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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