Worst Housemate Ever

This is a horror story. Very violent. Thick with gore, bloodspattered and gruesome. It is all cruelty, no mercy, just murder, murder, murder and death. Netflix donneveniknow wasgono. This is the story of the time I had a chicken in my flat.

As all horror tales begin, so did mine, with a peaceful, sedate, virtually rural life in Kyaliwajjala. Kyali in those days was very backward: I hear that you now have malls and swimming pools, and there are rumours that solar powered streetlights have been sighted in the background of some selfies set by the main street, but in the old days, the neighbourhood was, though technically, within the greater Kampala area, so underdeveloped that we even had wildlife. 

We had flying roaches, we had millipedes and, most telling, we had monkeys in the hood.

Wild monkeys. 

Also known as the Vervet Monkey. Also known as LDU

There is a difference between urban animals like miyaayu or stray dogs and wildlife. Stray dogs know their place, but the Kyali monkeys were categorically wildlife in the sense of how casually disrespectful their attitude towards humans was. The stray dog sitting in the middle of a panya road will get out of the way when it sees a human approach. The Kyali monkey of those days would continue chewing its kikajjo and look at you for two seconds to decide if you were relevant to any aspect of its life before concluding that the answer was nil then turning back to its sugar cane.

When you said, “Shoo!”, it would, in a reversal of the urban norm, look at you with a contemptuous glance, as if you are the one who was kumanyiraring it. 

Then the monkey would say, “No, you shoo.” 

In its language, of course.

None of them saw us as a threat in any way, not even to their ecology or habitat. We were so bucolic we didn’t even litter plastic bottles or buveera because we were so rural, our rolex guys wrapped their wares in endagala and our nightly inebriation was served in endeku, not bottles much less satchets. 

This is what the mall and the bar and the pizza place looked like when I lived in Kyali

But that was not the only un-urban thing about life in the area. There was my neighbour across the compound. A dude named Tony. 

Tony had just arrived from a hamlet outside Fort Portal. This meant that he was not as savvy to the local culture. He did not know that yuppies in Kampala apartment compounds kept to themselves and did not socialise, so he just went ahead and made friends with all of us, myself included. Like a villager in a village, Tony would often barge into our houses and do the unspeakable– actually visit! As in sit down and stay inside for extended periods of time.

One other neighbour had the balls to be appropriately metropolitan and stake her territory. I don’t know her name because I am a Kampalan too, so I don’t know my neighbours’ names, but she had told him to leave.

“Gwe, Tony, where is your house, is it inside mine, then why are you bringing yourself, no no no,” she said, loudly enough for us to hear the words, if not the punctuation, “I don’t live with men, you don’t even know how to use toilets, like the seat, up or down, and then ever knocking when I have just got my Javas, since when do I allow, no no no. Tony, your side is there those ends far away, me don’t disturb me.”

So Tony learned a valuable lesson about foreign cultures that day. If you want to hang out with your Kyaliwajjala neighbours in Kampala, do it at the nightclub in Bugolobi. 

This is your Kampala neighbour’s front door

It took the lesson a while to sink in, though, and while he avoided Number Six like she was the syllabus supervisor from Slytherin, he was free and friendly with the rest of us, treating us the way you would expect from foreigners who have believed the widespread rumour that Ugandans are friendly and hospitable.

One early evening he arrived at my door dressed in a kanzu and coat, complete with the little kamuli in the lapel. Tony had just returned from a Kwanjula and was on his way to the kasiki.

The kanzu, he observed, had tempered his male chauvinism. At first it had inspired envy– what a comfort to be able to wear something like a dress: the freedom and the space to move your legs was an unexpected pleasure and he particularly enjoyed how manspreading is made exponentially easier in a kanzu.

The lower parts of his brain were quietly deciding to be suspicious of women for not telling us about dresses before, and wondering what else they were not telling us, when another facet of information boogied itself into the disco– a kanzu is restrictive: It limits the length of your stride to the length of the kanzu. You can either learn this the hard way, by tripping and falling, or the less hard way by almost tripping and almost falling and then, henceforth, walking with the corner of the kanzu clutched in your hand, above your knee.

I look forward, as our cultures evolve, to kanzus coming equipped with slits that increase mobility. 

Tony, having been part of the groom’s entourage, did in fact fall, because when the ceremonial kwanjula chicken was handed over, it did not go gently into that good night. It sqwawked, “If you punkassniggas want me, come get me! Thug For Life!” then flapped valiantly and made a break for it. The entourage quickly broke formation from the accustomed grace and elegance of these Ganda ceremonies, hiked up their kanzus and set off like rugby halfbacks in pursuit. 

You heard “Changes” and you think Tupac was all peace and positivity?

It was Tony who finally caught the renegade bird with a dive that would have made any goalkeeper proud. There was two stains on his kanzu now– grass and mud– but he had caught the bird, salvaged the ceremony and therefore, as far as he was concerned, saved the marriage. He even, as per his narration, secured rights to have the couple’s first son named after him.

He told me all this before finally getting to the point which was, “Keep this for me till I come back.”

By “this” he meant the chicken.

He handed me the chicken. 

This

And then he dove back into the car with the other kwanjula attendees and they vroomed off to continue their revelry at the venue of the kasiki. I didn’t even know so many Masaka babes could fit into one VW Polo, but I was left with other things to consider, like the fact that there was now a live chicken in my house.

I looked at it.

It attempted to look back at me, but chicken eyes are on the sides of their heads, one on the left side, one on the right, yet us humans have both in the front.

I sighed.

“I can already tell that there is no point in me doing this, but the lack of a point has never stopped me from doing the things I do, so I am just going to go ahead and outline the rules that govern this household. Number one is that around here we are law-abiding and moral so smoking of marijuana and abuse of other recreational drugs is not permitted on the premises. Use the balcony cos weed smoke gives me cramps. Secondly, we uphold the constituion of Uganda and the international human rights charter as regards to freedom of expression and therefore, naturally, we also spiritedly believe, with the same verve and vigour, in freedom to shut the fuck up. The latter shall be enforced whenever deemed necessary. The third rule is no music in this house by anyone named Lil Anything.”

I said all of this to the chicken just as a matter of course though I knew it would have no effect. As we have already established, this hen and I were never going to see eye to eye.

Then Tony vanished. He disappeared. The day he gave me his chicken was the last time I ever heard from him. There are rumours that he had gambling debts which had grown to the point where one’s options are narrowed to an edge even thinner than “Either pay up or die”. The option of paying up having been removed from the table, it is now either die or flee to DRC, change your name and start a new life in Kisangani under an assumed identity.

I had been looking after his bird for a week and a half before I saw the landlord’s goons dragging Tony’s furniture out of his house and taking camera photos of it to upload on OLX and OLX-like facebook sites. That is when the circumstances were explained to me: I had been keeping this bird for a man who was never to return.

If I had known I would not have put up with it at all.

Having a chicken in the house, much less having one for ten days, had brought many zibs.

I had dealt with the two main problems you would expect– I sellotaped its mouth shut at night so it wouldn’t make noise while I was asleep and my thesis that pampers don’t have to work on only humans was proven accurate, but besides these, there were other problems.

For example, I kept it indoors. I couldn’t let it out of the house because, and if this blog post resurfaces ten years from now when cancel culture has reached the point where we are now dealing with animal rights, this is the one that will kill my career:

I couldn’t let it out of the house because there were many random chicken in Kyaliwajjala and they all look the same to me. I couldn’t tell them apart. If Hennessy (I named her) got out of the house and into the general population I would not be able to identify her and bring her back.

How do you know its not her?

Being indoors would have been fine if she had a sense of how to respect boundaries, but she was worse than a cat, and you know how cats are. 

You know how cats are. Who among us has not borne the trauma wrought by a cat that wanders into the bedroom while we are making love, and then starts casually licking its arse? We’ve all been there. Come on, it can’t just be me. 

And there’s still no facebook support group.

Hennessy was shameless. Hennessy would stroll around the dinner table while I was eating rolexes and cluck at me.

“Don’t even judge. It’s not like you were even related,” I would sneer, but I have to admit, I did feel a bit guilty.

She broke my favourite whiskey glass. The one that cradled the last sip better than all the others. 

But disaster struck on the third of a consecutive series of nights when I was drinking myself to sleep after Peninah broke my heart.

She had dumped me in the most cruel way possible. By telling me the truth. 

She had always wanted a guy with a full beard and she thought that after some time she would convince me to stop shaving and grow one out. I was a fool in love, so I told her, like an idiot, I told her, like a moron, I told her, instead of just going to Facco or asking Karitas if she has wigs that can do the job, I told her that some guys just don’t grow beards and that I was one of them. My genes only put hair on my chin and above my lip, nothing on the cheeks. I just blurted this out.

The least she could have done is tell me she was leaving me for another guy, but she just flat out said it, “Baz, I cannot love a man with no beard. It’s over between us.”

I felt worthless, I felt diminished. I felt humiliated. I felt broken into little pieces and crushed underneath a stiletto heel of shame by the cruelty of her words. My heart was a wreck. Three days. Three days of drinking myself to sleep.

Then this fucking chicken jumps onto the table and kicks over my favourite glass.

While I live in a suburb so rural that the best replacement possible is a tumpeco.

And this guy telling me mbu “See your life.”

There were other things. Like after the first few days the pampers obviously needed changing. Yes Pampers. Plural. Hennessy was a random chicken, not my child, so I didn’t feel obliged to sustain her hygiene. I strapped on one pamper. When it began to pong, I just covered it with another. And so on. This is at best a short term solution but after seven days one has to confront the necessity of having to remove stacked layers of pampers filled with chicken shit.

I made a note that the next round I was going to take her to the local court and ask if there is any convict there who has done something bad enough to deserve a really disgusting punishment, and then have that person deal with Hennesy’s diapers. The smell of accumulated chicken shit in accumulated pampers is dehumanising. That is the kind of thing that makes you mean it when you say you will never do things again. Perfect crime deterrent.

No. First wait. First picture it. First picture it. Now you understand. Don’t throw up on my blog. Puke to the side.

It was after putting up with this for ten days that the landlord’s goon told me that Tony wasn’t coming back. Which means I didn’t have to keep this hen. Which meant I could get rid of it. 

So I slaughtered her her and ate her. Hence the murder and gore.

When I Used My Computer Hacking Genius Skills For Evil

Picking a password is easy. Really easy. All you have to do is turn your arms upside down, shut your eyes, raise your chin up to the ceiling and slap at the keyboard with your knuckles three times.

Whatever appears on the screen can be both your new password and, if you are expecting, your child’s name as well. Like Jsdowjfei4obyh8.w

It’s okay. A Ugandan child’s name isn’t that important these days. It is hardly ever used. The first couple of years the kid will be referred to by a cute endearment like “kabiskwiti”. Then for the school years the child will have a school nickname, like “Ragzo”. Then soon after graduation, in the twenties (aka fake adulthood) the child will be known by their social media handle, blog name or stage name, like “Spiker”. By the time they are above twenty five and are finally real human beings, they should have earned enough respect to be referred to by surname and honorific. Eg. Mister Bazanye.

No one has used my name Ernest since 2011.

We were talking about passwords:

But first a word from our sponsors:

Download this one. It’s volume two. Download it so I can go on and start on volume three. Here, click the picture, of the coloured words, or the button, or call me and I bring the PDF to your quarantine cave, either way, download the thing.

The problem is not generating the password, it is remembering the gibberish. See, the days of picking a password you can easily remember are gone– we got rid of them when hackers, phishers, and other deviants started attacking random Ugandans and stealing our email and social media accounts. You have heard the stories, unless it has happened to you. You suddenly get messages from someone claiming to be Lynda Kyomuhendo, saying she is stuck in Lagos and needs you to Western Union several hundred thousand shillings to her so she can get a plane back.

Except you know it is not Lynda Kyomuhendo because Lynda Kyomuhendo is not trapped in Lagos. She is in the bathroom. She just left the bed a minute ago and you are so addicted to your phone that the moment she was out of sight, you grabbed your phone to check notifications. You are such an addict that you check your mail in between bouts of fornication even though that is so weird and just nasty and a really bad habit. Please stop doing that. There are times for phones and times to leave the phone alone. If you need a list here is one.

Do not touch your phone:

  • When you are naked because you are in the toilet doing the one which takes long. Don’t even look at my whatsapp DP in that state, much less communicate with me. My DP will smell the circumstances and I will mute you.
  • When you are naked because you are in between bouts of lovemaking, or (since this is Kampala and many of you are, frankly, unloveable trash) ordinary fucking. Don’t weird things between us by chatting with me while you have been doing those nasty freak things you do. Come on. Have some class.
  • When you are driving. Because obvious reasons. Don’t text and drive.
In case you are wondering, “What the fuck is that? Some kind of Spaceship?” Read on.

Now, let me tell you a story.

There was this guy we used to work with. He was a despicable human being: utterly, irredeemably horrible. The scum of the earth would go “yuck!” while scraping him off their shoes with thick wads of toilet paper. He was the kind of person so rotten that his corpse would not decompose because even the bacteria would vomit him back out if they tried to eat him.

He was spiteful and snobbish and meanspirited and selfish. He was filth. He was such a bad person that if Black Lives Matter was taking place at the time we would have added a caveat: #NotAllBlacks

Okay, to be fair, he wasn’t a bad person. He was just an irritating person. But this was an office environment and in offices, the difference is very slight.

One of the least repulsive of his many aggravating habits was playing Hillsong music on his computer during work.

What? You didn’t know wicked people play Hillsong? It’s good music. Even bad people like good music.

Now, if you know the power and beauty of Hillsong music you know better than to play it on the cheap, tinny, coughing-cockroach-sounding speakers built into an early 2000s CPU unit. If you are going to play Hillsong, play Hillsong on decent speakers. Make the noise joyful. Do not take beautiful things and put them in ugly places.

Those inbuilt speakers are made for chiming the arrival of emails, or for alerting you to the crashing of Windows. If you want to play music, there was a provision for you to attach headphones. It is sacrilege to play good music on bad speakers.

Like, duh!

The only music you are allowed to play directly from your computer is very bad music. Like Sean Fucking Kingston. If the speakers are bad enough he almost sounds as if he is on key.

So this workmate, let’s call him Sean F. Kingston because names have been changed to protect the guilty, Sean Kingston would often have to go to the lavatory during work.

This may have been a result of all the laxative herbs I would slip into his tea, soda, coffee, groundnuts or whatever he was eating or drinking after he had done something annoying. May or may not, we can’t really tell because what a man does in the lavatory is his business and his business alone.

For all we know Sean may not have been going there to release shit. He may have been going there to replenish his soul with more shit to spew at his colleagues because, as I may have mentioned, he was a really shitty person.

He was odious, malignant and vile. He was the kind of person who never gets malaria because he is so toxic, if a mosquito bites him, the mosquito dies.

When he was in the toilet, he would leave his Hillsong sounding awful at his cubicle. Those of us, like myself and my other colleague, who is badass like me, then decided that enough was enough. We were not going to endure this debasement of Hillsong when the perpetrator himself is not even present. So we swiveled our office chairs over to his cubicle.

In the New Normal, these things will be for rowing from the garage to the kitchen

My badass colleague, who I shall call Natasha Romanov, if you know you know, didn’t just swivel. She had to do that thing where you kind of row the office chair down the aisle with your bulegs while propelling yourself– I can’t describe it, but you know it. It’s hilarious to watch. Aaaah. Offices were fun sometimes.

When we got to Sean Kingston’s computer, we could not just switch off his music, because the computer had gone to screen lock. We needed his password to remove the badly-cropped photo he used as a screensaver. It was just his chest from the chin to the belly that blocked access to his screen.

Natasha, my partner in crime, asked me, “Hawkeye, we need to bypass the security protocols to gain access to the main control centre.”
If she is going to get a superhero alias, so am I.
“Roger that, ten four,” I replied in my Bruce Willis voice.

Did we have to guess his password? Was it hard? No. This is why identity theft became a thing. Due to thinking like this: “If you need a password that you can easily remember. get an easy password. Which means a password that is easy to guess.”

First we tried his name. Then we tried the name of the intern he was always sexually harassing while pretending he was being flirtatious. Then we tried “Password123” and the screen lock fell away like petals in the wake of a nuclear blast, revealing the full computer to us, open and undefended. We were free to work whatever mischief we wished to.

And so we did.

People are not born evil. People are not cats. They become evil. And not all of a sudden, it is a slippery path down to wickedness, but so seductive. We started by muting the music player, then we figured, why stop there? It was not a question. We then deleted the Hillsong files uploaded files of Limp Bizkit mp3s and renamed each of them a hillsong title and put them in the Hillsong folder.

Of course, if you like Limp Bizkit, you already have good quality headphones.

But that was not enough.

We got into his MS Word Shortcuts and tweaked his autocorrect so every time he spelled his name it would replace the first name with “no phallus” and the second name with “frail testes”.

We got into his email and subscribed to about fourteen racist dating sites.

The road to wickedness is a seductive one. It calls you. It is nectar, it is sweet, its sukaligulu is irresistible. Those things in the previous paragraph, we did them over the course of a whole week. Over and over again.
Next thing you know you are doing what we did every time Sean Kingston would go to the lavatory. We just kept making his computer worse and worse.

It was only when I suggested typing “goatse” into his search engine and leaving it there for him to press enter that Natasha made me pause to think:

What have we become?

Warning: Those of you who found the internet here when you were born will want to type that goatse word just to see what happens. Let me save you the trouble and tell you what will happen. What will happen is that you will learn that you don’t have to know every single thing means. Don’t look up that term. Do not.

Wise man is wise because he doesn’t know what goatse is.

I hung my head in shame. We had turned into monsters. We had become as beasts, engorged on the flesh of our victimes.

So we stopped.

No, we didn’t undo the damage. We just stopped doing more. Cos fukkim.

Now, let us make this post informative and constructive and educational with some password safety tips. Don’t use simple passwords. Get a random phrase that no cunning workmate, let alone Ukranian phisher or hacker, will be able to guess. For example, take the seventh tweet on your TL at this moment, flip the words as if you are shuffling cards for matatu, insert digits from the last fake phone number you gave or received, and then use that password to subscribe to WordPress and get notifications every time any of your favourite bloggers posts something new.

You guys, I am not going to be chasing trends so you won’t always see me being announced on Twitter, but I will be here every Friday trying to entertain you and I will appreciate it if you would join me.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

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If you youself are a hot woman and you want to help make Uganda a better place by encouraging these scrubs to be better men so that they can at least be styled up enough to holla, then get your tops from The Top Hub. I hear that after seeing a Tops Hub customer, Solomon Matsiko finally decided to sign up for an online course and at least kko be somewhat less of a dropout.

But enough nonsense from me. Check out their instagram, fb for tops as beautiful as you.

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?


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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.

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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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When Chandler and Frasier meet the neighbourhood bully, it’s time to teach him a lesson.
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