So there I was, in my usual, cocky, smirking, sniggery professional-humourist way, typing out potshots at singer Jackie Chandiru, and chuckling at my very own jokes as I did it.
We wrote an interview with the glinty mole beneath her lower lip for Plan B and, during google chats, made a few naughty comments regarding her legs.
But don’t be fooled. Just because I’m talking shit, doesn’t mean I don’t recognise game. The fact is, and I have a tweet somewhere that will attest to it, I lately became a huge fan of Chandiru. Before this, she was just one of the singers out there, but after Golddigger and Superman, I had to clear space in my trophy cabinet for a new entrant.
Cos those songs? That’s my jam. Times two.
Now, due to the fact that I occupy a sensitive position in relation to the music industry– I am an as-if Arts and Entertainment journalist– I cannot just go out and be a fan of people. I mean, I think Omara and Tuwangye rocked in the Hostel and if I had an Emmy to spare, I would have had it couriered to Kahunde by now, but if I were to meet them, I would not blither or gibber.
Cos I’m the press. I don’t gibber and I don’t blither.
Except in the case of Iryn, but my love for that woman’s voice is too big to hide.
Being the press doesn’t mean I have to act unimpressed, but it does mean I can’t just up and send fan mail. It compromises my objectivity.
So how did she know I was a fan?
I know she knows because just the other day I received mail in my official press inbox containing a copy of her latest single.
I had not received anything of the sort before. When she released Superman, no mail. When Golddiger came out, nothing. But now, here comes mail.
Which leads me to wonder: am I safe?