Let Us Stop Social Media Bullying, but, please, allow us to keep calling each other idiots

So I inevitably found out who Sheila Gashumba was. I did not want to, I was not trying to. I should not have. There is no reason for a Ugandan in my demographic to know who she is, and normally, if my agemates hear me pronouncing the name correctly they would chase me away from the malwa pot to go and drink coco in Kenjis, but this lockdown has changed what is normal and now abnormal things happen to all of us. I, venerable gent, distinguished, seasoned and advanced in maturity, now know which one is Sheila Gashumba.

These things didn’t even have NTV


At the rate things are going by August I will probably be able to distinguish Brian Whytte from Johnathan Blacque and whoever else occupies the spectrum in between. 

I have been careful at least twice to clarify that I do not know anything about her because I need it to be clear that nothing I say should be construed as a reference to her, a response to her, or a reply to her. This is because social media has this sophomoric habit of attributing everything it doesn’t understand to envy or malice and civilised discourse, including, respectfully disagreeing, are among the things social media does not understand. 

So they tend to treat different points of view as personal attacks and I do not want to personally attack Ms Gashumba.
That is why I tried my best to make it clear that I do not know who this person is and one can not make personal attacks on a person one does not know. 

These are the things I know

But then it just so happened that in the recent past the big trending topics on social media somehow involved her and so her name kept coming up.

This is the third one. #StopsocialmediabullyinginUganda has been trending for days, and I just found out today that the trend was ignited by Ms Gashumba herself.

So before we jump into this let us have the disclaimer:

 Before we go any further

I would like to categorically state

And make clear

And remove any doubt

No sarcasm involved, I mean this, furreal, that even though I now know who Sheila Gashumba is, I am scared shitless of this woman and I am not ever ever ever going to even try to think of considering the vague possibility of perhaps maybe slightly probably making any statement against her.

I do not want any beef with her. Anything I say from this point on is entirely non-Gashumba. None of it is about her, or her friend with the name which, with all due respect to him, I shall not repeat because I am a Christian who understands the Lord’s actual plan does not include fornication. (I fear Gashumba but my fear of The Lord is greater.)

Now let’s proceed:

Social Media Bullying. Or Cyberbullying. What it is and what it is not.

When the trend began we were quick to notice that a number of social media users did not fully understand the meaning of the term and seemed to think it referred to talking shit. As in Chucks. Shells. Insults. That is, in internet terms called Flaming, kids. And is different from cyberbullying. So let me help by explaining which is the bean and which is the weevil.

If someone calls you an idiot on twitter, that does not mean social media bullying has occurred. What it does mean is either of the following options.

Lengera embaata

They are right. you are an idiot.

This is not unlikely, because you are on social media. And that is where the idiots be most of the time. Social media was originally made for practicing social interactions through electronic media but that was then. It has since been redesigned and its purpose now is to harvest immense amounts of massively invasive personal information from gullible users through the instigation and perpetuation of addictive behaviours and mental health weak spots and the results of this is that idiots thrive there. If you are on social media and someone calls you an idiot, ask yourself, before you squeal back insults, “Am I?”

Laba embuzi

They are misinformed. You are not an idiot

You are not an idiot, you are just one of those people who hang around in shosho for the memes and the news headlines, since who gets their news from the actual media any more? Lol.
If someone saw you on the streets and called you their school teacher from boarding school in the nineties, you would hastily correct them and explain, “No, no no, you have me mistaken. I am not a psychopath undercover child abuser who deals with entrenched feelings of inadequacy by whipping weak and defenseless children.” If someone calls you a thing you are not, your impulse would be to correct them.

If it is someone calling you an idiot on twitter, do not do this. Never attempt to correct misinformation on twitter. Doing so is like trying to clean an overflowing sewer by plopping a drop of hand sanitizer onto it.

That is not even sanitizer waste, that is sanitizer abuse.

Laba embwa eeno

They are the idiot.

A popular pass time of idiots is to call other people idiots. The nature of the stupid person, you see, his psychology, is such that he is unaware of his own stupidity. He is in fact convinced that he is of above average intelligence. This is because of a quirk in the way the stupid mind works: when a stupid person sees something he doesn’t understand, he assumes that the reason he doesn’t understand it is because it is the one that is stupid. Idiots believe that if they don’t know the answer, it is because the question is foolish. This actually makes sense to them.

It has something to do with a gland called the amygdala and a lesser developed prefrontal cortex, but in short the result is that if a person is an idiot they will probably call a lot of other people idiots.

lookwat this empuuta

You are not an idiot, but you are acting like one

You may not be an idiot in general, but you are acting like an idiot at that time. Everyone acts like an idiot sometimes. We all do stupid things, and not just rarely, but consistently and frequently.

You see, intelligence is like speed. Some people can run very fast, some can only run slowly, but most of the time we just walk. That is how the brain is.

Most of the time even Usain Bolt is just walking at the same rate as me, and I am a very slow runner. I’m a slow runner because I’m lazy. I’d rather let the cops catch me and snitch on the other People Power rioters than go through the trouble of running away. But there will be moments when a bird flying overhead elects to shit, regardless of who is walking beneath. Its load will as likely land upon Bolt’s handsome head as it would mine, despite the fact that he is much more likely to escape if he had thought of running away from the place. Unless you deploy your speed, you are going to be just like the slow people, i.e. me. At least I have hats.

You are not an idiot but You are an idiot to them.

If you speak to a person who is a lot more intelligent than you are, then comparatively speaking, you are an idiot to them. For example, I am around five seven. But most people are my height, so they have no right to sneer. But there are a lot of people taller than me and they can and often do call me short.

One just went on about how droplets from a cough travel downwards and therefore I can take off my mask around him because he isn’t afraid of getting Covid from me.


These are some of the few reasons you will be called an idiot at some point this week. I have left out the obvious ones like being a member of parliament or being a driver in Kampala traffic. But apart from idiot, you will always have people call you things. There is no society where people only ever say other people are sweet sunny pink fanta.

People will throw chucks. They will shell. They will diss. It’s life. Sometimes it is done for fun, sometimes boredom, sometimes anger, sometimes meanness and sometimes just because I have an insult and I need somewhere to put it. Eg. Neymar’s eyes have the expression of a head louse living in a boda boda helmet when it meets a baby cockroach in there and realises it is not alone. 

Being dissed is part of life. But is it cyberbullying?

There are already too many tweet testimonies about being the victims of cyberbullying which are really just tales ngu, “someone called me names.”

That is not called cyberbullying. It’s not even flaming. It is just some low-calibre cartoon sidekick trying to get some cheap likes on the TL by typing “U say datz a foreheda??? mor lyk u min u hv an eighthed!!! Lololol!!! Luk guyz I said that teh foreheda is an eightheda becoz of witty wordlpay insinuatign taht it iz twice az big lololol clap for me and admire me am so original and funny #Davechapelle #Salvado”

Idiots just. Idiot in evidence because so many of the most beautiful women in Uganda have large foreheads. I am almost sure that the forehead has something to do with them being that hot. I think foreheads generate prettiness and the larger your forehead the more hotness you have in the rest of you.  Scientists are still studying Rihanna to find conclusive evidence, but the thing is, you post the hot pic and someone will say eight head. Landing strip. Solar panel. Headmistress. All the jokes that were funny the first time in like 1832 BC.

Anyway, saying your forehead is so big you can face the consequences twice is not cyberbullying. It’s just some idiot being an idiot.

This is cyberbullying: 

Cyberbullying is sustained series of intense, invasive, aggressively malicious personal attacks primarily intended to cause significant pain to their victim. Cyberbullies don’t just call you short a couple of times, lol and leave. They attack you consistenly for months. They go beyond the timeline and into inboxes; they will even make phonecalls.

Cyberbullies are ruthless and will drive for the weakest spots with no hesitation; they will bring in family members, personal tragedies from the past and spread false and damaging rumours.

Cyberbullies will threaten you, and often leave you fearful that they have the means to follow through on those threats. I am reading of reported cases in America where victims have been afraid of leaving their own homes because they fear that the psycho who has been attacking them on twitter is outside their door. 

So what do we do about Social Media Bullying in Uganda?

First of all, let us start by not forcing an equivalence between chucked for and social media bullying. Most of the stuff you guys are complaining about can be dealt with using a simple dose of fukkem. A person expressing a low opinion on you is only hurtful if you respect that person’s opinion. Unlike real life bullying where the cop will take your shoes off and slap your beautiful large forehead, with social media chucks it is really up to you to decide whether you feel hurt or victimised.

Take Bebe Cool. Bebe Cool has been insulted prolifically on social media, but have you ever seen him walk into a room? Is that the walk of a man whose feelings have been hurt? Does he look like he cares? Bebe Cool’s self esteem is through the roof and no tweet can bring it down. I would think it is because for every tweet insulting Bebe, there are 12 more praising him, but then I realised that it is simpler than that. Bebe Cool just doesn’t care if you don’t think he’s cool. He thinks he is cool. If you don’t agree, bomboclart. I actually suspect that that is why he makes Kiwatule Good Friday so loud. Just to show us how many fucks he gives about our complaints.

Okay. The serious part when we close. If anyone makes any threats to your safety or that of your loved ones, report to the authorities. Otherwise, you don’t need to put up with toxic people on twitter. Mute and block and leave those swamps. Believe me, you don’t have to respond to a personal attack. The fact that you ignored it will hurt the idiot more. Leave those ones alone and come to our side of twitter. Come chill on our side where it is just memes and links to the latest Tucker HD and Blizzack. We even have Babaluku and MC Spider.

A Tale of Romance, Lost Love, and Bushera

Let me tell you a story about the time my sugar mummy made me cook porridge for her.

First of “cooking porridge” means cooking porridge. It is not a roundabout way of alluding to some kinky type of sugar mummy perversion from the nineteen nineties.

I know the younger readers of this blog like to judge us; you look at us through the sunglasses you bought in Kisementi and the shades can barely hide the scorn.

Every time you see a middle aged couple who have been together and in love since the nineties, you look at them and think, “You nyaaasty animals! I know what you have been up to for all these years. You are the reason we have Lokodo. Before your deviant behaviour, the Minister of Ethics and Integrity used to fight corruption, embezzlement and abuse of office. But because you guys kept doing it iguana style off the balconies of kalinyas during full moon nights, they had to put corruption aside and train Lokodo. Just to deal you. Nyaaaaaasty. You nyaaaasty animals. We have listened to Radio One and we know the music you all listened to. what kind of depraved sexual culture had presenters like: ‘That was Adina Howard with Freak Like Me, and just before that you heard Silk With Freak Me Baby. Coming up next we have Colour Me Badd with I Wanna Sex You Up and right after that we will be hearing from R. Kelly with Sex Me. Don’t touch that dial. Because your hands are not supposed to be on the radio, they are supposed to be on your sexual partner who you are holding upside down on the kalinya balcony as you do it Iguana Style.'”

Mbu what is iguana Style? Some of you sweet, innocent, Generation Z with, your acne and your uncontrollable sponties, want to know what iguana Style is?

Do you know that place called Arena? The one that is on the other side of the place called Kenjis? You know Kenjis, the place where you rubadub your narrow asses against each other while pretending to be real adults, yet you have no ass so you are rubbing your coccyx on the guy and, as for the guy itself, as of the year of rubadub, he has only managed to drop half a teste so far?

Well, Arena used to be a place called Iguana. Iguana was, according to an unsubstantiated rumour that I chose to make up, closed down for posing consistent health threats. It was not just because of all the STIs that lived in the joint but because at any moment past eleven thirty AM you could not climb up or down the stairs to the lavatory without risking a fall that could result in multiple back and neck fractures.

Those stairs were just always too slippery to climb. They were always dripping with fluids. No, not spilled beer. Spilled beer is sticky. You don’t slip on spilled beer. I mean fluids that are oily and slippery and are genetically designed to lubrica… but I don’t want to make this the kind of blog where we go into details about that sort of thing. 

Just stop judging us for being sex-fiends in the nineties. As if most of you are not the results of iguana style. No wonder you Generation Z dudes grow thick beards before your second ball has even dropped. You are genetically flawed. The iguana position over-twisted the proper flow of genetic material and the assembly process was compromised. You are a generation born of unholy acts. No wonder you have the likes of S(Removed by editor) as your generation spokesperson.

Aaaanyway, back in those days, I was young and broke but devastatingly attractive, in a nineties way. You see, beauty standards then were different. Skinny, scruffy, desperate chaps were highly coveted at the time. Not by our agemates, though. My campus classmates actually devised new zones specifically for me.  Take Sophia. Sophia and her friends would invite me to party in their hostel room because it was in a part of Kikoni that was growing insecure and they needed the right kind of guy around for protection. I was that guy because, if anyone ever tried to break in or attack, I could scream louder than everyone else in the room put together. 

And it was not just any scream. I squealed like hyenas that were having an orgy, then a bunch of snakes showed up, and the snakes decided, “Let’s pretend to be dicks and crawl up the hyenas’ orifices and eat them from inside,” and proceeded to do so. I screamed like all the hyenas at the point when they realised what was going on. What do you call that zone, my friend?


Speaking of zones, gentlemen come over here and let’s talk for a minute.

Gents, a good friend is a hundred times more valuable than a good chaw and you will always love your friends more than you love your crushes. I know how it hurts when you are infatuated with someone and they don’t feel the same way, but quit talking about the friend zone as if it is some kind of personal insult. Any jerk can be good enough to chaw. Not many people can be good enough to befriend. Unless you also don’t like her in which case what are you whining about? 


Then came Patience. Patience. Along came Patience. A hero among heroes. An Avenger. She swooped in like Nat Romanov (who we all know is the greatest of all the Avengers, no argument, no dispute. If you want to fight me, come to Kyanja. I am always there after curfew. If you can get past my LDUs, come and beat me.) Patience, Patience, Peeshensi! 

Patience took me from a boy…

… and made a man out of me. 

Patience was a contradiction in terms. She wasn’t patient. She did not have time for wasteman, f-boi, punk, or fala. She had already sent two prospective fiancés back home in their Benzes and Prados because of attempting to tek her fi eedyat, a crime you don’t get to attempt twice with Patience. 

I was in her office building waiting to see some underqualified, overexposed dwanzie for a news story I was writing. I will not give you his or her name because Kampala is not zimbes. It’s not buildings, it is bridges, and the fewer of them you burn, the wiser. I was a rookie reporter but I had already began to understand how these things work. You waste an hour caressing some small man’s ego, thinly concealing the sarcasm every time you called him “sir”, or “big man” when you really meant, “twig” or “if only your mother had adequate access to effective birth control.”

I was not looking forward to meeting the half-wit so I didn’t mind that I was stuck in the waiting room for half an hour. I was busy on my phone trying to flirt with Lydia. Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. Kale I  even almost used your real name. But even though I have not, you know this is about you. I could have married you. I could have built a life with you. We should have been in lockdown together, girl. My feelings for you were deep and true and pure… until that moment in that office.

When I looked up from my phone as I waited for Lydia to text back, cue violins, soft focus and slow motion.

Patience walked by to fetch something from a desk.

And my eyes met her ass.

It was like, it was so …again, this is not going to become that type of blog so don’t expect that kind of detail when I offer a description but you will understand when I say. It was like that moment when the cars jumped out of the plane in that Fast and Furious film, but if they had jumped through rainbows. It made my heart start beating to a dancehall riddim I know hadn’t been composed yet. Seeing that ass was like watching the sun set from a hilltop in Lyantonde at the end of a hot day while drinking double shots of whiskey on ice as Manu Dibango plays on your portable bluetooth speaker. It was so perfect, I think if my shrink could have packed it in a pill, he would put prozac out of business.

Gentlemen we don’t encourage ogling in office but let me tell you the story. We do not encourage this ogling behaviour, but she did. She encouraged it to the point where I was soon visiting her apartment every other weekend. 

Now let’s go for a break first, and have a word from our sponsors.


Now, back to regularly scheduled programming:

There was absolutely no risk of any emotional attachment, of me “catching feelings”, because she treated me like crap. The only emotions I ever saw from her were contempt, disdain, scorn or grudging approval when I had done a good job with the house chores. The only time she was clearly pleased with me was when I successfully completed the other work she required, my main job in the whole enterprise.

Patience liked the fact that I was a smart kid, eager to learn, and quick to pick up on lessons. Unlike those tajiris with their Benz keys, I did not mind being told what to do. I would lick what I was told to lick, and how: left to right, up and down, or in circles depending on instructions. I would slow down or speed up as requested. And her primary rule, “Ladies first” was never ever ever violated. 

I didn’t mind being a toy boy to a sugar mummy. She was generous if not extravagant. She didn’t buy me a Starlet (Starlet was a nineties Vitz) or get me M-Net (M-Net was nineties Netflix) or get me a Startac ( a nineties iPhone) but when I would wash her car or pick up her laundry or run errands in a timely fashion, she would give me an enviable tip.

Plus, in case I didn’t mention, she was sexy af; her ass was the kind of ass that Oxford African English Dictionary defines as: “Yoooooooooguuy!!!Aayayayayayayayayayayayaya! Yoooooooguy!!!”

Now, I myself am now old enough to be a sugar daddy, though I am not one because that would betray my pro-feminist objections towards transactional sex and the commodification involved, not to mention the power imbalance implicit in such a relationship. 

And I don’t have money. 

But this is what happens with sugarbabes and toyboys– it can’t last forever. As they grow older, you have to let them go. They one day become self-aware as human adults and you have to dump them before they begin expecting full boyfriend rights.

One morning, when she woke up and murmured that she wanted bushera for breakfast. Typically, that is how it would go: she would wake up, order breakfast, and I would go take care of that like a good boy. But this time I explained that I could make bushera, but I only knew how to make it the school way, “banging bush”, not the stir-it-in-a-pot way.

She looked at me in a way no woman has ever looked at me since. It was a mix of Ebonies, WTF memes and the way Thanos grimaced when he said, “Fine, I’ll do it myself,” because that was when she finally realised that this is what a whole her had been with all this time. 

I can’t say she was cruel the way she dumped me. She was concise and clear and cut to the chase. She gave comprehensive reasons (It was really only one: that she could do better.), offered to provide references should I need to continue being a sugar boy, then said I could use her phone to call her spesho hire guy (we never traveled in her own car, of course) to take me back to wherever the likes of me come from.

Now here is the thing. The difference between a boy and a man is not sexual. It is in your soul. It is in how you see yourself. It is in where you put your value in this world.

So me I said, “So should I make that bush before I go or I just go?” 

Kko her she had gone back to sleep. But enough about me, how have you been?


Still have MBs left? For what? Use them to listen to The Cloud Podcast

About The Celebrity Who Knocked Me With Their Harrier

Let me tell you the story of how I got into a car accident with a celeb.

It knocks you down. Keri told us.

Now, as you may well know, if you paid attention in History class, I used to be a journalist. Back in the days of ancient, outdated forms of communication, like paper.

I did not cover parliament and court cases for long, though. Once I realised that it was easier and more lucrative to write about show-business, I quickly abandoned the august house, or the honourables, or whatever MPs like deceiving themselves that we think they are.

I should pause at this point to state my disappointment with you readers of Uganda.

You walk around with your OTTT receipts and your Roke Telekom and your iPhones and your fancy spectacles, some of you in jeans and high heels, which is a lethal combination on a Ugandan woman–

Just an example. Juliana isn’t the one who knocked me.

I should pause in this pause to expound on the issue of Ugandan woman in jeans and high heels. A Ugandan woman wearing jeans and high heels is one of the infinity stones. Qwinn, you think you know your melanin power, but you don’t even know the half. When I see a Ugandan woman in jeans and high heels I find my hands automatically checking my pockets for my land titles, car keys and treasury bonds because if this chick is going to steal my heart, she might as well have everything else.

But even other readers, the ones in crocs, lugabire, and/or beards, you are also part of the disappointment we must address. You, too, walk around as if you are nice people who care about us writers who break our backs sideways to, if not entertain you, at least impress you. But then you lied to me. You made me think that if I dropped that dope ish, you would come and read it.

Then you let me down. 

Last year I spent six months writing top-flight political satire for Nilepost because I thought that this was the natural next step in my career– from writing about celebrities like Klear Kut to becoming a high-flying celebrity humourist myself, to becoming an influential social commentator/intellectual/thinker– in short, I expected to start finding myself tagged on twitter with @Kalinaki and @Cobbo3.

But to this day, I am still being asked about Suki.

Suki is in Mauritius. Suki fled Covid and flew to Mauritius. She’s not coming back until lockdowns are over. 

And particularly my own personal lockdown because, currently, friends, I look like garbage. I have not combed my hair, worn socks, used deo, or touched a single molecule of lotion since May. I look like used packaging. I look like remains. I look like aftermath. I look like leftovers. I am not something Suki wants to have a photo with.

I am still cute, don’t get me wrong, but I am just really shabby right now.

If this jackal saw me now it would say, “Dude, have some respect for yourself if not for others. You look worse than my shit. And I’m a jackal. You don’t want to even imagine what I eat to get to shit the way I shit.”

And to make things worse, I have grown comfortable. I kind of like this. In fact, to whoever it may concern, let me announce that I am not returning to society at large until at least August. I am staying in isolation, and not just from dirty people who have managed to place the whole world under a pandemic from a virus that can be contained by simply, simply, simply doing something as easy as washing your freaking hands! See your lives!

But also from those people who require of me that I wear proper trousers. I discovered that if you put a slit in your kanzu, it is perfect home attire and you never have to wear anything else.

Anyway, so I was a showbusiness reporter. I would talk to entertainers about what they were doing, how they were making it cool, and where they expected it to take us. It was an honest living. We were good at it. 

By the way, I was NOT a critic. Okay, I was for a short while, but I learned my lesson and quit. I promise never to do it again.

Critic? Ptu! What is a critic! That is not a question. A person sees five hundred people dance to a song. But his waist is stiff. Instead of calling his doctor about the onset of pelvic rictus, he not only concludes that the song isn’t dance-able, but he thinks he is doing a good job by telling the dancers that they can’t enjoy it because it is a bad song. Mbaff just.

A music critic on his way to assume that he has any value to add to society

I may have made a few– okay, many many jokes about the Backstreet boys sucking but that is not being a critic, that is being a hater. There is a big difference.

As a journalist I was very professional and made sure that I always conducted myself in a manner befitting of a professional. So, even though I admired a performer, I would always separate the fan from the reporter. 

When I would meet the likes of Chameleone, Bobi, Juliana, Iryn, and as aforementioned, Blu3, I always carried myself unimpeachably. You would see me and Navio talking and think these are two relatives discussing the cows in the kyalo, even though I was talking to one of the most amazing writers in Uganda’s history.

You guys, I have not been humble in this blog post, but game recognise game. Navio rhymes are so fire, I easily consider him one of the top writers in Ug.

But when I was asking him, “So, what is the latest you and your cohorts Klear Kut have unleashed on your unrelenting murder spree, killing MCs with the lyrics and slaughtering haters with the rhymes?” I would ask it as if I was saying, “So which cows is cousin Kyimpi taking for his kwanjula? Blackhorn and Thatcher I think.”

By the way, on a related note, why don’t we wash cows? Cows don’t need to smell that bad. When they are food they smell great, so why do we let them stink like that prior?

Yannastan, eh?

But there is one celebrity who broke  my veneer of professionalism. And it is not just because of her music. I do love her music, to this day, but I love many people’s music and still don’t lose my shit when I see them. For example, I love Irene Ntale music. But the day I meet Ntale it is as follows.

I be like, “Ehyo. Sup.”

And she be like, “Sup.”

And I be like, “You good?”

And she be like, “I’m good.”

And I be like “Aight den. Keep doing what you do, kyanas. Laters.” And I go. As if I have just bumped into the owner of my washing bay as opposed to being in the presence of one of my favourite all- time singers. Guys, I have a list, and Irene Ntale is above Whitney on that list, and I will not argue about this, lest some very mean, petty and cruel things that cannot be unsaid end up in the universe.

But this story is about a time before Ntale arrived. Let’s get back to that.

With the musician who knocked me down with her car, I did not just stan because of her music, it was also because … well, hmmm… how can one put this to get you to fully understand?

If I say she was hot you won’t get it. I meet hot people all the time. I live in Kampala, Uganda. The temperature of our babes is high and unless they are in jeans and high heels I keep my composure quite cool.

But this one singer was not just hot: This singer’s hotness was hot. This singer was hot enough to set fire ablaze. She was so hot that I am sure when it rained the only thing you would see around her is steam.

This singer was Grace Nakimera.

And then one day Grace Nakimera was so fine that she knocked me with her Toyota Harrier– the one which is also a Lexus RX.

And she wasn’t even the one driving.

And the car was not even moving. 

Her manager had just dropped by to distribute some CDs and he called me to the vehicle to get one. I sauntered over. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t expect her to be in the car. I was not ready.  I just got to the car and out of the corner of my eye, saw her in the passenger seat. I wasn’t ready. She said, “Hi Bazanye,” and I collapsed.

My body asked my legs why we were suddenly horizontal and in rolling underneath the vehicle chassis and the legs responded, “We forgot how to stand.”

“Brain, why didn’t you remind them?” I demanded.

Brain said, “Boss, I am in a state of severe confusion, having been confronted with something that is too much to handle. You could put cocaine onto my optic nerves and and it still won’t be as devastating to my neurons and synapses as the blast from Grace Nakimera’s face at such close range.”

I still meet celebs. Old school, middle school and new, because even when I was doing politics I was always hanging around XFM cos that’s where the cool people were…

Look for NotRadio on your podcast app. I don’t know how to link podcasts. Rudy is pulling his kapintos.

And sometimes I meet new school celebs too, I think. I can’t be too sure because I don’t know most of them and when I worked at NBS, it was impossible to identify musicians. At Douglas Lwanga time everyone in the elevators was wearing shades, bling and dreadlocks. It got to a point where even I would do it, just to maintain mental health balance.

If it was a girl star, I could guess, though, but I was only going by the size of the fake eyelashes.

Sometimes a lady would show up with eyelashes so large that any fiscal expert would guess that the reason they cost a lot of money is that URA filed them as wigs when they got off the plane at Entebbe. I would conclude that these ladies must be celebrity singers because experienced TV presenters know that the lashes are not worth the headache and they keep them in their bikapu until they get on air. It’s hard walking through corridors with those things on. You can’t even see. With those lashes on everything is dark and obscured by blurry lines and it reminds you of that scene in the original Lion King when Scar took over. And if you have already come to the conclusion I don’t have to explain that yes, I did in fact try on a pair when I was at NBS and learned that gambling and betting in office is bad.

I don’t recognise the new celebrities. Not even the ones I really enjoy, like Kappa Kat and Fik. Maybe it is an age thing. A new kid may come out with something really good, I might hear it and love it and even set it up on the Apple Music app (because BUBU), but that makes it harder to stay caught up with new music, because I start Quinamino (a song) by Azawi (a singer), then one note she sings reminds me of these two keys in a Ntale bridge so off I go to Ntale’s page. Then after going through all 57 Ntale songs on my playlist I reach Lwaki Otubatisa and for the next eight hours I will be on Sheebah. This leads eventually back to Juliana and Iryn Namubiru and by then I will have forgotten I was supposed to be listening to who was it again?

But this is not right. This is not respectful. I am not going out like this. I am going to make sure that every day I dedicate at least half an hour to a new singer. Just for the sake of Uganda and for the sake of not missing out and also because Karma. I also release singles and I want people to play them. Which brings us to a word from our sponsors, now I have finished telling you the story.

Click the picture to get the second volume of the Adventures of Chandler and Frasier. Or click this word: Affilliattion. Or click the button.

Our Names We Are Called Chandler And Frasier: The second book

Why would a Ugandan person call his sons Chandler and Frasier? Between us, at the beginning it made sense, but that was almost twenty years ago. Now I get a lot of questions.

So I wrote this little ebooklet about it. We begin in Kireka where the two boys corner their father in his conference room with demands that he give them explanations and/or better names. You, click the picture, the link, or the button and download the Pdf.


If you like it, please share the link on your socials. Tell your friends, tell your family. And if you know anyone named Patricia Agaba, tell her I said hi.

Volume 1 available here: Click Me! Click My Letters And Get Volume One

Volume 3 in July. I stake my word on it that.

A Story About Back When Old School was New School

Let me tell you a story. When I was a young wart hoooooooog. (When he was a young wart hoooooog) I used to hit the club every weekend. 

I may need to explain this unfamiliar term to the ducklings who just joined us this decade, by the way. Dear Future Leaders, in the 00s there was a thing called a “night club”. It was like Kenjis, Monot, Alchemist et cetera, except that the whole thing was indoors and you had to pay to get in. Yes. Pay to get in.

In spite of this, people still went there.

Hold onto your recently-achieved adult britches, Zoomers, panic is premature at this point because, you see, it gets worse.

You could pay to enter the club, but the interior was demarcated into levels, each with a more flamboyant amount of decor than the previous, and to gain access to the fancier parts you would have to get a ticket that came at a higher price.

In other words, you paid to enter and paid more to enter more. And then more to enter even more. Now you may say “WTF” and gasp in shock.

We had Club silk at first: a dark room whose air would be flooded with the music of Timbaland and the Neptunes. If memory serves me correctly and it probably doesn’t, there was Silk Royale next, raised above that floor and through which the music of Britney Spears and Nsync would swirl.

People having fun in modern times, unrelated to the circumstances of which I speak. I just want to show you Tsaubah Stone’s amazing photos.

Then came Silk Oxycotin, or Silk Opulence or Silk Furthermore– I can’t recall the name now. Probably couldn’t recall it then either, due to these factors: I didn’t like it. Actually, that’s the only factor.

It was the sounds of 90s house music like Tenchotronic, Snap, or worse, Abba and the Bee Gees that submerged you there.

Clever kids have done the maths and calculated the fiscal policy as such: what you paid depended on what type of music you wanted to dance to.

But, Generation Z, with your ripped jeans whose jagged edges injure one another as you raunchily rubadub your peers at Kenjies, you are wrong.

The choice of Club Silk, Silk Royale or Silk Ostentation was not made basing on anything as merely rational as that.

The choice was actually made according to how wealthy you wanted to seem. You always picked the most expensive entry fee you could afford.

Silk Overpriced had a tiny dance area allowed but most of the space was taken by sofas. Partially, of course, because of how boring Abba, Dr Alban and that house music version of Another Day In Paradise were, not to mention the stultifying dullness of the so-called “Kool” and his gang. But also because it was not made for partying– it was probably the area where the blessers would sit and wait for their toyboys and sugar babies to work up enough endorphins for the cross-generational sex that would conclude the deal this whole night was a part of.

Silk Royale was where I would go. If the other one was for the blessers, this was for the ballers, the ones who waste money showing off by paying to climb stairs. This, wasting money, remains, to this day, the defining difference between having money and having kko some kamoney.

I had kko some kamoney because I was another thing you won’t believe existed in the 00s– a well-paid media worker.

I was a “society reporter” or “entertainment journalist”. We were the precursors to the dipshit slimeball muckracking scumbags that man those bu-tabloid websites, clawing at their spittle-encrusted keyboards in fits of frenzied, over-marijuanated envy, misspelling fabrications as shallow and unimaginative as they are mean-spirited and cheap.

I know that seems personal and harsh. And yes, I do have a tiny little bone to pick. Last year I had a spat with a rude askari at a mall, stormed out in a hiff, tweeted about it, one of their idiots saw it, scratched at its keyboard in a fashion so vulgar it would have done better work on a ballsack and now an article on their website says mbu I had horn-rimmed glasses.

We were actually journalists, though, and would be paid to go to Silk Royale to write about Obsessions doing a floor show, or Ragga Dee dropping his latest song, or Michael Ross being the super-talented phenomenon Michael Ross was then, and in my eyes, still is. Even Ginuwine will allow.

The DJ was, unfortunately, racist, and assumed all ballers had bad taste in music, which is why he only played boy bands, Mambo Number 5, Eyimacarena, and whatever it was that Peter Andre whined about. They say find a job doing something you love and you won’t have to work a day in your life?

Modern youth in enjoyments. Again, not part of the story, just check out Stone’s photography

If you love pop music and find a job going to dance halls you will work dreadry and drudgery-wraught nights.

So my three peers and I would stick through the crap music until the event we came to write about was done, then, finally, the four Guinnesses pulsing through my arteries would wake the true Ugandan in me. My kagoma gene would stir to wakefulness. The call of the drum would prick my African soul and my knees would say, “Young man, you need to make the most of us while you still can. Let us go downstairs to Club Silk, now! The DJ is playing My Love Is Your Love by Whitney Houston and Wyclef Jean!”

Aate was I going to argue against such?

So I ditched the ballers and ran downstairs to where the poor kids dance and sure enough, the DJ was playing My Love is Your Love.

Youth. Kids. Generation Z. Baana mwe. If you have not heard My Love Is Your Love By Whitney Houston and Wyclef, please, tell Siri to play it now. I assume you have good bluetooth earbuds– don’t play it on the phone speaker. 

Clap your hands y’all, alright,” said Whitney.

I clapped both.

“Clap your hands y’all, alright,” she reiterated.

I repeated compliantly. And that groove hit the spot and soon me and this girl in a purple dress were getting down.

Youth. Kids. Generation Z. Baana mwe. Never dance with another person under any of the following circumstances:

  • Four Guinnesses on an empty stomach in an era before the popularisation of the rolex
  • One of you is wearing purple, and 
  • Whitney ‘langside Clef are booming My Love Is Your Love.

You will fall in the most stupid love that has ever been plummeted headlong into. Even the Chitauri who fell when Iron Man closed the portal will look at you with pity as you plunge to such a doom.

After Whitney has said “It will take an eternity to break us and the chains of Amistad couldn’t hold us,” as her closing statement, you will ask Purple Dress Girl for her name and number and she will lie to you.

She said her name was Patience Kyomugisha and when I called after the traditionally mandated day and a half, the phone was answered by one Hajji Mulumba who runs a hardware business in Jinja and has never worn a purple dress, much less worn it at Club Silk.

I don’t go clubbing these days. No one does, apparently. You go “out” I’m told. I don’t go “out” but there was a time I drove past Nexus and I think I heard Ed Shearan claim that the club is the best place to find a lover. We need to find a way to stem the spread of harmful misinformation in this day and age.

Now, you guys met me when I was more mature and better presented. I had developed the sense to keep a regular haircut and I chose deodorant on the basis of quality, not the basis of just fwaa. I had become charming, good looking and was kind of famous to boot. When you began reading Bad Idea I was a snack. 

Just follow Tsaubah Stone on Twitter even.

But back then, I was a mess. The lousist aspects of being a lousy 23-year-old scrub were evident all up and down my scrawny, unkempt frame. So I don’t nenya Purple Dress Chick for taking advantage of my groovy dance moves for My Love Is Your Love and then running away from me, leaving me nothing but a litter of lies.

Hey, Purple Dress Girl, if you are out there reading this, I hope you are happy and have a great life. I hope you found a great partner and that your love is their love and their love is your love and it would take an eternity to break you. I hope you have a rewarding career and nice kids. I hope you still look astounding in purple. 

No, don’t holla after reading this. I’m not interested anymore. I’m just saying if you are reading this, call Hajji Mulumba and explain, please.

I’ve had sex, showered and swam with my glasses on. But this one time…

I am a shortsighted person, the kind who wears glasses and is referred to as maaso aana by the kind of boda boda or taxi conductor who was not raised properly by its mother. I am sure the poor lady tried her best, but some heads are just too thick– the layer of emputtu is just too deep to penetrate and even after years of slippers, kiboko and engolo, no manners ever managed to get through.

So, this is the end result. I walk past the stage with my car keys prominently displayed in my hand, my stride deliberately pointed towards the parking lot, my face set in what I truly believe is the most brazen, flagrant and unmistakable expression of a man who is getting ready to drive in his own Spacio, and the bodas and condis still call, “Maaso aana ogenda?”

Mbaff.

I am also longsighted. I turns out one can be both. So in addition to the glasses I wear for my myopia, I need another pair for reading. This came as quite a surprise to me, because the only time I ever read books on paper is when I am looking at my own written notes and if I show you a sample of those lawless tangles of chaos and mayhem you will understand why it took me so long to realise that I needed reading glasses.

Look at that. Don’t you automatically assume that the reason you can’t read that is because it is illegible?  

In addition to this, I have wisdom, cunning, and a talent for understanding things about people and situations, a skill that lets me get the meaning beyond the obvious. This is called insight. 

So, I have normal glasses or maaso aana, plus reading glasses, making it maaso mukaaga, then add the insightf and it makes apt and perfect sense that I own eight pairs of spectacles.

Five are from Wazi Vision and the latest three pairs are from House of Penda, a local small business that you should know about if you have short or long-sightedness. 

You know how you have to spend like 200k to get the worst frames in the opticians office? Call House of Penda and get excellent deals on beautiful frames at half that price.

The discounts were so seductive, I bought three pairs of frames before Sevo locked us down and stopped my spending spree in its tracks. But once we are unlocked, I will be unleashed again, because I shall need to make myself sexually attractive again and one way to do that, as we all know, is having the right eye-wear.

But I did not come here to kulanga House of Penda. Check them out on facebook or on twitter or

on instagram but do it later. First, let me tell you a story.

It is a familiar battle that those afflicted with myopia must fight over and over again, a never-ending source of strife: the day always comes when you need your glasses but you can’t find your glasses because you are not wearing your glasses and can’t see where your glasses are.

Long before I became rich and reckless enough to go about buying eight different pairs of spectacle frames (I have a different pair to match each of my watches, man. I am either a baller or I don’t know fiscal policy), long before that, I owned only one pair, like a normal person.

And living a normal person’s life, I walked into my kitchen and chopped up my onions.

I smiled inwardly with self satisfaction and laughed quietly at all those losers out there who can’t cut onions without weeping all over the room because those losers don’t have glasses to shield their eyes. Lol! Such losers.

It is a familiar battle that those afflicted with myopia must fight over and over again, a never-ending source of strife: the day always comes when you need your glasses but you can’t find your glasses because you are not wearing your glasses and can’t see where your glasses are.

After enjoying that moment, I chopped the tomatoes. Wasn’t as much fun but was necessary, so I did it anyway. I then assembled the spices. I addressed the chicken (It is just something I believe, as an African. We should show chicken more respect than we do. So when I get the chicken out of the bag and lay it out on the board to be chopped up into pieces, I first say a few words:

“Hey kuku. Gyebale. Yeah. I can see that you are dead now and stuff. I don’t know how that’s working out for you, but it’s going to be great for me. Cos I’m going to eat you, I am so going to eat you. Man, I am going to eat the ass off you. Literally, cos I can see the twingiri part there. Some people say the twingiri is the tail. I think it’s the ass. Anyway, I just want to say, I hope you lived a fun life, were free range, and were slaughtered humanely. You were not one of those chickens that like were set upon by a pack of stray dogs and ripped apart limb from limb but just before the hounds could finish you off, the LCs heard the noise and came over and scattered them, so you were left there, dismembered and disemboweled, slowly dying a gruesome death, before one of the LCs spotted you and then thought, ‘Hey, I could take this carcass and pack it in a bag and sell it to maaso aana who lives up the hill. He won’t know its not from the supermarket.’ I hope that’s not what happened. Anyway, let’s do this.” 

I had the ingredients ready, the pan on the fire, the podcast connected to the Bluetooth speaker and was ready to cook.

Which I proceeded to do.

I spun and stirred and they sizzled and sazzled and steamed with all the promise of deliciousness that was to come and it was during this process that the problem started.
The steam was clouding up my glasses. I could not see what I was cooking. I had to take them off.

No problem. The distance between my head and my pans is not great. Even my relatively lousy retina can still capture the details I need to bring the enterprise to a successful conclusion. So I took the glasses off, put them away, and proceeded to cook my wonderful dish. 

The podcast, by the way, was this one. Feel free if you want.

When the stew was simmering, I did as all the finer chefs do when the saucepan is ready to chill but the podcast is not finished. I started on the washing up. Popped the knife and the cutting board and all other related paraphernalia into the sink, dunked them into the suds of antibacterialised soapy water, did a bit of scrubbing, until finally, the podcast ended, then I abandoned the sink and went to eat.

I had a delightful dinner. Alone of course. I am a great cook, but not a generous one. Mbu I invite who mbu jangu tulye? Did I invite them mbu jangu tugule ingredients? Did I invite them mbu jangu tugule gas?

I enjoyed the meal, and enjoyed the nap afterwards, and then it was time to do other things.

But I couldn’t find my glasses. I checked all the usual places– my head, my chest, the desk, the bag, the floor, all the usual places. 

Things got so bad I had to shout into my sitting room: “Okay Google! Call Kevin! On Speaker!” because I could not grope around and find the phone. Two things you can’t find without your glasses are your glasses and your phone.

When Kevin answered I had to begin with a litany of apologies. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you say it every time that I am not the neighbour you want to get phone calls from, but please, listen, I need your help.”

The insight we mentioned earlier is why I did not tell him that the neighbour he did want to get a phone call from, the one at C-3, was not going to call him at that hour, not at that night, because I had seen her boyfriend’s uber drop him off. I had heard the Usher CD they always play at full volume so we don’t hear them doing their Usher things. But now it was quiet in C-3, so she was probably deep in post-coital slumber and was not going to call anyone’s phone any time soon.

Kevin walked into mi casa, with his big, round 20-20 capacity eyes and reported that the spectacles were not in plain sight, not even to him. So he then did that thing you people do whenever someone tells you they can’t find something.

He asked, “Where was the last time you saw them?”

A: I don’t see my glasses. I see through them. They are glasses. They are transparent. And B. Every time you ask someone where was the last time they saw something, it is annoying and irritating because duh, don’t you think that was the first question they asked themselves? And then they go straight to the last place they last remember having the lost object and, as always, lo and behold, there the guthing is.

In this case the glasses were in the sink with the half-washed dishes.

That was a long time ago. A long long time ago. Such a thing can not happen to me now because I cook so rarely. At the most twice a week. Otherwise I order in from Portions down in the valley (If you are in Kyanja area, do the same. Their chicken stir fry is so good, I am sure their chef addresses his chicken in tribal proverbs and quotes philosophers.)

And, of course, because, I have eight pairs of glass, fam! If I can’t find one pair, well, I pick up another pair and use it to find the other one.

When I Almost Burned My Underwear In Kabale

Let me tell you the story of how I went to Kabale and almost set my underwear on fire.

My reason for going there was one of the most common reasons anyone ever has for going to Kabale: It’s freaking gorgeous out there. 

It’s the most beautiful part of a beautiful country, guys. If Uganda is the pearl of Africa, Kabale is her left boob.

At this point I am assuming that Pearl is the name of a very sexy and beautiful woman. Beyond that I know next to nothing of pearls. 

I do understand that leading 18th Century coloniser Winston Churchill named Uganda the pearl of Africa because the place reminded him of something extremely beautiful, but we don’t have oceans and oysters around here. The only beautiful Pearls we know of in Uganda are Pearl Karungi, Pearl Kimuli, Pearl Agiro, Pearl Kentaro, Pearl Aber, Pearl Kirabo and the likes.

Please do not tell me to google what an aquatic pearl is. I already muted and blocked that search result because I don’t need coloniser propaganda.

If it were me branding Uganda as a colony, I wouldn’t have used oceanic jewelry. I would have called it the geopolitical Destiny’s Child of imperial acquisitions, because, like Destiny’s Child, when Uganda’s colonisation was just getting started it showed promise, but elsewhere there were other, more dominant colonies, like Kenya, the SWV of Africa and Ghana, the TLC of Africa, and, of course, South Africa, the Britney Spears of Africa.
Uganda would become even more aptly the Destiny’s Child of Africa because over time it would undergo much inner turmoil and then a series of unprecedentedly rapid changes in key personnel positions.

Have you got your copy of what leading reviewers have called Lol! NNN! and a rapid-paced, quick-witted romp though the family life of a single father and his two sons in Kireka?
Click the picture to get your free copy of Chandler and Frasier Go To War

 But if Uganda was Destiny’s Child of Africa, Kabale would be the Kelly Rowland of Uganda.

Kampala, of course, would be lead singer Beyonce, since, like Beyonce, everyone makes a huge deal about Kla, everyone acts like it’s all about her and her alone, she has all the money and all the attention, and yes, she was always, even from the very beginning the main point of the whole band and so on so forth, but being real here, being really real here?
I mean furreal foreyo?

Kelly is the most beautiful of them all.  But, like Kabale, Kelly just peacefully does her thing on the side, being a lot more beautiful than Beyonce, but staying cool about it.

So that is the reason I was going to Kabale. The excuse I was going to Kabale was to write this piece:

I was still a journalist with the New Vision at the time and had bagged an assignment to write about an island school in Lake Bunyonyi, (I bungled up the process and did not actually ride the schoolboat with the kids, which was the whole point. Maybe next time I will finish the job before I resign from the profession and become a free ebook novelist.)

I began my journey in Old Kampala, where there is a bus terminal that dispatches buses westwards on a daily basis. 

Due to the absolute, utter, full and ultimate depletion of all desire to wake up at 6:00am mbu just so I can get there by 9:00am mbu because that is when the bus leaves nga why since when of where shyaa, I booked the night bus.

“Good afternoon, handsome yet rugged middle-aged bus ticket-seller,” I greeted the man in the window.

“Good evening famous journalist and newspaper columnist E. Bazanye,” he replied, for at the time I was indeed those things.

I asked him, “Would you be so kind, and if not so kind then at least so competent as to furnish me with a ticket to Kabale, the most beautiful part of Uganda, arguably Pearl’s left titty?”

“Well, I, myself, am from Bushenyi, and hold the competing view that Bushenyi is in fact more beautiful than Kabale,” he replied. “But how much money do you have?”

I told him how much money my employer had given me as transport and per diem. He grinned slyly. “This is can be enough for a ticket to Bushenyi, you know? You have options.”

Fort Portal, Uganda

Our conversation was interrupted as one of his colleagues, walking past the ticket booth, stopped to inquire: “Is that the famous Bazanye of Sunday Vision?” She peered in through the ticket window. “He is even more roguishly good-looking in person than he is in that cartoon. Awobi ma leng, itye nining?”

“He says he wants to go to the most beautiful part of Uganda,” explained the ticket seller.

“He wants a ticket to Acholiland?” she asked. 

When I explained that I could only take in Kigezi out of all the nation’s beauty, due to this being a work assignment, they gave me a ticket for a nine pm departure ride and sent me back on my way to my home in Najjera. I did the whole journey to Najjie with a sad and heavy heart. All the talk of beautiful parts of Uganda had dampened my spirit and it made me sad to have to see Kampala roads.

The sun, Uganda (Image by Fredrick Kimbugwe from Pixabay )

Compatriots, and also, any Kenyans reading this (Niaje!), any Rwandans in the house (Muraho neza! We love and miss you guys so much!), just because Uganda is beautiful, I am not going to pretend Kampala is not hideous. I had to trudge through the tangled chaos of Namirembe Road and into the miasma of the taxi park and then eventually find myself embroiled in the morass of Nakawa. Kampala can be ugly. Kampala is unkempt, disheveled, chaotic and dirty. Kampala is a mess of a mess. I know I said Kampala is Beyonce earlier but Nakivubo, Nakawa, Nasser Road and Ntinda junction? Those are the enkyakya hairs on Beyonce’s feet.

I regret that I didn’t pick an bus that was early enough to take me through Masaka and Lyantonde at around 6:00pm because the sight of Masaka and Lyantonde around sunset is so enchanting, it would have completely cleansed my palate of the aftertaste of having to squeeze through the kaloli’s cloaca of the Northern Bypass roundabouts to get out of Kla.

But that was not to be my only regret.

You see, I did not look at my ticket properly and therefore did not see, properly or otherwise, that it was actually a ticket to Kisoro.

Nalubaale shore, Uganda (Thanks to Reinout Dujardin from Pixabay for the shot)

And I did not realise the mistake I had made until 3:00am when the bus guy– what do you call them? Bouncer? Maitre’d? Flight attendant? Sorry, I have not used public transport in so long that I have forgotten– until the bus MC announced, “The guy getting off at Kabale, disembark now. Gerrout quick so the rest of us can proceed to Kisoro where we are going.”

It was the most 3:00am I had ever seen in my life. It was so dark and empty that I felt as if I had stepped out of the bus at the end of the credits of Uganda.

But that was not even the problematic part.

I was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sandals. I had a jacket in my bag, and back then I always wore a hat. This ensemble is usually enough to protect me from what we in temperate tropical zones like Kampala consider cold.

But when I stepped out of the bus onto the tarmac of 3:00am Kabale town I felt something I had never felt before.

Even my eyeballs felt cold. My eyes felt cold as if they could see it. I felt cold in the hair follicles in my nostrils and ear canals. I was detecting it in my ears and nose as if I was hearing and smelling cold.

My brain said, “Baz, it’s cold.”

I replied, “Th-th-th-thank you for the met-tt-tt-er-olog-g-g-gi-cal ana-l-l-ysis C-c-c-aptain Obv-v-ious.”

“Shut your sarcasm, dude. Let’s go back to Kampala.”

A road from one part of Uganda to another part, Uganda (Shot by SZappi from Pixabay)

Unfortunately Kampala was 400kms away and I could not even tell which direction to move due to how inky the darkness was that surrounded me. I think it was that dark because even photons could not work in that temperature.

Delerium is the state when a clever man starts getting stupid ideas and thinking they are intelligent. This is what set in. I dropped my bag, opened my luggage, took out every item of clothing I had packed and put it on. Two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, a jacket and two hats. 

It did not work. I was still freezing. 

Lake Albert, Uganda. (Again shot by Reinout Dujardin from Pixabay

So I thought of fire: If I burned the outer layer of clothing… but no, not these jeans… I like these jeans… Maybe if I put the vest and boxers on the outside, and set them alight… 

Luckily a roving boda smoking a filterless cigarette (That is what I am going to call it, cos I ain’t no snitch) cruised up just in time to save me from setting myself alight and was able to convey me to a woteli, where I spent what was left of the night.

I was able to finish my assignment the next day, and even swim in Lake Bunyonyi.

So, the moral of the story: You guys Uganda is such a beautiful place. It is full of areas, sections, parts and regions that look so nice that it is a shame to spend all the time and optic energy we waste living in guKampala. There is so much splendour out there. We have such an amazing country.

I know you are cramped up and claustrophobic and tired right now, especially, but when this is over, let’s go out and see Ug. North, south, east, west, middle, over, under, left and right.

My plot is to get to Ssesse Islands on a moonless week where there is no light pollution. Because this is what the night sky looks like there.

You think when God told Abraham to count the stars he meant that meagre handful you see from Ntinda?



Today’s post is not sponsored because that would mean I was given money to say this. Let us say, today’s post endorses the following tour outfits that you should check out on twitter for a fun affordable Ugandan adventure.

Follow @KoiKoiUg
Check out @tubayotravel

and if I find any more, I will update that list, then I will holler and we go and dance the jabba under Sipi Falls.

Thoughts on Home (i)

I am locked down in Makindye, far away from my actual home in Kyanja. I’ve been thinking about my homes, and thought I might share these thoughts with you.

The time is half past midnight. I am in the Hodulop, as I call my residence, a curious architectural phenomenon that has the fancy fittings of a posh mansion, but is the size of a muzigo.

I have those broad light switches that are so wide you need your whole palm to use them. You spank the switch to get the light off. Off, you naughty light!

The light itself is a white disc with a steelish lining. The only other place I have seen something similar is on a spaceship that was on Netflix.

I also have the posh taps which you lift and not turn, and I have wooden curtain rods. 

“Eh mama! As if Buckingham!” you are free to say at this point.

Barring the homes I lived in as a child under my mother’s roof, or my time as a prospective husband luxuriously cohabiting in some of the more quaint maisonettes of Najjera, this is the fanciest, most opulent, most classy pad I have ever lived in.

It just happens to also be the smallest. To give you an idea of how tiny it is, I never lose my keys here. Ever.

To give you another idea, it is a bachelor pad that stays neat. Because it’s impossible to find space to waste on litter.

It is on the third floor of the building and the elevation is what charmed me into signing the papers.

I imagined myself sitting on a high balcony with a tumbler of Jack, James or Johnnie watching the evening smother the day’s stress away, like Alan Shore and Denny Crane. I would have a a nice third floor hillside view of Kampala’s suburbs and watch the city’s bluster and its hectic, crazy wolocks ebb into the night.

Escuchala la ciudad respirando I can feel the city breathing. Cheat heaving against the breath of the evening, as the poet said.

My balcony faces west but I don’t get to enjoy the view because, well, I’m never at the Hodulop at six thirty. I’m always at whatever it is I call work that week.

Don’t ask. I do too many things. I just bore three days of a headache trying to come up with a concise CV. They want one page. One page? How big is this page supposed to be?

I do a lot of things. And they keep me out late.

It was only when the Age of Isolation began and I was forced to be at the Hodulop all day that I was finally able to discover and enjoy the strange and unique beauty of a Kampala dusk. After the sun falls, it leaves five shades blending from fire to violet beyond the hills and trees out westward and Venus, the planet, the evening star is sharp, stark and bright.

A Post About My Left Bum

Subtitle: No, not since the last time I was caned.

Of all the thousands shocks that flesh is heir to, I did not expect to be debilitated by a pimple.

I don’t live the healthiest lifestyle. I get vitamins and vegetables in the form of nyanya embisi or embgoa in my tololating TV chicken. I hydrate with whiskey. Exercise consists of a sprightly walk to where my safeboda said he or she was parked.

Unless I have called an Uber, in which case, sprightly walk back to where I parked Spacio Wanderer Car Zibwe because the Uber driver has been twelve minutes away for the past half hour.

I never expected that the thing that would make me too sick to go and work would be, of all things a pimple.

And yet here we are.

The destructive power of this particular katulututu was like that of incompetents in public service. A useless fellow is merely useless, but put him in a sensitive position and a useless fellow becomes dangerous as well. 

In this case, the position of the pimple was my backside.

I was not able to comfortably wear pants, which anyone outside the gigolo profession will tell you are vital to going work.

I tried hitting my workplace, Innovation Village Ntinda, in other attire but that presented other issues.

Even in a kanzu, kiteteyi, gomesi, pencil skirt (Speaking of which, if you see Kentaro, tell her that I am on to her scam. The reason she always leaves clothes at my place is not because she wants to mark territory. It is because my washing lady is better than hers. Tell her she caught me looking.)

Where was I? Yes. Not being able to get to work in a skirt. It was because I could not sit in a car, or on a boda with my nyarsh in this condition.

I did manage to walk painfully to a nearby clinic to see a doctor.

Doc: How are you today?

Bazanye: Why do you guys ask that question when you see me clearly in the office of a medical practitioner seeking diagnosis and treatment? To quote Amy Poehler, Really?

Doc: Your umbrage comes from the fact that you think I am greeting you and expecting you to say you are fine. Not the case, genius. This is me asking for a rundown of symptoms. How are you doing today, meaning how are you suffering, in what parts and to what extent?

Bazanye: Oh. I apologize. Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pair of curtains.

Doc: Then pull yourself together. Jokes aside…

Bazanye: It’s kind of embarrassing, but, Musawo, I have found a little swelling in my nether regions.

Doc: I see. This is a common situation many Ugandans in this region have, swelling in the nether regions. We in the medical profession call it your ass.

Bazanye: Doctor, this is different. Unless my ass is developing another ass, a third buttock, I don’t think your initial opinion is correct. Especially when we note that the new bump is painful.

Doc: The latter issue is not unusual. This being Kampala, everyone has, if not is, a pain in the ass. But let me take a look.

Bazanye: I hereby, for the record, give consent. You may ogle my bum.

What followed was the part I will not detail because you never know what Annet Kezaabu is aroused by. If she finds it interesting, this blog will be imprisoned.

The conclusion we arrived at was that it was what we call Ejjute in Luganda and I had to limp to the doctor every day for ten days to have the boil cleaned.

There is no point to this story, really no point in me telling you that I once had a boil on my ass. There is no moral to conclude with. Wash your hands and stay home.

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