That Awkward Moment When

 

 

I bumped into a leading Ugandan celebrity the other day in the aisle of a Ntinda ka-supermarket I was in buying a lunchbox.

The story of the lunchbox is one of intrigue and mystery and, quite possibly, magic. I shall  narrate it now. Prepare to be thrilled.

You see, I needed a cheap children’s food container to take my lasagna Bazanye to work in. I had tried using grown-ups’ Tupperware and their kin, but then every time I took a decent-looking dish to office it would just poof and vanish. I don’t know whether I was dropping them down a drain accidentally, or whether someone was stealing my things. I don’t know whose kitchen I am furnishing or whether I am building a pile of empty plastic containers at the bottom of a drainpipe that is going to cause a sudden blockage which will result in a flood that will drown the office and destroy my collection of downloaded zip mixtapes. I should remember to back them up tomorrow.

But either way, I decided to replace the last missing dish with something cheap and lousy and unattractive. Let’s see you steal this, Lunchbox Larcenist.

There I was wondering whether the bootleg Ben 10 box was too much, or whether I should take the smaller one with the picture of the bear cavorting through a blue smudge peppered with white spirals and the words “Is A Sweet Boys”. China, I must presume. This has all the hallmarks of China. I was thinking I could scratch out the words, or block them out with brown sellotape, or alternatively I could just save energy by simply not giving a fuck, when I chanced to look up and there was Mich, yes, Mich, he of Tusker Project Fame fame.

Now Mich probably knows that I have been talking shit about him on twitter. The shittalking is not my fault, it’s his. If he had continued being the funniest radio presenter in Uganda (that’s what I called him when I wrote his profile back when I was a rookie journalist and he was an upcoming radio star) this would not have happened.

Instead I said:

Mich was astonishingly stale this week. He was gobsmackingly, flat-bottomed 100kg steel anvil falling from the top of a cliff to land smack onto of your gob stale.

And now here he was, standing in front of me in a ka-supermarket aisle. It could have gone down right there, I tell you.

Unfortunately, he just smiled cordially and asked how I was then, accepting my assurance that I was fine, moved on.

He left me with a bit of guilt. Imagine. It’s not that I take back my words, or that I lied, or that I regret saying them, but the way he just nodded and moved on and didn’t strike back made me feel like a bully.

This time I mean it. I have stopped making fun of celebs. I don’t have it in me.

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