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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.