Byandala Messes With The Wrong Journalism

If Byandala had done that shit here in Vision HQ? Ayayayaya!

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Woulda been some furniture movin’ around.

I can see it now.

Minister is in newsroom being minister. Then he punches reporter.

 

Suddenly silence sweeps the room.

A pin drops loudly. We all hear it. It says Kyinklikili. Cos it is in Bukedde, so it drops in Luganda.

The next sound you hear is the door locking from the inside.

Followed by sounds of cameras and smartphones cocking and getting focussed. Even a pen clicks, because the cartoonists are also ready to record this moment.

VJ Jingo comes out of the recording booth and does his thing. “Maaso ku lutimbe. Katandika butandisi!”

But no. There is not going to be a mob justice scene. We are not going to share the gulumpen nti solida. No. He is the thug, not us.

We just want to talk.

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Byandala begins to bargain: “Ooops. I mean, what happened to my hand? Did it just accidentally slip and fall and slightly tap someone’s stomach who I didn’t mean to hit at all? What a misunderstanding. “

By this time Kampala Sun have also arrived. Those people can smell drama and scandal faster than a Speke Avenue hooker can smell a white man in a Nissan.

Byandala tries to make a run for it.

He points in one direction, says: “Look! A socialite having sex with a drunk police officer while a musician is being lynched!” And dives in the other direction.

“Nice try, lumpenry. Besides, these windows stay locked. We have AC in the building.

By now his wobbly jowled, red-eyed, charcoally face is glistening in sweat and his shit has become liquid.

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That is when he blacks out.

He comes to in a dark cold room, with a single bulb in the centre. He hears a voice: “Byandala, this is the secret unnofficial solida Uganda journalist union unofficial interrogation room. It does not exist on any map. It does not exist on any records. We are not here, you understand?” The voice sounds icy.

“You will be taken to court and charged with assault according to the law,” it continues. “IF they manage to find you.”

Byandala releases a few more droplets into his trousers. His life flashes up to the early eighties.

“Rudy, pass me the pliers, please,” says the voice.

“You always get skull fragments on my pliers, Baz. Use the drill instead…” another voice begins, and that is when the phone rings.

The caller on the other end is yelling loudly. “You guys! I told you to take him to the police station! We just got a call from there saying he has not arrived. I swear if you have kidnpapped him. We talked about this, Baz. No more abduction and torture! We talked about this! Rudende, are you there? You need to get that Bazanye under control!”

“Rudy, pliers please. Drill is for later. I want to start with the…”

Byandala breaks down: “Please mummy! I will never do it again! Mummy! Ooh I want my mummy! My Teddy Bear! My splash mango! I will never repeat it!”

And that is when the Vision Cops break in and find Byandala blubbering and broken in a puddle of his own sweat and piss and prevent any actual assault and torture on our part because even in the case of an exaggerated fictional fantasy  like this, it does not reflect the views of my employer, it is just my way of saying that Byandala is an asshole who should not punch my colleagues.

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