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…