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 Back in the days of ancient, outdated forms of communication, like paper.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.

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