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.

Andrew Mwenda Versus Ernest Bazanye

I have been jealous of that guy for pretty much all my career. Because it is not fair: why can’t I be taken seriously, too?
Well, if there is one way to beat him, it is in this, what we in the press call a “scoop”. A scoop is when one gets the big story before the competition.
(If you are through laughing at the notion of Mwenda considering me “competition”, may we continue?)
Here we go now: cutting edge, exclusive, so hot and fresh, I bring you the news even before it happens: a transcript of Yoweri Museveni’s inauguration. You know you can’t get this sort of dope from Monitor!

One damp morning at Kololo Airstrip.
Chubby bald man rolls up a little podium and bongas another man, who is wearing a wig and bathrobe.

Kags: Dude. It’s me. Back again.
Chief Justice: Welcome, sir. What’ll it be, the usual?
Kags. Yeah. Swear me in. Does Nandos deliver to Kololo airstrip?
CJ: Nasasira will sort that out. Okay, stand over there, put your hand on the Constitution. You know the drill.
Kags: It’s like riding a bike. Several times. Hey, you guys got a new Constitution!
CJ: It's the same one. We just changed it a bit. Now, repeat after me. I, Kagu…
Kags: Repeat after you? I already know the thing by heart. I Kagu hereby swear to run the country until next time when I come back to swear again.
CJ: I know declare you Still President of Uganda.
Kags: I could use a chicken pizza right about now. Where’s Nasasira?

Own up. I know it's you

I had just got back into town from the Boondocks, and thought I should check my mail. So I turned into one of those Internet cafes which stick bible verses on the computers (to discourage porn-surfers I am told).

The verse on this one has been vandalised. It begins: "Blessed is the man who doesn't walk in the cousel of the wicked..." The rest has been replaced with "but only buys drugs from them."

Who would do such a thing?

The Summer of Love Part III

And now the moment you have all been waiting for. At least I hope you have been waiting for it. It is very very possible that you guys threw me out after the last instalment, which was, I admit, a bit flaccid, and now you don’t care what happened between me and whatsername.

I shall rope you back in. I shall rekindle your interest with all the tricks I learnt in media school. I’m going to use a journalism technique called Hype.

It’s what we used to create Blu 3’s career. *

Here is The THRILLING conclusion to the GRIPPING romance EPIC SAGA of CLASSIC phenomenon!!!! Multiple exclamation marks!!!


So Daisy went back to school and left me behind, smitten and stricken on the lonely shores of love or something. She left me a man with a mission, though. I resolved to make good use of the term time, during which she was going to achieve the magic cut-off age—seventeen—to make sure that when she returned for her next holiday session, she would find me fully styled up. No longer would I be the scruffy rapscallion you know and love, oh no. I would transform myself into a dapper dan, a smooth dude, a slicked up, oiled down GQ-Armani bastard who means business!

So I got a haircut.

Don’t underestimate the weight of that act. It was momentous. This was actually the first fashion haircut I had ever had in my life. Prior to this cut my hair looked like this. May my assistant please wheel in Huey Freeman…



That there is Huey Freeman, who got his hairstyle from me.

My barber trimmed the top and shaved the sides and taught me that the style thus achieved, known as a French Cut, was a favourite and was very popular with the ladies.

“So, will it guarantee me the heart of my beloved?” I asked him.

“Homie, I am no Edith Mukisa, so I don’t really give relationship advice, but I think between this cut and you getting rid of that tired Adidas shirt you wear almost everywhere, I think you might have a chance. Good Grief Ernest, you virtually live in that shirt.”

I studied hard. The Fresh Prince and Boomerang and all that stuff on TV and from Marwan Videos was not entertainment anymore. It was course materials for my Bachelor of Dudeness!

Man, that was corny. Mbu “Bachelor of Dudeness”. Banange.

Then one day, when I was looking at my ears in the mirror wondering who I have to kill around here to get a set of sideburns, I heard…

Twinkle twinkle chwinnng! Guess who’s back?

There she was, in their compound, carrying her bags from the car to the house. She saw me and waved. Physically speaking I smiled and waved back. But in my mind I fainted. This was not because I was a wuss, though I was, but chiefly because, in case I haven’t mentioned it before, she was THAT hot.

We lunk up in the evening and we were walking and we came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. We stopped there and turned to each other. My heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to my own. I knew that when I kissed this girl, and forever wed my unutterable visions to her perishable breath, my mind would never romp again like the minds of angels. So I waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then I kissed her. At my lips’ touch she blossomed like a flower for me and the incarnation was complete.

Told you it was better than Harry Met Sally. Inktus, that was better than Harry Met Sally!

And now, the truth.

When Daisy returned I was miles away in a South Coast suburb. We had moved house. I just heard that she was back from the kids at church and I had only one weekend to see her and make my move because I was about to leave the city for good. A’Levels.
So I have one week. And in that one week I also had malaria.
So that was the Prufrock moment. I didn’t even get to talk to her.

The end.

* Just kidding Lillian of Blu 3. Hey, have you ever thought of going solo? When are you going to get tired of carrying those two barbies? **

** Just Kidding other two constituent parts of Blu 3 .

My lawyers say I must not forget to mention the passage that I ripped out of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald was ripped out of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald