weeks. Not that I expected to hear from either of them, because one was supposed to be lying in a hole somewhere smelling his last odour, and the other was supposed to have severed all contact and moved on to his next job. But at least he could have sent some sort of a note: “Mission Accomplished” sort of thing.
I was sure that he was actually in custody somewhere spilling the beans. I was sure that at any moment there would be jackboots at my door followed by guns in my face and warrants shoved down my pants. Probably when I am at home peacefully watching Straka.
So I did the wise thing. The same thing you would do in this situation. I fled.

Oh! What have I done!?!

I have started to feel some pangs of remorse. The Machiavellian in me was waning, giving way to the little teddy-ruxpin-teletubby-softy-wuss-care-bear within me that is otherwise called a conscience. I know it sounds silly, and that I am completely overreacting, and that I am being ridiculous and that you will roll your eyes but I could not help asking myself what you will doubtless consider an asinine question:

Did I really have to go and have a nigga killed?

I spent the weekend trying to shake the question off, but it wouldn’t go. Every unguarded moment it was there. During the commercial breaks, it was there. When one bottle was finished and I was waiting for the next one, it was there. Every idle moment, conscience was asking, “You could have just had him transferred, or fired. You didn’t have to get a hitman to kill him.”

In the end I broke down and cried. This end happened in the middle of a burger dinner at Nandos and caused a couple of patrons to look at me and sneer at such unhygienic behaviour i.e. sobbing uncontrollably on my knees in the middle of such a classy place.

I was able to stop sobbing long enough to give each of them the finger and articulate the words “classy my ass” before I returned to my breakdown.

I fortunately able to regain my composure as I was being carted to Butabika, and convince the cops to drop me off in Nakawa (50K did the trick), where I started to think optimistically. Maybe he is not dead. Maybe he really is on leave. Maybe I am not a horrible and evil and ill-mannered person after all.

“Yeah right,” conscience said.

So I went and had another beer. Okay, another crate.

And the weeks went slowly by

With no word of Sidney. Not a peep, and, more importantly, not a poop. The air was fresh and sweet and the only aroma on the clear afternoon breezes swirling in through the windows and around the office was that of the katogo Munna the watchman was having for lunch outside.

Eventually someone was going to ask where he was. Eventually someone did.

"Whatever happened to whatsisname, the smelly farty one you were always pounding on, Ernie?" asked Colleague Name Withheld (hereinafter referred to as CNM).

I hastily replied, "Why are you looking at me? I don't know. How should I know? I didn't do anything!"

"My, what a vehement and forceful answer. If I didn't know better, I would have thought you subconciously misconstrued my question and thought I was accusing you of having him murdered! Hah hah hah!" said CNM.

"Yes, um... Yes. Hah hah hah! Hah hah indeed. That's right. Of course I haven't had him murdered, that would be ridiculous. And silly. So Hah hah."

"But still, I wonder where the malodorous social wart is," CNM insisted on pursuing the question.

That is when Superior Name Withheld joined the conversation: "I have just recieved this envelope. On examining it's contents I found the answer to the riddle of Sidney's absence. The envelope contained his leave forms. The odious stinkbug is on leave and has been so for two weeks now."

Either this is true or Black Captain's deluxe package is very very worth every penny.

Rockin' wit' da best

I was in the office listening to The Game and 50 Cent’s song “This Is How We Do” (It is not exactly sophisticated artwork, you know. These two gentlemen are in fact severely challenged. Uughn.) when my personal assistant brought in a parcel. It was from Black Captain. As promised, he had sent me his brochure. He had asked me to call him once I received it, so I got on the phone.

“Quite a range of services you have here,” I said, genuinely impressed.
“Yes, that is why my company is the industry leader. You will have noticed the various packages we offer? Which takes your fancy?”
I thought it over before I answered. “Not that I am cheap or anything, but I really do not hate Sidney, and I don’t think it makes financial sense to spend a whole lot of money having a person offed when I don’t even care that much. So I am looking at the Economy package with interest.”
Black Captain urged me to reconsider. “If you are certain you don’t want to be caught, then that is not the best option. It involves our operative merely finding the victim wherever and kigafla and hacking his head off with the nearest sharp instrument. There is a mess, blood all over the place, and, more often than not, witnesses, not to mention the curses of the dying. If you place any value on discretion, elegance, style and neatness, perhaps you should look at page 89: The Deluxe Platinum package.”
I looked at page 89, the Deluxe Platinum package. It was very pricey, but the word “discretion” was written in large red letters above the photos of the models acting out the murder.
“How discreet is this going to be exactly?” I asked Black Captain.
“So discreet, that even Sidney won’t know there was a murder until it is far too late to do anything about it.”
So I am off to my ATM.

A small digression

I hate MTN. I started hating MTN when they were monopolists and I was a zealot for the free market. Then I hated them because they were bloody advertising everywhere with giant billboards and I was a fervent environmentalist. And you know what’s it like during an airtime shortage to walk all over the damn city looking for airtime and there is none to be found the length and breadth of Kampala but every 50 feet there is a bloody MTN advert grinning at you in mockery... Grrr!

And I hate MTN t-shirts. They are not absorbent enough, and when you try to mop the floor with them you just spread the dirt around.

I hated Eric Van Veen’s accent. But Rita Okuthe is kinda cute, though.

Moving on. I have been having a pathetic little life this week, in which everything around me has been boring and dull, so when news that MTN was going to let subscribers send and receive photos on their phones, I was, and this is almost embarrassing, excited to hear it.

I’m sorry, but I was. I wanted to see phone pictures.

I wanted to see what my happening friends are up to with their camera phones.

After they forgive me for saying their cool camera phones were tacky.

But it’s been five days and I still haven’t got the sms which is supposed to activate the picture thing. You have no idea how mad this makes an egomaniac. I haven’t been this livid since that time when Linda said she would call me and I waited and waited and waited and nadda and then she shows up all blasé like “hi rrrrr-nesssst” with her little ka-stereo and I’m supposed to just roll over? Well I did roll over but the principle stands.

Dial M for Murder

I got the number and email address of a man who knows a man who knows how to deal with people who need dealing with. His name is Black Captain, and his business is situated in Kisenyi.

You can bet your sweet ass I am not going to any Kisenyi. Not when, thanks to the great strides in development made by this nation since the introduction of mobile telephony, I can just contract a hired killer from the comfort of my home.

EB: Hello, could I speak to Black Captain, please? I'm trying to get in touch with Black Captain.

Other End: This is Black Captain, Assassinations, treachery and bootleg CDs. How can I be of service?

EB: I wish to have a work colleague of mine "offed" in a discreet and non-odorous manner. He smells bad enough alive.

Black Captain: "Offed" is such an archaic and outdated term sir. It implies that we have something to hide...

EB: We do have something to hide. The remains.

Black Captain: Well, Modern Assassins and Contract Killers guild prefers the more new-millennium politically correct term.

EB: Sigh. And what would that be?

Black Captain: "Murdered", sir.

EB: Kale nno.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

I’d like to apologise for the delay. I got a bit distracted by things that I will freely admit are not as important as our primary objective. But I have been well-reprimanded, I have been shown the error of my ways. I have been chastised. No more delays. We are back on track.

Sidney and Death have an appointment and I have to arrange it.

The political atmosphere being what it is at present, what with the recent arrest of Dr Kiyingi for the murder of his wife (do these people understand the concepts of violation of human rights, due process, lawsuit, presumed innocent until proven guilty, forced confession, arrest warrant, tyranny, fascism, stupid drunk ISO idiot barging into your house at night and sticking a gun in your face and saying “Confess or I’ll kill you!”? I am getting carried away. This is for the other blog…)

The government and its boys are all up and excited about catching murderers right now. That means I cannot give my victim a spectacular and flamboyant send-off. I would have liked something nice and glamorous, with fireworks and stuff, but I do not want to end up on the other side of the newspapers. So I will have to do this discreetly. So that they don’t even find the body for like eight months or so…

My conscience is eating me alive. I have done a horrible thing. I must get it off my chest

I was in Ange scouring the floor for hot chicks with no inhibitions and nice personality, when I saw out of the corner of my eye, guess who? Ugandan dancehall superstar Jose Chameleone!

“That’s that nigga who has been singing all those shit songs fucking up my life!” screamed my left brain hemisphere.

I had to do something.

So I crept up behind him and when he wasn’t looking I stuck my hand through the crowd and banged my fist hard over his head. Then I crept away sniggering.

A little further on, who do I see but Chameleone’s rival, other Ugandan dancehall superstar Bobi Wine?

“That’s that other nigga who has been singing all those other shit songs fucking up my life!” a familiar voice in my head forcefully declared.

I repeated the process and crept away again.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bebe Cool.

“What is this, Christmas?”

I am an instrument of wrath. I crept up and scratched his neck with a key.

Then look what happened.

Now that's gangsta

Every silver lining has a dark cloud

Monday was lovely. Operation Spike (for what’s an evil plan without a codename?) was successful, and Sid spent 76% of every hour of the working day either perched on the porcelain or in transit between here and the local loo. That figure was arrived at with the help of Microsoft Excel and I would like to thank Bill Gates. By the way Bill, I heard you were at Live 8. Bonga. Did you get to meet Black Eyed Peas? How about that Fergie, eh? She is one hot tamale with the chilli sauce, isn’t she? I think you should go ahead and make your move. Go on. Don’t believe what they say about you being the world’s biggest supergeek, believe in yourself instead. Go Bill! Get Busy! Go Bill! It’s your birthday. But I digress.

Oh yes. Operation Spike meant our target spent so much time in the lavatory that by four he was calling the IT department asking them to wire his computer up to the loos so he can just work from there. It was a beautiful thing.

Unfortunately, today dawned. Bringing with it the first of a few of the side-effects of the medicine.

That’s right. Flatulence. I wish I had read the label on the bottle first.

I think it’s back to plan A. The man must die.

They have croaked

The poisoned corn worked. Don't let it ever be said that lawyers are never useful. Not only did the roosters die awful, drawn-out, painful deaths, with each hour more excruciating than the last, but I got a clever idea.

I am not going to poison, young Sidney, of course not.

But I am going to put a liberal dose of laxatives in his coffee. The more time he spends in the toilet, the less time he spends bothering me.

I am the genius I always suspected myself to be.

Strong-arming the law

All this trouble just because one stupid chicken can’t shut up. Yesterday day I got a call from a little bespectacled man with a bad complexion. I couldn’t see him, but he certainly sounded like a geek, so I am sure my description isn’t too far off the mark. The caller said his name was Kisembo and he was Sidney’s attorney. He sounded quite full of himself.
When I called him a smarmy pint of droppings, he was unfazed. He continued to smarm at me about how he could get a court injunction restricting me from yadda yadda. In essence he said, “Stop beating my client’s face in every morning because you’re in a bad mood. The man cannot afford to lose any more teeth.”

“Or what?” I asked. It was the natural question.

“Or I shall have to file for (some more legal yadda yadda.)”

I asked Kisembo if he knew anything about poultry control. There was a pause at the other end before he sighed audibly.

“Don’t tell me. Neighbour’s got a rooster.”

“Plural. Roosters.”

I could almost sense the tension on the other end of the phone as the little man battled with his conscience. He was a lawyer, and that meant he was not supposed to give free advice ever. But then it is hard to just sit back and watch another man suffer (unless it’s Sidney). Finally he blurted out: “Poisonedmaizecobsjustleavethemscatteredaroundtheyard!” and he hung up.

Hmmm.