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

5 thoughts on “A Tale of Romance, Lost Love, and Bushera

  1. Joan, I have never thought of making individual posts downloadable. I guess you could just ctrl+v. Or I could make the email plugin so it emails you the posts.

    Like

  2. Hi. Baz
    However I’d like to download this story but am only given the option of downloading ” Chandler and Frasier” which I already have.

    Like

  3. Hahahahahaha, this is a rich piece, rich in style and content. I love the allusion to aspects both historical and contemporary. The humor is also up there, there there there, like the number of COVID-19 cases in US (let us leave the numbers in the minds of our local leaders out of this)

    Like

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