Randtom Thourtgs

The general public will be back from Rukungiri soon. The thought makes me nervous. Gen Pub will click on to see what the internet got up to while they were in the rurals, and will sneer at me when all that appears is bits of poetry. I don't mind what other bloggers think, because they are also geekazoids, but the general public makes me self-concious. So, to distract from the previous post, and keep this seat warm until the next, presenting: Randomi thurogitts

• No smoking.
• How ya Livin' is yet another nineties' hip hop phrase that has succumbed to the ravages of time.
• Things you will never hear in real life: "Hi, I'm Jessica Alba." "I don't care."
• I hate Paris Hilton. I don't even know her but I hate her. I don't even know anything about her. I don't watch or read tabloid news, and I asked, politely but firmly, that the family and friends shoot me dead the minute they find me watching the Simple Life, but I still hate the woman. With that deep sulphurous loathing that curls from within and rises with groaning echoes from the dark canyons within the soul, echoes that sound meaningless and muted but soon begin to resolve themselves into the words kill, Kill, KILL!
• When I got home from the Blu*3 Unplugged show on Thursday, one of the Kireka gangstas (the ilk exists. For no particular reason) posed this question: "Were they wearing naked?"
  He said it in Luganda.
• Is this funny or is this sad? Freshly chopped human head. (Credit for the find). It is funny. Funny.
• New Years Resolution: Never write a long blog post again.
• This just in: Nigga, where my money at? Nsaba, who is too enthusiastic to adhere to his own principles, isn't enthusiastic enough to pay up on time. I know people like that.

Verbatim Vs Verbatim II

Our hero recruits a dog to help him keep the neighbourhood children from playing on his verandah and making a mess of it.

• So what's your name? What should I call you?
• Well, usually, the owner decides what name to give the dog, so I guess it’s up to you.
• Should I call you Snoop Dogg, or Lil Bow Wow?
• I don't mean to sound arrogant or anything, Baz, but I would much rather you came up with something a bit more imaginative. If I say my master just turned on Hot 100 FM and an instant later I was christened the other dogs in the neighbourhood might not treat me with respect, you see.
• I get your point.
• It’s like if your parents had decided to name you Baby Boy, or Little One.
• I said I get your point.
• Or Oddly-Shaped Head...
• I said I get the point. I will call you David Spade. He is an actor who plays characters with a lot of lugezigezi. Now, let me debrief you on your station.
• You mean my job as a dog? You don't need to bother. As with all animals, I have inbred instincts that ensure I know by intuition, and without any tutelage at all, what I am supposed to do.
• So you know what is expected of you?
• Perfectly. I am to scratch myself, make toilet in the yard, sleep all day and spend the nights awake howling at everything that moves, and some things that don't.
• You forgot one thing.
• Yes. I am also to accept food from you at regular intervals.
• No, the thing you forgot is that you are also supposed to prevent the neighbourhood vermin from getting on my verandah and making it untidy.
• So I am supposed to be a guard dog?
• That's right.
• Cool! So when anyone comes close to the verandah, I leap upon them and viciously maul and mangle them! Grr grrr! I grip their throats in my mighty jaws and crush their neckbones! Grrrr grrr!
• Um, I think that will be a bit on the drastic side of things. A simple bark or two to admonish would-be intruders will suffice. I mean, we are speaking here mostly of three year old children. She irritates me greatly, but not so much that I would want to see her mauled and mangled in the way you so gruesomely described.
• Oh, a little girl. Okay, then, well, I was just joking about all the mangling stuff, Baz. Hah hah. Of course I wasn't going to kill anybody. Hah hah!
• That's a relief to hear.
• I'll just bite a leg off, that's it. Just a leg.
• No, that will be cruelty to children. It is not acceptable. Not even in the case of an obnoxious brat like Lizzie.
• Okay. You drive a hard bargain. Fine. Two toes. That's my final offer.

Too late. Our hero walks off, leaving the dog behind, greatly upset at how much time he has wasted.

Ads that didn't make it I

The Great Putsch went into stage two this Sunday with my very own newspaper advert. Little thing, very yellow, on page 7 of Kawa. With the hilarious story of the girl who got kidnapped. Heh heh. That was a funny story. Echoes of The Weekend's Mirth swirl around in the caverns of my currently idle and vacant mind when I remember. So seldom do we see comedy of this pedigree. It was so funny. Hah hah! Just thinking about it brings tears unto my eyes.

She, like, got kidnapped. But the kidnappers didn't take her phone. So she smses her buddy Yusuf, expecting him to round up the cavalry from his end and then come riding to her rescue. Instead the dude just smsed her Pastor Kayiwa's number so she could call him and get prayers.

Anyway, Operation Hooker at ATM got its first print advert. This are the ones that were rejected.






Protect the environment, people.



And then, they said...



That I hear kicking my ass. As if!

Wolfing in Sheep's Vallo

The word from the servant of the Lord: Verily verily, thus spake the shepherd unto the faithful: Blessed shall thee be if thou purchasest Worst Idea from Uchumi Supermarket, Aristoc Booklex or Pizza Inn at Nandos.
For he who readeth it doth wring his arms and sayeth thus: "I have haha'd this chap."

Here endeth the lesson. Adiomus Veritus Cecoromus. Go in peace.

And in other news…
Twice in the past seven days I have found myself riding a boda in town, something I don’t usually do. It is both unsafe and unhygienic. It is on record that the National Boda Boda Association (NBBA) tests members’ underarms and will withhold an operator’s licence if the carbon concentration levels fall below a certain level of toxicity.

So there I am risking life, limb and laptop on this junkie's deathtrap, when he gets a sunny idea. To make your ride more pleasant, we shall provide on-board entertainment in the form of chummy and folksy banter such as, "What fine weather we are having," "Oh, these potholes. They are plentiful, aren't they?" and "How are you doing?"

The trouble with this is not so much that he concentrates less on the road as he speaks, the trouble is that a omusu crawled into his throat last week and died of constriction. It has been rotting in there since and the evidence of this is manifest every time he opens his mouth.

We need less blah blah, more vroom vroom, as they say.

Random Thurogitts

1. Whatever Chuck Palahniuk is smoking, I want some. (Honourable mention to Tom Robbins).
2. Song currently playing in inner jukebox of my heart: Respectable by Mel and Kim. I can think of no explanation, so I can offer no excuse. Mel & Kim, for those of you who were not with us at the time (which let’s face it, is almost half the internet) were an eighties pop duo who wore garish yellow and red stripes around their legs and had enormous hair. If you were to see them today you would think they were Amanda’s Angels. They sounded like two Spice Girls on Helium.
3. I carry a Parker fountain pen with me. All the time. Because I am a writer and I take writing seriously. I’m not trying to pose, I wish I could use a bic like lesser mortals, but my fingers develop a rash when they come into contact with those things. Euch! And then they start trembling uncontrollably. And then they start falling off one by one. I can’t use anything but a Parker. What you want me to say? I’m sorry.
4. Commercial Break: Would you like to become more attractive to the opposite sex? If so, buy yourself a copy of Worst Idea! Now available at Aristoc Booklex and Uchumi Supermarket. And then maybe get some new clothes, some cologne, hit the gym, get a haircut... generally, style up.
5. Are YOU the opposite sex? Guys just became more attractive to you. You owe me one.
   
   

Like a hooker standing by an ATM: Location, location, location!

Kinda cool, sorta sweet and extremely adorable are some of the things that have been said about me by those who have had some degree of acquaintance. I have heard that I am modest, too, which is true.

However, for the next few weeks, I shall be insufferable. Because I have a book to sell. The compilation of Bad Idea, the column I write for a local weekly, was released from the printers today and now, I must release it upon the public.

I want the public to release money upon me in return, so I have to convince them that this book is not crap and is worth buying.

Which means I must blow the brass soul the hell out of my own horn, to the detriment, naturally, of my legendary modesty. I shall be mentioning it at regular intervals and if you want me to shut up, buy the book.

Now, in the words of the great poet Eminem, Let’s get down to business…


First off, Ani Akumanyi?: A Delightful story about Chameleone and his brush with reality.


Highlights of the last Project Fame show included Nakaya not being evicted, Melton (a.k.a. Rocka Milla a.k.a Ibaale) being kicked the hell out (Dammit! Get out! You're embarrassing everybody!) and finally, Francis getting a roasting from judge Ian Boogwah.

Or rather, the highlight is what happened after Francis got a roasting from judge Ian Boogwah. What happened, for those with lives, was that Boogwah maintained the misguided idea that if he behaves like a mix of the worst parts of Simon Cowell and Mo'nique from Phat Girlz we will admire him. So he continued to halitote trigger-finger nastiness while wobbling his head as if he had a large hairweave and bamboo earrings. And chewing gum.

I mean no disrespect to the gay community when I say this—in fact I am sure that even members of that community who saw him on Sunday said it -- "That is some faggot-ass shit.”

The highlight is coming.

So Ian, as if we have forgotten that Copy Cat commercial, as if we take him seriously, said some lame nonsense about Francis.

This is the highlight. The look Francis gave him. Right there.

I swear, I thought dude was going to give the well-pomaded hostess the mic and say, “Hold this for me. I’ll be right back.” I was sure he was going to leap for a guy’s neck. But he didn't whip out a can of justifiable whoopass, he just levelled a look at Boogwah a look that said as clear as the most plain English (or sheng. He’s Kenyan) that “You and me after school. You and me.”
That’s Gangsta.

And now, proof that I am not the only one watching this show after all…

Finally, to flog a dying horse:

George Sabadu Hornsleth is grateful for the pig he got. "I never had a pig, I
was jobless apart from some land," the 46 year-old said. "Africans adopting
European names for gifts -- that's nothing new. We've been doing that since
colonial times. Why do you think I'm called George?"

I should mention, for those in the cheap seats... that James Nsaba Buturo, the guardian of a nation’s morals, is currently fighting his way through the second major financial
controversy of his career.

A motely mix

Initially: Make good use of office facilities this evening by visiting youtube and asking, when offered a drink, for a big cup o’ Borat

Speaking of Sacha Baron Cohen, Borat on Borat...

Consequently: Every Thursday night, I sit perched at this desk in this cold and lonely office, wretched and bereft, and I dream. I dream of freedom. I dream of rock n roll.
I dream, particularly, of bum rushing the stage at Steak Out during Rock Night with a silver Stratocaster and ripping into eighteen minutes of Hey Joe. I’ll need a band to do that, though. Who’s with me?

My bass guitarist says Hey Joe will not go down too well, cos a lot of yuppies have never heard it. He says we should try something more contemporary, like Linkin Park.

I told him that if he doesn’t want to split up over creative differences before our first performance he should never repeat those words again. We compromised. We shall be performing a big stadium-sized rendition of Blaze of Glory.

Now we need a drummer, another guitarist, a percussionist and roadies. No Project Fame rejects.


Finally: Jack Mataachi is one of the most phenomenal writers in this region today. He is not just brilliant, this guy is … he is incandescent. I may not have any credibility as a critic left after admitting to having enjoyed Tindatiine for a while, but trust me, I know books and I have only read one other Ugandan who even comes close to his level.

Eric is dead and buried

There was a time, practically prehistoric, called nineteen ninety-nine, when there were only two kinds of mobile phone in Kampala. Both were big, ugly and practically useless in the sense that you couldn’t do anything with them but make phone calls.

There was the Nokia something that looked like a rubber brick and the Ericssonn 68something, for people with taste.

I called mine Eric and bought him a little pleather pocket that had a belt clip attached. I used to carry him about strapped to my hip. The arrangement affected my gait in a particular manner, and because of Eric, I lost my adolescent bounce.

Eric served me well and was loyal, unlike the phones of my peers which were often perfidious enough to get stolen. No one messed with Eric, though and by the time I retired him, he was bruised, battered and beat up but was working perfectly.

I replaced him in with a phone which had a vibrating alert. That was state-of-the-art back then.

I would not say this was the first sniff in what was to become a habit of phone promiscuity, but I did change phones regularly after that, with the things growing smaller and a little bit more sophisticated with every purchase. Nothing too flamboyant. All I was looking for was size and functionality. Vibrating alert was superseded by, successively, an organiser, convenient sms (folders, message rules, storage and the indispensable t9 dictionary), size of screen… then, a year ago, we plateaud.

Because 2005 is when they stopped making phones more useful to started making them more fancy-schmancy.

I’m sorry. I don’t do schmancy. I am Ernest Bazanye Sempebwa III: I don’t do schmancy.

I remember almost collapsing in a shaking fit of rage when the innocent girl at the MTN store, who, really not knowing what she was doing, suggested that I pay another 20k and take the model with the camera.

“…get… that… thing… out… of… MY FUCKING SIGHT NOW!!!” I exploded. The poor girl ran screaming out of the store all the way to Phillip Besimire’s office. I am told she was transferred to the shipping department in South Africa. She refuses to go back to customer relations and sales.

It is not that I am proud of what I did, but, you know, I am the press. I know what a real camera looks like. What is she trying to sell me that toy for?

So I had settled on a Siemens something or the other, and was not likely to be upgrading any time soon.

But then Phillip, Eric and Rita went and put the internet on phones. Banange. Awo simu neefuuka simu.

Since that happened I have had four phones. Each time I try to buy the least ostentation I can possibly be burdened with while staying on the net. The first thing could only surf this arid, featureless, sparsely-inhabited nowhere called “the mobile web”. The second did a bit better, but could not do blogspot. The third got blogspot, but not comments. The current cellphone is on point, but it does not get nahright.com, and is weak on pictures. However, it is satisfactory for now, netwise. It is satisfactory on that front. It is other fronts we need to worry about.

The thing has an mp3 player.

Oh, shit.

You see, I love my music. I really love my music. I developed permanent olfactory damage because of taking my walkman everywhere—including class, and on one occassion, church. I am the type of guy who knows the lyrics to entire albums and can hum along perfectly to every guitar and saxophone solo. I am the sort of guy who will run into the gents with my radio when Angel plays that new song that I like because I do not want to be interrupted until it is over. I am the sort of insufferable geek who can (not that I will, but I can) list all my favourite musicians’ discographies in order. I am the kind of person who cries tears—okay, let's not get carried away... I still own cassettes from like Contex Sounds. I am the kind of guy who knows what Contex Sounds is. There are men and women all over Kampala who are unable to reproduce sexually because they didn’t return my CDs and I had to lay a curse on them. I love my music. Have you ever heard me use the word love before? That is how serious I am.

And now I have a phone with an mp3 player on it. Trouble ahead.


Oh, and about yesterday, and sucka-free week, think but this, and all is mended. That's Tupelo Honey, by Cassandra Wilson.

Sucka Free: Common

Ignorant ideas, indefensible politics, despicable icons, and rappers look stupid on TV. It is pretty easy to show why people who don’t like hip hop should not.




But how do you show why people who love hip hop feel the way they do? How do you explain the magnificence, the mesmerising sight of an MC in full flight and how that sets your entire brain tingling with awe and excitement? How sixteen bars can make you feel that you have just heard history? How do you explain that?
I can’t even explain just one verse of one song. I mean, hip hop is so intricate, so complex: it alludes to itself and to other types of music and literature, it quotes, it puns, it jokes, it met aphorises to extreme levels... and every new MC tries to be better than the last, so it just gets more and more complex.
To fully appreciate Common’s verse on The Way Home you need to know your Gil Scott Heron, Miles Davis, Billy Holiday and your R Kelly.
Then you need to step away from the usual casual, passive way of consuming pop music song writing and prepare yourself for an author who uses a sudden dizzying burst of alliteration to set up a canny insight.

Hypes fighting for hits to heighten their hell.
Don’t he know that he can
only get as high as he fell?

You don’t get why that is such a brilliant couplet, how can I explain it to you?

Then you have to be prepared for sharp slices of cruel and unstinting aural picture-painting. To see the image of bleak and miserable homesteads scorched inthe aftermath of a crack cataclysm. Men bruised and helpless, but still with eyes glazed over, still dreaming. “Smoking grass in grassless jungles.”

It is not just the comment the rapper is making, it is the cunning phrasing, the wordplay, the sheer literacy of the work. And we haven’t even begun to talk about the performance, the tone and the variations on emphasi s and pitch, that makes you think of an urgent and sincere older brother trying to urge his younger sibling to avoid the mistakes he made.

And then how can you fully appreciate this one verse unless you are familiar with Common, his body of work, and what he stands for? And even then, brilliant as Common is, he isn’t even the best… Joe Budden is. But all most people know about Joe Budden is that song he did with that kid from Immature…

Sucka Free: Counting Crows

There’s a piece of maria in every song that I sing

Adam Duritz, the lead singer and songwriter of Counting Crows has been agonising over Maria for four albums. Though his lyrics, full of beautiful losers and heartbroken heartbreakers, have given us an aching array of heroes and heroines, the mystique surrounding Maria makes her stand out from the crowd of... you know what, I am just going to list a few:

The legendary Anna (“Every time she sneezes I believe it’s love”); Carrie, who practices ballet in the basement “with the girl in the mirror, who spins as she spins”; Marjorie who is “just trying to be a good girl”; the girl he called Mercury (“a victim of her own responses”) who made him think “it’s a sin to be fading endlessly”; the girl he called Monkey and asked “What’s life without an occasional surprise?”; Amy (“every time it rains she just feels a lot better”) and Elisabeth the Queen of California…

But Maria, she stays with you like a scar left over from some painful time that has grown familiar and friendly, from the first time we meet her (“Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand, she says she’d like to meet a boy who looks like Elvis) to all those songs and albums later when Adam tells us that through all the lost and longing loners and lovers she has been with us.

This is from August and Everything After: the handwritten lyrics were used to decorate the cover of their first album, but the song was never released. We couldn’t see the full text, and for years the song was like a Holy Grail for Counting Crows fans. Eventually Adam capitulated and played it.

“They’re waking up Maria, cos every body has some place to go
She makes a
little motion with her head, says she’s gonna sleep for a couple minutes more
I’ve said I’m sorry to Maria for all the cruel cold-hearted things that I’ve
done
I’ve said I’m sorry, by now, at least once, to just about every one.”

Nobody Smiling

We are sucka-free this week.

By Ernest Hornsleth Bazanye

Kristian Von Hornsleth is a crazy man. Most “modern” artists are. They are crackpots who feed monkeys paint mixed with laxatives and then, after the primates have vomited onto a wide canvas, the artists come to believe that the result is worth admiration, respect and money.
There is this thing called the Turner Prize which every year recognizes the most batshit assault British idlers can effect on the intelligence. I shall ask My Lovely Assistant Dave to tell you about the turner prize.


The point is modern artists are raving loons.

Which should mean Hornsleth is a great artist because this guy is gibberingly, blitheringly, blindingly bonkers. He is gobsmackingly nuts. His screws are not engaged tightly enough in their allotted sockets. I doubt that he has screws at all. The bits of machinery are not connected the way they should be and, instead of staying firm, they float aimlessly through the chaotic void in his skull with an angry cluttering noise. Hornsleth makes mad people look like Madeline Albright.

All this is evident from his paintings.


Although, you have to admit. Some of this stuff is rather clever and thought-provoking. Like Don’t Be Scared, Just Be White… makes you think.



Now, the part where I explain what the hell any of this has to do with you.

Kristian Von Hornsleth had an idea (if you can call a random piece of jagged-edged mental debris spinning randomly and crashing into another random piece of jagged-edged mental debris and setting off sparks an “idea”) for a vast art project. If you clicked the Dave Barry link, you will know that art these days is not just about paintings. It is also about pretty much whatever. I had Katogo for breakfast this morning at the office cafeteria. That is a work of art I call “Eating Katogo.” Genius.

Hornsleth decided to find a Ugandan village and get all the natives to add the name of Hornsleth to their legal names. That is the Hornsleth Village Project. In exchange for their trouble, they get a pig or a goat. Hornsleth will take the pictures and film a documentary as a “an artistic work which deals with identity and the perception of identity. The identity of the artist and his artistic perception of his world is working with the identity of people from Uganda with their own perception of their individuality and with their perception of their world.” (says Wolf-Günter Thiel, a Berlin art historian.

Or something.

I don’t see a problem. A small, painless, ultimately useless legal procedure is a small price to pay for the enhancement of one’s livelihood. I would do it. Not for a pig, of course. Perhaps for a Nokia 6230i. I am not a fancyphoneophile, but I would like to be able to surf blogs from my phone, and my current 6220 cannot get Minty and Kenyanchick. For a free 6230i I would change my name to LaShaniqua. Ernest S. S. F. L. Bazanye. You see, I already have legal names I don’t use.

No problem, right?


Ooops.



This is James Nsaba Buturo. He is the Minister of Ethics and Integrity. Such a mealy-mouthed title obviously brings some confusion as to what exactly his job is supposed to be, but Jimmy made a decision. He decided that the nation is a nursery school and he is the nanny. Nsaba Buturo does not know that we are fucking adults and that we don’t need his nosey ass running our lives.

He has halted the project because he found out that Hornsleth is gay and is not a Christian. 180 broke people are going to grass free pigs because the guy distributing them is not Mother Theresa.

I have no idea where to start getting mad at this guy: If a grown man decides to make a deal with a gay nutcase for a free pig, how does this become any of Nsaba’s business?
It is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, NSABA! GO AWAY! GO HOME! GET A REAL JOB!

Secondly, what is he saying? That homosexual people should not help the poor in Uganda? The World Bank, IMF, USAID, UN etc—yeah. Since these organisations do not screen employees for sexual orientation, I am sure there are no homosexuals signing checks that end up paying Uganda government wages.

If you want to do something about name-changing homosexuals whose names are carried by Ugandans, ban all those Sean John shirts.

It was a cold, dark, stormy night

A sophisticated and very classy young lady, the sort who walks on glass heels even when she is in flat shoes; the sort who insults you and leaves you feeling that perhaps she is right; the sort who inspires admiration and confidence; she had this little run-in with a noble and honourable older man; the sort who is strong of spirit, gallant and earthy; evidently a stern but dependable father; probably a possessive and jealous but loving and worthy husband; a man of character; the sort you would be proud to call your brother, father or son.

She was an office executive. He was a toilet cleaner.

I should tell you before we get too far into the story, that it is not THAT sort of story. I am not Red Pepper.

Anyway, there was a lot in the office that required executing that day and she had to work until after eight. After eight is usually the time the toilets are cleaned.

She took a break to … well, with such gentlepeople as herself, you do not name the process.

The stage was set for the encounter.

She was washing her hands at the sink of the ladies, when the door swung open and in he popped, dragging his mops and buckets and other janitorial paraphernalia.

She looked up and her eyes paused upon the sight: a man in the ladies’ loos.

He noticed her there and was a bit flustered. He did not expect to find anyone in the loo at the time.

Silence. Pause. Then he spoke.

As Ganda gentlemen are wont to, he greeted her with a polite and respectful word. “Mugyebale.”

Only trouble is, probably daunted by her evident schooling and education, and the fact that she does not look like a Muganda, he said it in English.

And this is why I love this story so much and am probably telling it for the fiftieth time. A lot of Baganda translate Mugyebale as


“Well done.”


Thank you. It is good to be back.

No title

No caption.

A popular musician came to the newspaper office in which I work for her scheduled press interviews.

Tindatiine herself! She walked right into this office. In person! She perambulated upon the premises aboard her own duopoly of personal feet. Lord love us, I was in her presence.

I would have liked to be my usual cool, calm and unflappable self. You know, the cat who meets all these so-called celebs with a cold smirk and perhaps the words, “So what? I’m talented, too, you know.”

Like the time Bebe Cool was all up in my spacial and I had to assure him.

But then Tindatiine walks in and out walks my dignity. My knees turned to jelly, my jaw dropped. My beard was moistened by drool.

“Oh. My. Good. Fucking. Ness. I cannot believe it’s you. Tindatiine! I Looooove your song. Oh my gorrrrsh! I like totally can’t believe it’s actually you. In person. Wheeeeekkk! Wheeekk!” I said, the last two words being me screaming.

I was shaking and shivering and jumping up and down and flapping my hands like those black boys who were acting as white girls in that movie. I may have been splashing sweat and spit on her because she slapped me.

Hard.

She’s a little woman, but she packs a wallop.

She said, “Get a hold of yourself, man! What is the meaning of this outrageous behaviour?!”

It didn’t work. I was still jumping and shrieking. Now I was on, “Oh My Goodness. Tindatiine TOUCHED ME!”

So she hit me with another one.

“Control yourself. Pull yourself together. Cut this nonsense out. You’re acting like the Wayans Brothers in White Chicks, that movie that sucked!”

“That movie didn’t suck…” I started to say, but she slapped me again.

“It sucked! Shut up. Now sit down and stay still. I’m a star, okay?”

My sense began their journey back. “Whatever you say, madam.”

“Now, who is the guy who is going to interview me? I don’t have all day. I have a show at Club Vision Empire this weekend and I need to rehearse.”

While Intrepid Reporter whisked her off to the cocktails/interview room my senses finished their trip and finally returned. I was able to remember that I don’t even like her song anymore. I was able to remember, then, that I am actually getting kind of sick of it. I mean it is everywhere. You can’t escape it.

What I really want to listen to is Angela Kalule’s other song that is as sweet as a mother’s love mixed with chocolate. It is called Oyo Mwana (this is an approximate spelling) and if she would give the internet an mp3, I would put up a link that you, too, may fall for it.

And when I met Angela Kalule, I didn’t turn into whateverthenameoftheguy/girlinwhitechicks. I was dignified, and greeted her with poise and class, informing her that I enjoyed her work, accepting her gracious response and moving on.
And when I met Iryn, I was all, “What’s up.” And she was “What’s up.” and then we were like, “Aight, Later.” And that was it.

Then this chick Tindatiine slaps me.

Surely.



and now our sponors have a word:


In case you have been wondering where Bikozulu is, we had him in a bunker in the Chinese deserts. We put a gun to his head and said, you have two choices: starting a blog is one…”

This is the result.

Too easy

It is way too easy to go and sound gay. I am not just talking about when a male person uses the word "fuschia" in a sentence. And reveals that he actually knows what it means.

(For the record, I wasn’t even sure how to spell it, okay?)

Now, I happen to know a few stellar constellations. Constellations as in those star groups with names. I know a lot of useless things and constellations is one of them. I don’t think I can offer a valid excuse or reason why. I was bored and young and stupid. Instead of using my time constructively I went and learnt where Taurus is in the sky.

I mentioned this to a friend of mine once, innocently and in passing, as one does. He mulled over it for a second then, evidently thinking “This shit might impress chicks” he asked me to show him some.

Actually, he is a born again Christian, so his thoughts might have been more like, “This s**t might impress chicks”, but he asked me to teach him a couple of constellations and I did. I showed him Orion, Canis Major, Scorpio and The Pleiades. The exhibition was carried out in a stoically macho way, with no sentiment whatsoever. All I did was grunt and point. “That one is Orion, that one is Scorpio etc”.

The very next day, when this chap and I met in a populated area where there were very many people with ears, out of the blue, and with no provocation at all, he blurted out, “Baz, we should go and look at the stars again tonight.”

He leater explained that he just wanted to make sure the diagrams he had drawn in preparation for his chick-impressing activities were accurate. But I still had to spend the next few weeks fending off mean jokes and cruel cajolings.

Such as those you are thinking of right this minute.

A break from our regularly scheduled programming for this word from our sponsor

High-quality stage names for upcoming local artistes at very good prices. You cannot, as they say when they don’t know the difference between a transitive verb and its intransitive cousin, afford to miss!

Dreddy Mac
@ Sh320,000
Perfect for ragga dancehall performers with eccentric hair who wish to use the Rastafarian religion to gain some appearance of spiritual depth even though all they do is smoke weed and sing about getting laid. For an extra sh50,000 we’ll throw in the title MC.

Stone P
@ Sh 220,000
For singers who wish to work with tribal songs fused with modern styles. Good for people with provincial roots. If you are from the east, you can claim that the name alludes to the Tororo rock. Or if you are from Jinja you can say the name alludes to the word Jinja translated into English. Works wherever you are from. (Allusions @ sh20,000)

Jam Dizz
Sh70,000
For the one hit wonder or curtain raiser who chants barely-decipherable non-rhyming party clichés over karaoke beats

Bustaman
Sh70,000
Are you a flunky, buttkissing henchman clinger-on? This is the name for you.

Come one come all to your one stop shopping thing for all your slogan needs. UBS-approved.

Some work of noble note may yet be done

It’s Friday.

I am supposed to be explaining the odd events of the past two posts. From Violence and Alcohol? What violence, and what alcohol?
Considering that I don’t drink and am a wuss.

(By the way, don’t test me on the wuss thing. I may just be being modest.)

It is a long and laborious story, about destiny, and courage, and adversity, and flagging courage, and doubts and, finally, our hero saying, “Destiny schmestiny, I want money.”

But I need to make it short, so here is the short version. I have retired my first novel, Violence and Alcohol.

Initially titled Run, but when I found that I could not incorporate the song into the book, I changed it.

Several years ago I developed the idea that I had the capacity to produce a decent work of literary fiction and I set about writing Run. During the half a decade or so that followed everything else took second place to this. Run was a good reason not to return those calls.

The result wasn’t half bad, if I say so myself. Nice things were said about it.

Until we tried to publish it. Then the general opinion of publishers’ editors was, “Nice writing, but we don’t like the story.”

So I have retired the thing. Now I am looking ahead. I just got the newspaper's permission to compile my Sunday Column, Bad Idea, into a book. I guess that’s what I shall be giving my dear Mummy on Christmas instead of a story of loser debauchers who try to pick up girls in bars with stupid lines and then end up, at the end, articulating the crisis of the modern urban African youth and its parallels with the ongoing development of a third world country like Uganda.

But I can’t just shelve it. At least lemme let you guys take a look at bits.

And now, for this weekend, I shall be obsessing over what to do for the cover of the Bad Idea Book.

From: Violence & Alcohol

Desire wasn’t phenomenally attractive. Idle men, when coaxed by other idle men to grade her on a scale of one to ten, routinely found her to vacillate between a five and a six point five, depending on the time of night, and the depth of their drink. She wasn’t remarkable or outstanding. In braids, sunglasses and metal-sheen nail-polish, she couldn’t help but sink into the grey. Just another Kampala babe. Just another piece of the noisy trinketry adorning a gaudy and pretentious city.

She wanted to be a model. She called herself Desire. Now that name should communicate something. It should imply that she was, well, desirable. At the very least more desirable than someone named Jane or Mary. But to us idle men it just implied, “My gosh, this chick certainly feels hot about herself.” There’s a temperature range in which New Kampalans are expected to stay, and we don’t take kindly to those with ambitions of exceeding it.

But Desire was hard-headed is she was anything. She wasn’t the type to let anything other than her own imagination decide what she could do, where she could fit, and what she was. Reality was a thing that happened to other people. If she felt she was a ravishing diva then the grades of the idle men meant nothing. She was going to be a model.

There. A salient personality trait. It should have made her unique, but it didn’t. Fact is, in this dusty city, wannabes come a dime a dozen.

I spotted her at the bar. She was chatting with a friend. They seemed so engrossed in the conversation, you could actually believe that they had something worth saying to each other. Look at those jeans. Unconsciously swaying to the music. There’s magic in those Calvin Kleins.

Now, since I had been drinking heavily and wasn’t in any position to know better, I cut through to where she was, stood next to her and let it be the beer talking. “I’m here,” I said.

“Who’re you?”

I sighed. She wasn’t getting it, was she? “Look, you are going to go on, in your life, to have a series of empty, unfulfilling, desperate relationships with men you don’t really care that much about. You’ll end up marrying one, living in misery with him until, after a while, your ass begins to sag, your belly begins to grow and your face begins to wrinkle. One day you’ll find that you are not the hot hot hottie you are now, and then your identity crisis will start. You’ll have spent your life defining yourself by your looks. Now those looks will be gone and you will feel like you should be gone too. Only, on this day, you’ll notice that you’re still there. Then you’ll begin to question everything you’d been believing all those years. What was it all about? Is this what life was for? You will ask, is there really a man for me? A soulmate, a special someone? What if I met him once and I let him slip away? What if I lost my one true chance at happiness? I’m going to answer that question right now, before you get to the age when you ask it. I am that destiny. I am your one true love. In fact, I shouldn’t be offering to buy you a drink, you should be buying me one.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked in a way that showed she really wasn’t seeking an elaboration.

“I want a Guinness.”

Before the fullstop she and her friend had walked away. I watched them go.

Damn, she had a fine ass.

-C&R99ii

I'll explain on Friday

From: Violence & Alcohol

I live in a city where the girls are so pretty it makes you want to curl up in a ball and bite your knuckles till they bleed. They fill the streets— every four feet there’s someone else to fall in love with. Wavy braids, lip gloss, tight tight jeans. The uptown girls with rich fathers, who go everywhere by cab and think in English and speak with the accent they got from schools abroad and honed on years of satellite TV. They wear the jeans like a second skin, and claim beauty as if it is theirs by right, as they flit around being colourful and alluring, trailing the admiration and wonder of strangers in their wake. Never a backward glance—it’s all taken in stride.
Then there are the downtown girls, who used to be poor and just discovered that money, once acquired, could turn them into little goddesses. They wear their jeans like a meticulous disguise, and learn the wiggling of the head and the fluttering of the eyelids and the drooping of the hand, and they act as if they are always enchanting. But they speak in Luganda so it isn’t hard to accept the possibility that, a few hours ago, when morning struck, they were in the cheap suburbs where there are no tarmac roads, and were waking up with unruly, chaotic manes of hair, in frayed and tattered old nightdresses. But that was then. They are not in frays and tatters anymore. Now they have their jeans, and now they are butterflies floating around the garden that is Kampala. Trailing admiration and wonder in their wake. Claiming beauty as if it is a treasure dug up on a desert island finders-keepers.

-C&R99

Music Break.

And now the moment you’ve not been waiting for. The uploading of the downloadable version of a song that has been referred to in such glowing terms as “Kinda catchy”, “not all that", “I’m feeling it, but I don’t know why” and “I am sick of it already.”

Without further ado, Tindatiine!

And as a special dedication from all of us here at Hot 100FM, to all of you. Brothers In Arms!

And that’s all we had time for. Tune in again next time for another great show.

I am off to get my Kanzu now. Got to meet the seyas and aboluganda at Rock Night.

Thoughts on DVDs and a paragraph including the term "Hep Cat"

When I put in West Wing, the dvd player glows with what I cannot fail to identify as ecstasy. I can almost hear it say, “That’s right. Right there. Right there. Oooh, yes! Ooooh Ernest!”

Jack needs a comic sidekick. A wisecracking black dude, perhaps, to follow him around saying stuff like, “Dayum, Jack! You shot dat nigga in da leg! You’s a cold muthafucka, shootin’ niggas in da leg like dat!” No, not Curtis. Curtis has dignity.

Someone I know who liked Prison Break would frequently gush about how cute the stars were. This led me to think that this show was just a bunch of pretty boys in a homoerotic jail drama. You will be surprised to find, though, that it isn't exactly that. It has other elements.

Speaking of homoerotic, what would you do if a dude with superhuman powers had the gay hots for you the way Clark has them for Lex? I guess it’s a good thing Lex is also gay. So when Clark is all, "You looking mighty fine in 'em jeans"

Desperate Housewives doesn’t suck, but I think they should cut out this nonsense about “ensemble” acting and focus on the true stars of the show: Eva Left and Eva Right.

Finally,
All the hep cats go to "Al Zwizzle" don’t they? Well, I saw them on Saturday: About half a million people trying to hang out in a little garage-looking place. The bulk of the clientele was outside in the parking lot, slurring and groping among itself. I think you can drive up and park somewhere in the lot, crack open that pot of enguli you brought from Kireka and still say you were hanging at Al Zwizzle. In fact I think I shall do exactly that. I shall get my boys wearing kanzus and we commune over a pot of Malwa as the hep cats mill around with their Smirnoff Ices. Haharing for World Cup as they say.

Very very random thorgits

• Tune in next week when you’ll hear Miss Piggy say: “I was pleasantly surprised to learn that it can also serve as a marital aid device.”
• “If you can’t do nothing other than flow, life’s a bitch like the mother from blow.” – Jason Phillips, aka The Kiss Of Death.
• The singing is unremarkable unless you want to remark of the high nasal content, the trackwork is pedestrian and banal, there is a keyboardist in there who has ambitions beyond the capacity of his talent, and from what I can understand the lyrics are not exactly genius. (“I will let you take me. Take me wherever you go. I will not be afraid. Baby, you’re just too much and this is a beat that they can’t touch.”) Technically speaking, it should be a terrible song.
  But I can’t help myself. When Tindatiine, which I shall link up to this blog when The Genius sorts me out with convert-to-MP3 software, comes on, I am imbued with irrepressible joy-joy happy-dancy finger-snappery feelings and I get so excited I just can’t hide it. I lose control and find myself unable to hide it.
• Tune in next week when you’ll hear Miss Piggy say: “I asked for a Gucci handbag. Handbag. How can you possibly get the words 'hand' and 'colostomy' mixed up?”
• Remy Ma, Jean Grae, Bahamadia, Eve, Digga. Top Five.
• I had a deadly deal going down with some mega-corporation that keeps a satellite office on the campus of Makerere University. When I got there, they gave me an envelope. That was brown.
  The consequence of this is me walking through campus with a necktie on, carrying a brown envelope. Kwegamba looking like a fresher geek.
  A fresher geek is a freshman who wears a tie when he goes for registration.
  Really, if you are a freshman, wear a t-shirt and shorts. You are not fooling anyone: we know you are not a real human being, you are just a freshman. Put the ties away until you get a job. All you are doing is causing confusion and embarrassment.
• Tune in next week when you’ll hear Miss Piggy say: “Baby, this sort of fabulous doesn’t just happen. You work, you practice and you pay.”
• Another top five: Ani Akumanyi? Dave Koz, Air Force Ones, A freakin’ Hummer-for-crying-out-loud-what- is-wrong-with-people??!!! That is a top five list of the most offensive poser things in the universe. The hummer counts as three things.
• What, you think I don't have dreams? You think I have no ambition, you think I don't have dreams? I got dreams! I'm not just a wasted little loser drip. I got dreams. See?

One day I'm going to finally write this.

January 12, 2004

Have you ever been referred to as sweet? You have? Mixed reactions followed the reference didn’t they? I mean, whether to be proud, or to be mortified depends largely on the context, the time of the utterance, indeed on the utterer.

If you were between the ages of one and five then it was fine. At that age, sweet is harmless. It is just an unimaginative compliment, a way of saying you are not as absolutely repulsive as other children.

If you are a teenager, male, and have just been informed of your sweetness by this chick you fancy, it is cause for worry. For where you find the words you are so sweet, the words I only like you as a friend are never far off. “You’re really sweet, but I think of you more like a younger brother,” she says, causing you to get very angry with yourself for not being a bit more... whatever the opposite of what you were was. Ironically, because of this juxtaposition being sweet makes you bitter.

Then you grow older and wiser. Like myself. You find that in this society of ours the general vocabulary doesn’t provide for the simple basic act of being a good man. Unable to grasp the concept that the absence of malice, spite and selfishness can be a concerted effort based on principle, preferring to believe that one is only nice because one daren’t be nasty, they call you sweet. The same adjective they use for four-year-old toddlers.

I have been "sweet" for ages, but before that there was what we could call the dark ages, a period of deep misanthropy, when I listened to a lot of gangsta rap, cussed a lot and walked with a slant, courtesy of the chip on my shoulder. Cynicism is fun. It gives you the opportunity to mock and scorn everybody and everything, and to use sarcasm, which a lot of people think is funny. So if you lack a sense of humour, you can get by with sarcasm. Unfortunately, you cannot go through life acting like you are too cool for everything. Because, the fact is you aren’t. You suck just as much as everything you purport to disdain. Anyone can go about being unimpressed by what they don’t understand. It doesn’t take much brains. It’s not even clever. Actually its quite stupid.





(I never finished it.)

Hello, Mr Nice Guy

I have two kittens at home: Little Rainbow and Baby Sunshine. I dyed their fur pink and braided little pigtails into it so that I can dress them up with pretty ribbons. Every night I feed them supper of chocolate éclairs and strawberry-flavoured milk and then I sing them a lullaby—usually a karaoke version of something by Celine Dion or Barbara Streisand. Then I bundle them up in their lace pyjamas and give each one a little kissy-wissy on her nosey-wosey and I tell her “Daddy loves you.”

Then I shoot 300milligrams of valium up their jugulars. 'Cos I don’t want the little shits making noise for me at night when I am training Cerberus.

Kony lets me use cusswords

I don’t cuss as much as I used to. I have this debilitatingly old-fashioned sense of manners—not in front of a lady. And now I have a desk job and there are ladies everywhere.
I don’t cuss as much as I used to when I was still a field reporter hanging out with those bayaye in the industry, but I still do speak French. Not as much as back then, but still quite prolifically.

I mean, I know it is immoral to cuss, but I will flaunt. Because, you see, the prohibition against cussing is one of those arbitrary ones that cannot be justified rationally—ultimately, cussing is wrong because whoever decides these things had a whim. It’s not immoral in the way murder, or theft are immoral; it is not immoral like say, advocating injustice or urging that the man responsible for hundreds of deaths not be punished, even though he isn’t remorseful and is only offering to stop because he wants us to stop trying to stop him.

Yes: supporting the LRA peace talks is immoral.

The moral thing to do will be to demand justice at whatever cost. No matter how painful it is, the moral man does not countenance injustice, let alone encourage it.

When our moral leaders lend their support to the peace talks process, they are behaving like their rivals, the pragmatists. By saying it is okay to let killers go unpunished if that is what it takes to secure the lives of their would-be future victims we are saying it is okay to compromise on morals to enjoy practical benefit.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe that it is. We have failed to bring Kony to justice, so let injustice reign, as long as the killing stops.

Morals should be subject to practical considerations.

Dirty language is immoral language, but it is rich language. Four letter words provide tone, pace, colour and most importantly, meaning, in a way other words can’t.

So I shall violate the moral tenets that forbid four letter words and enjoy the benefits. I know it’s wrong but fuck that.

It’s a miracle!

And in the meeting this week: springing off from discussion of the several crates of smuggled booze found in Pastor Robert Kayanja’s mansion that day. We went off on a spiral and found ourselves talking about the Hummer (reg. no. “Psalm 8”) owned by Pastor Imelda Namutebi Kula. An indignant Kintu was railing away about the sight of Pastor Kula driving through Bugolobi occupying one and a half lanes. “That ugly brightly-coloured monstrosity,” she spat.

She then elaborated. “The hummer, not the pastor.”

Update: These people are on a roll. Back to the crates of smuggled Martini, Black Label, and KWAL merchandise found at Pastor Robert’s house. What do you call that: Bobby’s Wine? Har de har!

Sidney: Does Pastor Kayanja really live here?
Ndawula: No, he just uses that house as a fridge.

You wonder how we get any work done around here.

This just in: Vision Photos, baby! But the way I have uploaded these pictures doesn't really show just how MASSIVE that house is:

Bamuwe ekisanja!

He acted the ass off that role and you need to give him every Emmy you GAT!

Here, leaked dossier, for your eyes only, don’t tell anybody, classified etc: It was originally a list of 100, but cutting shit down is my job

Five sentences that didn’t make it into the newspaper this week.

“His recent controversial album Bada has put him to the climax of his carrier making him a big contender for the artist of the year”

“The album, which he launched two months back had a big turn up but it’s sells has not sold as expected.”

“The single Nkuweeki is definitely one of the songs of the year, an emotive love ballad Iryn sings so emotionally,”

“It is quite possible to urge that no one in Kampala has not yet heard this lady’s hit”

“I hate to see the disabled people braving the scorching sun heat. Some wallow in water poodles when it rains.”

You little F..., I got money stacks bigger than you

I was on the empty back seat of a taxi over the weekend, listening to the BBC on the phone radio because all the other stations suck. Outside, a young boy was was being dropped off at the stage by his mommy.
He was around nine years old. Clearly one of those kids who grow up to be the sort of person who attends LC 1 meetings. He was dressed in Sunday best: a cream shirt ironed to within an inch of its life, trousers that stopped above the ankles exposing the school socks beneath, and some battered-ass shoes. The whole ensemble was the sort that makes you admire the kid for making the effort if for nothing else.

He had a cob of roasted maize in his hand.

Mommy dropped him off, and he climbed into the taxi, ending up next to me.

He didn’t sit at the other window, he sat right next to me, which was perplexing. I still remember the time I was caught in a taxi from Entebbe with these women who were swankling groundnuts. That means chewing with their mouths open. And talking. It was disgusting. They had peanut-breath. I didn’t want to go through that again.

I cast a glance at the kid, hoping to see him put his maize cob in, I don’t know, his pocket or something. No, he was preparing to dig in.
When he saw me look at him, he— you will now think I am lying, but I swear, even though I tell many lies on this blog, this time it is the truth— the bastard offered me some of his maize.

What the shit! Did this runnynosed rugrat runt think I was "eyeing" his mangy decrepit maize cob? Did he imagine that I was aching inside for a bite of it? That my heart was burning within my chest, that my soul was screaming, that any similar internal disquiet was taking place, and that he needed to assuage this discomfort by offering me a …. What the shit?!

Did this impudent little skidmark really think I could not buy my own personal maize if I felt that there was need?

I wanted to grab a fifty thou from my pocket and slap him in the face with it while snapping, “Look, Lil Bow Wow, I can throw you out of this taxi with just one hand, and then give you return cab fare with the other. You better recognize and act like you know and other phrases that were popular before you were even born! And moreover (extremely offensive and snobbish comment removed by author on second thought)”
I mean, this kid didn’t know my pedigree?

He probably didn’t mean it as an insult, but still, fuck him.

Heh heh. Geddit? Geddit?

During the office meeting we were going over the newspaper’s stories. Particularly, at that moment, the dude who nearly got his nuts ripped out by his wife. We were talking about the discrepancy between the interview that ran last Sunday, where he said his wife had squeezed on his scrotum until it bled, and the news story the previous week, which said that she had bitten his member off. Someone asked about the doctor’s comment, and why that didn’t clear up the issue.
A reporter answered that the doctor had given a statement, but was noncommittal on the nature of the injury. The doctor, said our reporter, “left it hanging.”

And that is why you must always take notes.

Not to be confused with

If you want to take it the wrong way then, yes, I have been living with a rag doll called Julianna. But if you want to hear my side of the story…

I was returning from the ancestral seat in Ggabba on Sunday when I met this little woman. She looked sad and tired. She had a large bag over her shoulders. It was clearly full. And she had a doll in her arms.
Now, here in the media industry, we get to hear a certain type of story frequently: girl drops out of school, is kicked out by her loser father and learns to fend for self and child by some innovative business trick like making rag dolls and hawking them on the streets. It’s not going to make her Sudhir, but with enough customers and goodwill, she will survive.
We can’t publish all these stories, of course, but we still get to hear them and know that this sort of thing is relatively widespread.

Naturally, I bought one.


At this point I wasn’t thinking too deeply about what I was going to do with it. The purchase was the point, not what proceeds after. I just noticed that it had hair like Juliana Nabikowa used to wear.

I had a vague notion that I could give it to that friend of mine who just had a baby, but that plan was scuttled when the doll got her first airing and was instantly declared ugly.
Sidney was to later warn that the doll could scar the infant, and was to advise that I destroy it.

A more benign opinion: she must be a Congolese person. Because her face is lighter than the rest of her body.

So I couldn’t give her to the babies, and I couldn’t very well keep her at home. I mean, I cannot have it said that I keep a rag doll called Juliana in my house.

People will think I am a sexual pervert.

I cannot even imagine what a sexual pervert would do with a rag doll named Juliana. But I do know that something untoward is possible. In order to avoid the appearance of impropriety, I would have to find a new home for the doll.

So I brought her to the office. Many people in this office have daughters; probably a few of these daughters are old enough to not be frucked out by a bright pink rag doll with the hairstyle of a local pop singer.

She has gone off to live with the daughter of a prominent journalist. All that is left is to put up the pictures so that if you meet her you do not confuse her with Juliana Kanyomozi, even though the resemblance is quite strong.

This is Juliana Kanyomozi.

This is Juliana the rag doll.



Juliana Kanyomozi.


Juliana the Rag doll.

Juliana the Rag Doll.


Juliana Kanyomozi.

I hope that is clear.

High-pitched shrieks, bodies lie dead in the streets

In today’s New Vision we read that Ugandan First Lady Janet “Silver Girl” Museveni, aka the Honourable Member from Ruhama, aka “Gloves Off” took Kenyans by surprise when she country aboard a Scandinavian Express bus.

That’s right. A bus.

She was leading a delegation of farmers from her constituency on an agricultural tour. By bus.

Well, whooptie-doo.

According to the story on the front page of the Vision, which I am bastardizing by lifting sentences from it, correcting their punctuation, then adding a few words of my own, SG’s arrival in Eldoret “amazed and impressed the Kenyans.”

Eldoret resident 1: “What’s all the ruckus about?”
Eldoret Resident 2: “A busload of Ugandans just rolled up.”
Eldoret resitent 3: “Another one? Gasp! That is impressive! I am amazed! How do they keep doing that? Every single day!”
Eldoret Resident 4: “I know! Anaa one! Hey, pass the miraa.”

Also in the news, Kony’s stupid ass is still making ludicrous demands. Where is Jack Bauer when you need him? Oh yeah, there he is: inhabiting a fictitious world. And Superman is still in the closet. (No really, that movie was like the gayest portrayal of Superman that I have ever seen. I am sure Dean Cain and Tom Welling would have teamed up with the estate of Christopher Reeve to beat the crap out of Brandon Routh if it wasn’t for the facts that Welling is glad someone made a gayer Superman than his, and Cain really is gay, like in real life.)

Bush was on Andrew Mwenda Live on Friday and he said a true word in jest. He hazarded a guess: that Kony, for years bereft of political agenda and suddenly in urgent need of one, has taken to skimming the op-ed and letters pages of The Monitor looking for grievances to appropriate for the talks. That’s why he demands federo and such.

The PAMAs party was at Kati Kati over the weekend. Lots of singers performed. In the Ugandan press we call them artists, by the way. No one ever uses the word singer or musician. Gatimo and Paragon performed Ani Akumanyi, which rocks.
Someone asked me what the world “hell” meant. I was able to answer without hesitation that hell is what happens when the singing voice of Sara Zawedde somehow manages to convert itself into a physically inhabitable form.
I know I am prone to exaggerations, but believe me, you do not want to test me on this.

Stay till the end...

"When it was over, all I could think about was how this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this logical structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. It was a time to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery, and I had been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was raging all around me, and every moment was magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all the contradictory impulses. That’s what I loved the most — connecting with the people. Looking back, that’s all that really mattered."

-Richard Linklater

A public service announcement

While the normally-prolific Jay (real name James Gandolfini) and Degstar (real name Joe Pantoliano) have taken a blogging hiatus, some have found themselves falling into the misconception that things have quieted down round here in the Ugandan blogosphere. To these misguided folk I say, what insanity-juice are you sipping through a paper straw?

All sorts of exciting stuff is happening here!

Regina King is blogging under the name of Minty. Classy and funny and very many sorts of thought-provoking.
Lauren Graham has also done what we knew was inevitable. It was useless fighting it, Kenyanchick. It was in your blood. Now she has joined the Dark Side of the force. The result is the sensational!
Wendy Raquel Robinson has been blown for, but I had to mention her again. Whoops of delight!
Finally, because I have to get out of here -- Jimmy is getting impatient—Christina Ricci is here, too, making us laugh over our monitors when people think we are doing research. David and I have been arguing over who can claim to have “discovered” these blog gems. I think by mentioning them here I just won that argument.

In your face, David.

Now that I think about it

I was a bit hasty last week, and I apologise for it. I should have thought it through before I posted what was clearly a grossly misguided opinion.
Boomkat’s song is nice but no way is it the greatest song in the world. It isn’t even fit enough to justify that sort of hyperbole in jest. Really, what was I thinking?
Okay, I was tired, I was stressed, I was hungry, and the methadone was wearing off, but that does not excuse my behaviour. I mean, did I really say it was better than Nkuweeki?

THERE IS NO SONG BETTER THAN NKUWEEKI!!!

I am really sorry.

Even more reason to love Iryn’s biggest hit came to light this weekend when my newspaper, the Sunday Vision published a story by my favourite reporter, David Tumusiime, the moral of which was “Watch your pervy self”.
Some fool got on stage during an Iryn show and started misbehaving, trying to cop a feel. Did she cower and simper and whine in fear like R. Kelly?
Oooh No.





She followed the bastard off the stage, found him and kicked him forcefully up in the nutsack until he got the message. “Cop a feel of this, you son of a bitch! Nkuweeki means ‘what should I give you?’ Well, I shall give you a severe pounding of the scrotum! Take that and that and that! Wessyde! Ride or die!” unconfirmed reports imagine she might have said as she laid the smacketh down on the hapless pervert.


Now, that is gangsta!

As the remains of her victim were being carted away, she added “You’re lucky my husband wasn’t here.”
To Frank, if you happen to read this, please tell wifey that she is officially the Woman of The Year 2006.


*Caveat: When I say she kicked him in the nuts, I am only reporting what I hope happened. I wasn’t really there.

Sing, Snowflake, sing!

Nkuweeki is no longer the greatest song ever sung in the history of the world since it began to include the musical arts in its contexts. Great tremors in the cosmogony have caused a seismic shift. Last night, as I was looking for that Rakim song off the 8 Mile soundtrack, I stumbled upon this thing.

Oh my gasp! Clutch at my very heart and stem the flow of tears that emanates from the orbs of my ocular sockets!

That is beautiful.

Sigh.

There it is. It is from that chick who was Terence Howard’s snowflake whore in Hustle and Flow. She is also a singer, apparently, in a duo called Boomkat.

Consequently, Nkuweeki is second greatest singing event ever in existence of life on this world.

Shorter than leprechauns

I have been on leave and therefore have not been reading the papers. I didn’t want to see single inverted commas on my week off. I hate those things.

But I am back now, to take a look at what has been occurring in this republic of ours while my back was turned.

Fifty-nine men bought the cow the weekend. Uganda’s fornication rate dropped sharply. According to this New Vision, fifty nine couples altered the status of their getting laid arrangement from shameless whoring to sanctified matrimony on Sunday. At a ceremony named Omega Big One II, the sinners pledged to be keep it to the missionary position from now on.

Omega Healing Centre, a local church, holds these mass weddings now and then so that the flock have no excuse to keep drinking the milk for free. But it is not a key party. Make sure you remember that.

Also in the news, we made Face of Africa. The Viz also says that Muniirah Namakula, an unemployed chick... sorry, free-lance model “who reluctantly entered the 2006 Nokia Face of Africa model search, has qualified for the finals slated for August 13 in the South African city of Cape Town.”
One of the most annoying things about life in this world is that someone is spending money on model searches. I am broke and Nokia is flushing money down a toilet. Plus, I heard that skinny bitches are evil.

Previously: While I was wandering lost and bewildered through a narcotic haze last week I stumbled upon a rag of headline intimating that the Ugandan government, the good folks at Sudan Inc and the LRA were setting up for a ménage a trios in Cuba. Or something. I may have got some of the details wrong. Crack is one hell of a drug.

And most important of all, Karitas, one of Uganda’s leading pulchritude purveyors, is leaving East Africa Television’s Ugandan lifestyle magazine show K’la Wired, which she has hosted since we managed to get rid of Urkel Marthias Ruhweza back then.
If her replacement, whoever it is, tries to pull a forged accent on us, we shall have to engage the A Team and take them out of commission. You think that is an idle threat? What do you think happened to Sheiza? Why do you think Dominic Nyalifa doesn’t speak English any more? We are some bad muthafuckers. You don’t want to weng around us.

Random Thoughts

1. Whatever Nick Horby is smoking, I want some.
2. England’s play was a little bit one-dimensional, don’t you think? I mean, the decision to emphasise on Wayne Rooney was perhaps a bit over-optimistic on Erickson’s part. Rooney is good, but he is not THAT good. (You see? I told you it is easy as shit to fake like you know you are talking about when it comes to World Cup.)
3. You don’t know how rich I am. I am that loaded. If I slapped you lightly with my ATM card, I could fracture your skull. I’m financially secure. I’m comfortably well-off. I stink filthily.
4. Winnie Byanyima? Sexy? You must be kidd—actually, come to think of it…
5. I used to be unkempt and scruffy. Now I make “the effort” as my formerly-dismayed matrons used to call it. I kind of like it. I am no longer a surly, grumpy cynical misanthrope. Now I am smug, materialistic, shallow, superficial yuppie scum!
6. Drugs are not all that bad.
7. Brazil's play was a little bit one-dimensional, don’t you think? I mean, the decision to emphasise on Ronaldinho was perhaps a bit over-optimistic on Scolari's part. Ronaldinho is good, but he is not THAT good.
8. The past no longer exists. The future does not exist yet. There is only the present. There is only ever the present.

Legislation of Love

The International Man Council, the governing body of all testosteral human beings on the planet, just released a special dispatch unto all. It comes straight from the desk of the presiding Grand Machismo, Butch Norris Shaka Bauer himself. So pay attention.
Grand Machismo Bauer is concerned with the increasing latitude with which men are beginning to approach the subject of feelings. A number of men have been reported for telling other men they love them. And not in a homosexual sense (which would not concern the IMC. Homosexuals do not fall under its jurisdiction).

Listen, men are NOT permitted to tell other men they love them. Ever.

Well, not never. There are situations which some laxity can be allowed. The IMC has compiled this list of situations when it is acceptable to tell another man that you love him:

Death Bed Scenario:
The dying man can receive your confession of affection. If your friend is dying, you may tell him you love him as he shuffles the mortal coil. However, he is not allowed to respond in kind. Dying men must not tell survivors that they love them until they enter into a spectral state, which, as we all know, is androgynous. Then they may haunt their friends by floating around like a white sheet scaring the crap out of them by moaning “I love you man,” in the middle of the night.

Marijuana High
It is acceptable only because it happens so much that there is no point in the IMC trying to stop it. When dudes are stoned they say they love everything. I once watched UTV when I was high.

Apologising for sleeping with his wife:
“It was an accident. Everything just moved to fast. I would never do anything intentionally to jeopardise our friendship. I mean, I love you man!”
If the other guy has a very heavy weapon in his hand, this speech might stymie him for a moment and give you precious seconds to draft a quick escape plan.

Pivotal Sports Victory
Or football goals. Just check to see that the other guy is also Italian before attempting kisses.

Commercial Break

And now it is celebrity endorsement time. Ring the celebrity endorsement bell and bring on our celebrity!

Dong! Dong!


Twish!




It’s former world heavyweight champion Lennox Lewis! What’s up Champ? You’re here to tell us about a couple of exciting new blogs you found recently.

LL: Privileged to be here, Baz. I had an absolutely delightful time reading http://scotchbiscuits.blogspot.com/and http://kentarocharlyn.blogspot.com/. Positively delightful. They are charming, witty, and totally engrossing.

Baz: I know Scotchbiscuits.

LL: That’s because you are the press and the press knows everything.

Baz: And Kentaro Charlyn? That name sounds familiar.

LL: Yeah. She’s Sandra’s sister.

Baz: Oh yeah. So, Lennox, will you be going back to the ring any time? Any plans of a comeback?

LL: No, sorry to disappoint you. I have enough money now, so there is no need.

Baz: And we’re running out of time. Give us your last word.

LL: This is Former World Heavyweight Champion Lennox Lewis. That’s right, the man who made Mike Tyson cry for his mommy. This is Lennox Lewis saying visit http://scotchbiscuits.blogspot.com/and http://kentarocharlyn.blogspot.com/. For an enriching blogsurfing experience.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

You take this ball, and put it in that net

I can’t be there watching twenty-two grown men chase a little bit of inflated rubber round a field. Yes, I know that is the third stalest joke in the world, but it’s world cup season. You are going to be hearing it all over the place for the next bunch of weeks. You should start getting used to it.

(Actually, I’m reminded that that should be twenty grown men. The goalies don’t chase the ball around) .

Time to get acquainted with the rest of the things we shall be hearing about. Like footballers, for example, Ronaldinho.

The estranged son of a Buenos Aires dental practitioner, Ronaldinho fell out with his father over his decision to keep his teeth bucked as hell. With his father’s words, “No esta dos mi cuando tumbavu cilabe Puffy!” (No son of mine shall walk around looking like Puff Fucking Daddy!) ringing in his head, Ronaldinho left Buenos Aires, and his family, and set off searching for a new home where he would be accepted as he is.

It was while trying to eke out a living as a flatfish vendor in Caracas that he first met Ronaldo. Vendor and customer forged a friendship based on the similarity of their names and their teeth.

Ronaldo inducted Ronaldinho into the secret Venezuelan chapter of Opus Dei, which sought to conceal the truth about the secret hidden behind the Mona Lisa’s smile. However, one tactless mistake from Binyo cost them both their membership. (He blurted out, “She’s trying to hide it, but I can see that she is as bucktoothed as me and my boy Ronaldo here!”) The pair were not only expelled from the club, they were disgraced and had to flee the nation in shame. Most of us thought they were dead, and we spat Good Riddance on their assumed graves (It’s an Opus Dei thing. You wouldn’t understand).

Imagine our surprise when, look who shows up in the Brazilian world cup squad…chasing a bit of inflated rubber round a field…

The Interview

“The true measure of civilisation is not told in how we treat our friends; it is in how we treat those that are not our friends. The standards of freedom are not defined by how we treat those who agree with us, but how we treat those who do
not.”

-Eminem-

We have a very special guest with us tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Mahmood Ahmedinejad!

MA: Yo! Word em up! What’s crackin’ y’all.

Baz: I should explain that the Iranian president is speaking through an interpreter who we located in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighbourhood of Brooklyn, New York. Mr President, controversy has arisen over your desire to attend the FIFA soccer World Cup finals in Germany. There is quite a lobby of people who think you should not go.

MA: That’s some playa hatin’ right there. Why people be trippin like this? All I’m tryina do is get my game on, and people be trippin’!

Baz: The problem is what you stand for. You are widely viewed as an evil anti-Semite who wants to get nuclear weapons and blow up the world.

MA: Dawg! I just wanna rep my hood, Iran.

Baz: Let me put it to you directly—are you an evil anti-Semite who wants to blow up the world?

MA: Let me put this to you, dawg—ye aint ridin. Ye ain’t bumping like I’m bumpin. Ye ain’t fresh azimiz!

Baz: Can we get another interpreter please?

(Bit of kavuyo as interpreter is replaced).

Finally, Baz: Mr President, I repeat the question-- are you an evil anti-Semite who wants to blow up the world with nuclear devices?

MA: My opinion of the Jewish state is that it is a very nice place and I’m sure the people there are very sweet, and I actually like aspects of their culture and lifestyle. For example, what is the name of that rapper guy? The one who’s name is as hard to pronounce as my own? Matsushita? Whatever. I am not against everything Israeli. Just a bit here and there but I think we can work it out with a bit of talk, open-minded discussion, a bit of dialogue… Maybe over a bit of some nice Iranian chai, you know?

Baz: Interpreter, is that really what he said?

Interpreter: Okay, not really. I kind of polished it up a bit.

Baz: What did he really say?

Interpreter: Fuck Israel.

Baz: Sigh.

Intertpreter: And fuck Matisyahu

Exclusive! Season Five. Faster than you thought possible

The following takes place between the hours of 07:00 and 8:00am

Morning in Los Angeles. Morning bustle. Everybody is wearing sunglasses. The camera pans onto two men. The younger one wears a black suit and looks like Alfonso Arau. The other one is wearing a white T-shirt, a Lakers cap and jeans. He would look typical except that he has a long beard. They talk in low conspiratorial whispers. Then they get up and kiss each other on the cheek.
Around 7:55 there is an explosion. People scream. A black extra yells out something like “other duck hits”.
Tick Tick tock…

The following takes place between 8:00 and 9:00

At CTU, Chloe is eating a sandwich. Edgar is ordering fajitas online. Erin Driscoll is brooding about who she can fuck up. Suddenly a phone call comes in. The unnamed CTU staffer who picks it up shouts: “There’s been an explosion!”
When Jack Bauer hears this he says, “Oh, I know what that means.” And he races for the toilet.

The following takes place between 10:00 and like 5 or something

Jack Bauer kills 43 people and commits multiple felonies by directly disobeying orders 563 times before he finally discovers that he has been following a wrong lead: the two men kissing before the explosion, they were not terrorists at all. They were members of the Gay Anglican Church of Syria. They came to LA to get married. And catch a taping of Will And Grace.

The two Syrian gays announce their intention to sue for discrimination. President Palmer (Not Dennis Haysbert. Sherry, the evil wife. She got elected. Surprise!) is in a public relations bind. So President Sherry and Driscoll, who are sick to death of Jack and his insubordination, invoke Executive Privilege 404 of the Patriot Act which allows the Secret Service in conjunction with CTU to assassinate people.

The MIBs show up looking for Jack. They are shooting at him, but we know they won’t get him. It is only 5:55pm

The following takes place between the hours of 6:00 and like midnight

Jack manages to escape the secret service by dodging the bullets and then shooting back and killing them all. This is because, of all those who went through US government marksmanship training, Jack is the only one who actually learnt to shoot straight. Okay, him and Sidney Bristow.

He runs off. Yeah, Jack is a fugitive again. This time he goes where no one in their right mind would dare follow him: “Da Hood”. He goes to South Central. The exact same neighbourhood where Boyz N Tha Hood was filmed.

A bunch of gangstas show up planning to “jack” him. “Jacking” is a hip hop term meaning to rob. It is not just a bad pun. Will they actually succeed in their nefarious plan? It is 12:59.

The following takes place between one and five seconds past one:

Those gangstas think they are who? Jack Bauer pees on their prone corpses and laughs, “This is for ma homies!”

The following takes place between the rest of the episode.

The plot of Bullworth, but with more gunplay. Meanwhile, at CTU, Edgar and Chloe are playing footsie beneath the conference room table.

At around 5:30 someone remembers that they still don’t know who blew up the Café.

So they go into the hood to get Jack. Finally, he agrees to return to CTU. But he has been smoking marijuana with the Crips and has an STD so he can no longer function as the superagent. Marwan, the villain from season four, calls in and claims responsibility for the explosion. He taunts Jack, saying, “You should’ve killed me last year!”

The following takes place between 6:00 and I can’t believe you are still reading this.

Tom Cruise eats the placenta of his newborn baby. Sandra Bullock arrives at the Corner Café with her husband, the funnily-named Jesse James, because they want a Lattefrappochino. All they find is a bombed-out crater. Marwan is standing there, wondering when Jack is going to arrive for their showdown. It’s the season finale, for crying out loud. He doesn’t know that Jack has returned to the ghetto to smoke some more chronic.
Sandy points and says, “Hey, I know you! You’re that guy!”
Marwan, fearing that he has been recognised, pulls out a gun.
Sandy says, “The Mummy, right?”
Marwan shoots himself.

There is a man in Kampala who owns a Hummer H2. Nothing personal against him, but fuck that shit!

There is something just so eye-rollingly, spine-twistingly, brain-curdlingly, and in the case of some people, most of whom once did or still do reside in Lumumba, underwear-soilingly wrong about spending that sort of money in the middle of the third world. It isn’t just tacky and in very poor taste, it is downright immoral.
I mean, luxury is one thing, and it’s okay to enjoy your life if you can afford it, but for crying out loud it is a fucking HUMMER in UGANDA. Do you have any idea what sort of poverty exists in this country? And you you just want to buy a hummer? They don’t make Benzes big enough to compensate for what you’ve got? This is proof that ostentation is going too far. Hummer H2s and Ray-Bans. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned...

But that’s not the point.

The point is, as an avid anti-materialist who recently converted to yuppiedom, I have issues. The transition has not been smooth. Leather shoes with pointy ends are not as comfortable as well-beaten Reebocks, khaki pants are not as cosy as jeans, ties get into your gravy when you are eating, and visiting a barber every week is more of a hassle than it sounds. Because sometimes the barber wants to reach a particularly hard-to-access corner of the cranium, and you end up with your nose in his armpit.

The reason I sold out was, what else? I needed the money. And a wise man told me that, while the corporate world is slow to respond to manifest intelligence, a necktie will bring it to its knees. It sounds absurd but it is true. This guy had been tossing me around for a while over some freelance ass-kicking I had done for his company but when I walked into his office the other day and he saw my tie, it was like I had put a gun to his head. That is why I am so wealthy right now. A tie.

And Gillette sports roll-on (Cool Wave).

However, there is only so far a man can go. I am still, at heart, the loveable rogue, the rough-and-tumble ragamuffin, the cheeky rascal, the naughty rapscallion with the glint in his eye, the blackhearted fiend and the personification of evil that you know your boy to be. Even though I do look like Agent Smith from the Matrix.

Yes, with the shades. Not just the tie and coat and dress shoes, but the shades. I am a boy of contact lenses now, so I have to wear shades, Doctor’s orders. You know, in case I need to interact with the public. The public is very dirty and is always covered in dust.

I almost didn’t get the sunglasses. When the woman in the shop told me how much a pair of designer shades cost I was seized with righteous indignation. A flame of pious anger sprung up in my very soul, my very soul, people, and the only things that stopped me from immediately razing the entire shop to the ground in a whirl of my wrath and fury as a punishment for having the audacity to even mention those numbers to me were that I didn’t want to embarrass the person I was with, it wasn’t really the shop attendant’s fault, and I didn’t have my machete with me at the time. I had left it at the office.

You guys can go and wear all the outrageously priced clothing accessories you want. As long as they look good and the sight works for my edification, entertainment and pleasure. But a) Don’t tell me how much you paid and b) If you are a shop attendant, and I am asking around, make up a lie. Say something like, “Sorry, sir, these are just for display.” Or, “They make you look fat.” Or even, “White folks only.” Do not tell me to pay that much for a fucking pair of sunglasses.

Look at them.



Actually, they look kind of cool. Maybe I should just go back to the shop…

Sing for the lonely, Music for the masses

I don’t believe in awards. Not since CNN reported that Puffy Combs, who is the musical equivalent of a flying toilet, had won a Grammy. But then there is reason to reconsider this stance.

If you are ever walking down the street with your walkman on, and it is tuned to CBSfm, and it is raining cats and dogs, you will notice something very strange occur if Beera Nange comes through the speakers. You will notice that you suddenly cease to be cold and wet and miserable. In fact, you will suddenly feel warm and happy. Your initial assumption will be that what you feel is the result of inner joy swelling forth in your breast. That is the first and most rational explanation. What you don’t realise is that what is happening is actually THE RAIN FALLING AWAY FROM YOU!
I am not lying. This song is so good that when you are listening to it the rain just swerves in the air and finds a way of falling somewhere else.


Secondly, according to a Reuters report, scientists in Geneva are trying to find a way of converting Irene Namubiru’s new song Nkuweeki into a form that can be contained in a nuclear bomb device. They believe that once they achieve this, they will be able to move on to Operation Final Decision, which will involve taking the nuclear bomb and dropping it in Kashmir, the Middle East, and all the war-torn regions in the world. Once the bomb detonates it will release megatons of Namubiru’s voice onto the combatants, and they will instantly lose the will to fight. They will be seized with the absolute beauty of that song and instantly forswear their battles, and thus shall we achieve world peace. In lab tests psychotic rats, after being exposed to doses of this song, have been found to develop the urge to plant flowers and paint watercolour rainbows and stuff like that. Peace is no longer just a dream.

I would like to urge you all to vote for these two songs in all PAM award categories. Every single one.
If you are not in Uganda or maybe have not heard the songs, don’t worry. Just vote somehow. In our country voting doesn’t have to stick to the rules.