The Artist Formerly Known As Duke II: Everybody Hates Chris

The following did not happen. I swear none of this happened. If I say it happened sue me and take me to court that my lies may be laid bare before the land and my true nature exposed.

None of this happened.

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Luh you, booboo.

So, the rumours are that Ruth and Duke Chris split up because theirs was not a faithful love; it was tainted by the flexibility of his penis which often veered sideways and into other courts outside the royal one.

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The other rumours were that he was just a piece of shit and Komuntale didn’t take long (well, she did take long to realise it because she had to marry him first before it became clear) to realise that he was a piece of shit and she didn’t need to be hitched to him.

 

So a kick unto the curb was effected.

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This was the last we heard of it, those of us who remain in the clean air above the sewers where tabloids and gossip shows writhe and slither. Us we only concern ourselves with what’s in the New Vision. Never to read a tabloid.

 So we didn’t hear a word about little Yellow Chris until it emerged last week that his girlfriend, one Mz Kabila, had had him booked for assault, and that he was in jail wondering what the fuck happened.

That is what you do in jail. You rehash all your life choices to identify which one in particular set you off the path to being an award-winning blogger and sent you careening to the doldrums you then occupy.

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 So there he is wondering, “Where did it go wrong? I was a light skinned American nigga getting married to a rich princess, and now I am in holding with Kasanvu and Balikuddembe eyeing me as if they can’t wait for the lights to go off.”

This is my theory. Which, I reiterate, is NOT TRUE.

 

Kabila is the girl he had the affair with. After his marriage to Komuntale his heart and penis both strayed away from the monarchical matress and found themselves under the duvets that Kabila occupies. And there they stayed since the palace told him to never return, surrender his keys, delete all their numbers, leave their whatsapp group, don’t expect Oyo to look him in the eye again, etc.

 

So there he was in Kabila’s bed.

For a while it was bliss. Or was, at least, adequate, tolerable.

But soon the cracks begun to appear. Kirabo increasingly coming to understand that her light-skinned American nigga was not going to every get her out of Katwe and on to a plane to the first world, where a green card would ensure she never had to brush her teeth into a sewer ditch ever again.

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Meanwhile, Chris had realised that he was striking out again. The stories of a Queen of Katwe did not actually mean that Kabila had a chance at being a princess. He was falling further and further down a spiral of gloom and disappointment, all his dreams plummetting down these dark depths with him.

 

It didn’t take long until he was just a pale yellow shadow of his former self. A broken, bitter, lost and confused man.

 

And you know why your mummy tells you never to date broken, bitter, lost and confused men, right? No matter how light-skinned or American they are?

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Because those fools will try to beat you, that’s why.

 

Now, Kabila is not the one you want to try that shit with, because she is not from Trinidad, she is from that area of Lyantonde right where Buganda becomes Ankole and round there they tell their daughters straight and loud that if a fool ever tries to raise his hand at you…

 

So Chris, thinking that Uganda was the projects because we are poor, attempted an assault and Kabila quickly dialled 112.

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Yeah. That’s where I finish my lugambo.

 

Meanwhile here is another photo of an animal to thank you for reading this.

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Banange, you people, why don’t you share this stuff on your facebooks so I can become more famous than I already am? Is it because you think I will forget where I came from?