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.