This is how the events of that fateful evening transpired consequent to the situation under observation duly concerning the people in
First, let’s set the stage. The scene is Entebbe Road. As usual, traffic jam. Both ways. To and fro.
Jammin’ to is the self, Ernest F. Bazanye, blogger, newspaper columnist, political satirist and former basketball point guard, in a black Spacio.
Foming fro is a silver mercedes benz coupe that contained, well if it isn’t, Moses Kayimbangambuzi Aka Mosey Radio himself, of the Goodlife Crew.
(Or perhaps it is Gudlyve crew. They don’t spell it in proper English. Goudleigh Qrue?)
Since neither vehicle in the tableu is moving, we, the drivers, have no options for entertainment but to assess the car adjacent. I look at his. It is a silver mercedes benz coupe.
They are beautiful cars and looking at them is fun. Until a minute and fourteen seconds have passed then you are over them and need to move on. Seeking further amusement, I look into the vehicle, and that is when I notice that the driver is Radio, the singer.
He has been up to the same shenanigans as I have. He looked at my Spacio, having gotten over the sight of it, (It was not entertaining in the same way as the silver mercedes benz coupe, but it did have a few intriguing words the neighbourhood kids had scribbled over it in the dust layer that covered its whole surface) he looked in and what followed was this:
Game recognised game.
Radio is a very talented singer, a popular artiste and a gifted composer.
I myself am very much the same, only in the field of Sunday Vision columns and blog posts, not in stadiums and kati kati.
So, as people who are talented often do, we exchanged the traditional greeting, the mutual acknowledgment of a peer, the gesture that says, “Ah, you are one of us.”
Basically, you lift your chin slightly for a second.
Now we were each ready to move to the next item on the day’s agenda.
That is when I noticed Weasel in the passenger seat.
He looked perplexed. Restless. Perturbed. Antsy. As if his Weasel mind had detected something about me that it didn’t like. My suspicion is that he detected that I was a writer and he feels a certain way about writers. Writers are the ones who fill the tabloids with reports saying that he has fathered 43 children.
Yet the truth is it can’t be more than 30.
I think Weasel wanted to hurt me.
I imagine that he was asking Radio to turn the silver mercedes benz coupe sharply to the side so that it can dig a dent into the side of my black Spacio because, as a writer, this would cause me great inconvinience and cost me greatly, because I would have to drive around in a dented car for the rest of the month until payday and then I will still have to spend a chunk of my salary on fixing the car and I might not even have enough Yaka to finish the month.
Meanwhile, so what if he gets a dent in his silver mercedes benz coupe? He will just ditch it in Zzana and get another one.
I couldn’t hear it, but I guess he said something like, “Dom godom pon lom do gwon chom,” which is all I ever hear when Weasel opens his mouth on a record.
Things were tight.
I could only do one thing to save myself. I rolled down the window of my car and stabbed at the button of my FM dashboard set. From to a certain station. And sure enough, out blasted Juicy by the singers beside me.
I began to jiggle my head and rattle my shoulders and jerk my spine like a maniac, which is what I imagine fans of the duo do when they hear such songs.
Weasel seemed appeased to see that this writer was enjoying Juicy and was therefore probably worth forgiving for at least one day.
And then the traffic cop kutasad us and we went our ways.
That is the story of how I met Radio and Weasel and lived to tell the tale.
So, how was your weekend?