Building a better you: Part 1

Once upon a time, in a land far far away from Uganda, a man once lived. He was a confused man, then he died and it was crazy sad for a long time. Eventually, everybody forgot about him except me; and you know the worst thing? This post has absolutely nothing to do with this man, for he is long dead and no one remembers him anyway. It's been a while and hundreds of paradigm shifts in my outlook; nowadays I write not to annoy but to thrill,excite and of course, educate those poor people who StumbleUpon this page.

Wait, stop and inhale...and inhale...and inhale. Now, stop inhaling and do push-ups for just 60 seconds. Now exhale, how do you feel? Did I mention you should do all this while whispering "haaallo haaallo haaallo," with your eyes open and an audience. How do you feel now? This is what I've spent my two year hiatus developing. It comprises a set of workouts designed to develop your internal organs with special emphasis on the stuff loitering in your abdominal cavity. Seen any "Gain bigger kidneys and pancreas" ads  on UMEME's poles recently? Yeah, that's me doing my thing; re-inventing the hustle for the frustrated businessmen and bafere of Uganda. I have a dream that one day, organbuilding will be an Olympic sport and I, Mufere, will be heralded eternally like that great greek athelete, Pissppidispisisiss of the marathon fame.

If you have made it this far, just scroll down to the bottom and buy my DVD set already. You are a visionary and deserve pioneer status in this great new frontier in human development that I am pioneering. Do you  aspire to be fitter than your athletic, metal pumping idols, run a half marathon faster than your dad this November? Build those kidneys and that appendix, get that porous stomach wall fixed, get your stomach cavity in shape and parade it majestically when you die. Nobody will ever forget you, you, Sentongo of the liver the size of a laptop, you'll be immortalized like . Presidents will come to see you off as they cart you off in two hearses. "He was a great liver of life," they will say as the Vatican makes plans for your sainthood.

So, that little workout a couple of paragraphs up was gratis. The DVD set is not, I am taking orders now.

Looking forward to your enthusiastic purchases of the set and reseller plans.

Mufere, project coordinator,
LivelyLivers International, Uganda Chapter.

Why so serious?

The Guinness Book of Records (Mouse Edition) has a listing for longest lived mouse. He died at 2 years, 4 minutes. If you are reading this, you are not a mouse. While you might wonder what relevance this tidbit has for you, kindly read on. I'll make my point in relatively short order.

We are taught from the day we begin to display signs of comprehension that the business of life is serious stuff. This is a lie. No where is it written that to succeed in your life time, you must approach everything with a frown and accompanying dogged persistence. I see it all the time; the phrase, "time to get serious" illustrated by the wiping of any sign of happiness and contentment from present company's face and the replacement therewith of the allegedly serious face. Let me tell you a secret about being human. C'mere, I need to say this real quiet.

Your human states are decided by a regimen of chemicals called neurotransmitters (Serotonin, dopamine etc). You have no real control over how you react to the influx of these drugs into your bloodstream. Mbu, dopamine makes you excitable, serotonin makes you happy, adrenaline makes you sweat (i think) and a whole lot of other chemicals make you do a lot of other things. I've discovered in the course of my private research that business faces give many of our bosses a serotonin rush. This is a pet theory, feed it at your peril but nevertheless allow me to key you in on how this affects your working life - ever sweated through a job interview? Clammy hands, dripping nose, the works? Well, how would you feel if I told you that the panel's only purpose was to get your adrenalin flowing so they could get their serotonin rush? The job already belongs to the HR Manager's first cousin. Ponder that...next paragraph.

So if you are not in control, who is? Your mind. No, I said your mind, not your brain. Your brain is a willing participant in this hormonal binging; if anything it buys the soda for the punch. When you put your serious face on, your facial muscles are at odd with your glands and this results in depression. Depression kills...like smoking and indiscriminate sexual activity and bullets and jumping into the lion cage at the zoo and drunk driving and sleeping in room 1408 (worst way to die IaMaHO).

Truly verily you say unto me, "Make your point," and I decline.

If you are lucky, you will live to a ripe 90 years. Let those 90 be years of glandular joy and happiness. Do not let suicidal (serious) people detain you in their ki grey world. Smile all the time; people will say bad things about you but that's all envy and deficiency. Hold that smile into rictus and die in the knowledge that unlike many other corpses, you exited with a smile on your face; also take care to brush your teeth after each meal, it helps.

With that my friend, I bid you adieu. For those of you that are still seeking my point, here it is .

Whizzy whizzy bang bang

My title is catchy, no? Say it out loud in your office as you read this. Say it many times, wwbbx20, add a cool reggae beat and nod your your while your boss talks at you. Now you have an idea for a really cool song that I want nothing to do with. People, I have problems. No, you say, how could you have problems? Problems are what Gaddafi (the former president rather than the formerly muslim singer formerly known by the same monicker), the boda guys who got lynched and my tribesmen in Bududa have. You, you have minor inconveniences. These are the things most of the people I try to tell my stuff tell me back. So I am going to tell you my problems in order of magnitude.

1. Writer's block

Were you ever in a situation where you were watching the matrix and then you died? Poor Neo is stuck at a 90 degree angle to the ground. Stuck in the act of dodging agent Smith's bullet. You, you are dead so no one is going to un-pause the One and he'll be stuck there forever. In the meantime, gravity, the nemesis of cool moves like so, is gently exerting 9.8m/s² to the back of his ka head. Disused muscles atrophying in positions they were never meant to, man, movies suffer. This analogy should be applied directly to the drafts sitting in this blogspot account. They have been paused, never to be completed; at least by me. You know that stuff where the point of the point is lost in the analogy supposed to illustrate it. This is one of those situations. Me, I have written! If you have the time to sift through this kasasiro for points, go on and waste your life.

2. Online Currency Trading

Mehn!!! I learnt this word from a younger relative of mine. Apparently, "Man" is old school. I have to agree, look it ->meehhhn<- (I don't know how to punctuate this sentence after the hyphen so I'll just keep typing, I won't even close this bracket. You can't deny the versatility of this word, it's like a one size fits all version of that old school word that I'll never use again. It's simultaneously singular and plural; Mehhhn=a flock of God. For all intents and purposes, it's the same situation. If I have lost you, you have no business here, vamoose! You silly goose. Kati, this point is also lost, when I find some time to waste on talking about currency trading, I'll squeeze it in somewhere.

3. Rising inflation

I hate the way everyone is blaming inflation for all sorts of things. Man, that kyana ate all my dime. Why? Mbu, inflation! She ate your dime because you wanted to give it to her. The dime, I mean. Do you want to fight inflation? Stop harassing government, I hear walk to work, walk to kitchen, walk to kitchen etc. STOP WASTING MONEY. Here's my investment plan so you never have to suffer this inflation animal again. Buy a cow, grow peas in the parking lot, rice in the bath tub and some apples next to the fridge. You have a toilet so biogas should not be a problem. Problem solved. NO SPENDING=NO INFLATION. This blog has sorted out a problem that the central of many countries have failed to deal with. Power to me.

4. Bad Black

In the beginning, there was the word, and the word was BLACK. Mehhn, that was those days when the word "duck" meant living in your house and it was okay to ask your date where she put up. Nowadays, mbu pink is the new black - now this rubbish has no place in a serious post like this but a meehn gotta keep up with the times...and what's up with this kyana called bad black. If she was so baddd (another old school word), why the hell doesn't she go all the way, call herself evil black or infernal black or eldritch black <- i like this one.

In other news, my daughter (who is very beautiful and sweet - in the fashion of her mother) is ill. Kindly put in a quiet prayer for her before you go to bed tonight, or tomorrow. Y'all stay sawa, meeehhn!

Always,

Mufere

P.s

This post was supposed to examine THE junction as a spot to inebriate your person and socialize with other mindless fans of UBL/EABL/Tyson/Bad Black but I've not been there in a while. Mark might just have thrown a swimming pool and spa somewhere in there. So until I pass by again, you'll hear nothing from me...on the junction only.

Kampala Bars (Boda Boda, Garden City, Kampala)

I qualified my title. Some very confused people might think this post concerns the bars before they open for business. Asylum fodder just! Do you have time? Are you unemployed? If you answered aye to both these questions, me and you are going to get on just fine. I have no time for employed prudes too caught up in their work to read some rubbish I wrote in my free time. Anyway, back to business...

Over the years, I've taken the time to sample a cross section of Kampala's night spots and after incisive analyses of all these joints, I bring you Kampala by Night 101. I hate night clubs so they will not feature much in this paragraphs that follow. What with those hot chicks in their skimpy dresses and their dudes in baggy jeans and large tees with blingey thingies everywhere! I can't be bothered. These joints are described in no particular order. I'll do bar by bar

Boda Boda, Garden City, Kampala
Who wants to drink with strange looking wooden faces with glowing eyes staring at them? Don't raise your hand, stupid! I can understand pouring out libations in your private shrine at home to your wooden face but an upper class bar in Kampala, never. Bloody things are everywhere. Worse still, these voyeuristic bastards are in the girls' "restroom" as well, observing everything quietly with their red eyes. Then you go around saying "if walls could talk", naive child, the walls in Boda can see. They know all your secrets as if ISO. Now most mainstream religions try very hard to emphasize the absence of alcohol from their places of worship (don't even think about Holy Communion). How the hell is a devout witch doctor going to drink in the face of his god(s)? Boda, please take down the masks and put up some Leonardo fakes or nude pictures or something or you will lose good business. Your drinks are probably expensive because you have to pay tithe to your wooden faces.

Conclusion: Boda boda is a nice bar for Christians.

Coming next: Equator, Zone 7 or wait for it...The JUNCTION.

Rich men, poor men and kyanas

Hello there, you’ve probably seen me on the cover of various romance novels over the years. As if a handsome muzungu kanyama who’s an heir to a massive conglomerate and then I fall in love with this poor kyana who came in as my personal assistant; you know the story, then my dad finds another blue blooded kyana from a family which is rich like ours for me to marry, then the ka PA kyana pisses me off and I first sleep with the rich kyana, then eventually I leave the rich kyana and marry the poor kyana who never has to work again. Moral: Work hard and get rich so your son can sleep with women. Don’t you ever wonder why no one ever writes romantic stories about poor people?

Exercise for writers: Begin your new novel with the following words, “Then he lifted her in his clay caked sinewy arms and carried her to his muzigo.” Please do not attempt to sell your book, you will not succeed, no one wants to know how slum dog types perpetrate their romances. Don’t argue! How many times have you asked your boda boda chap how his kyana is? See? This is all for the best anyway, we really don’t want to know. Of course, the hypocrites will deny but we all know the truth, don’t we? Now, I realize my tone might be offensive to certain people, which is really disturbing because I’ve not even started tackling the real issues. Are you uncomfortable with truth in any of its forms, perhaps you should skip over to the Big Brother update, plenty of lies there.

With great power, comes a great urge to sleep with as many women as possible. The mathematics is simple, Money=Power, ergo rich people are generally more randy than poor people. While we serfs are loitering the streets of Kampala hustling for our buck, the bagaga are looking for the next great encounter. Bagaga are like terminator robots(the old model of Schwarzenegger not mercury man*) , they have scan vision during the day. At night, they have that thermal stuff as if Predator. The interesting thing about this sophisticated vision is it only detects women, they never see us chaps. How many times has your boss walked by your desk and not said hi yet even the female cleaner got a hug? See? I am telling the truth so the next time your boss walks by you, say his name loud, grab him by the shoulders and look him straight in the eye for at least 5 minutes. If he starts crying, he’s gay – don’t fear this type. If his left eye starts turning red, clear out your desk quickly. Hunters abhor contact with species outside their food chain. You are neither a fellow hunter nor prey, hence there is no conceivable condition that should result in physical contact with you. If you can't eat them, hate them! This is valid biological theory. *Mercury man is the bad guy from Terminator 2.

The Ugandan IPC Conundrum -- Chapter one

The Ugandan ipc conundrum
Shh! What you are going to read in the lines below is absolutely top secret. Absolutely top secret. It is so hidden only 2 people in the greater Ntinda area know the truth. The two of us have x-ray vision, we see what lies beneath the lies that have been forced upon all of us. If ignorance could kill, we would have eaten you at least thrice (I believe in reincarnation. I also believe that the more ignorant you are, the sweeter meat you return as in your next life-I'll explore this later). Thankfully, here I am with a blue pill in my hand. No more matrix, no more ignorance, no more reincarnation as duck.

Bambi, you think you know what I am talking about. You probably have an opinion you are holding onto so you can compare with my conclusion. Poor poor you! Anyway, your mind is not equipped to deal with this information, first because you don't have x-ray vision; second you are neither me nor my friend who also sees. Now to discuss this ipc problem before the powers that be send crack commandos crashing through the skylight in my house seeking to muzzle me and bind my eyes with a lead blindfold. ipc refers to iNSPIRED pOLICE cONSTABLE. The first letters are small because this is a secret. I am putting you in trouble by telling you this stuff but that is the price of ignorance. If the truth will kill you, at least take pride in the fact you that your death will create more fossil fuel for our beloved nation in a few million years.
Have you ever been stopped by an ipc? You may not have recognized them in their saintly white (apart from Ntinda, I think the dust has something to do with this) but they stand by the side of the road and raise their arms in Nazi salute to passing cars. Now here is the first secret. The lifted arm that stops your car is actually the ipc saluting his superior in the car in front of you. Don't you ever wonder how they select which cars/drivers should be checked? I think I might be rushing ahead of myself so I will backtrack and first explain the hierarchy of the ipc organization (it has absolutely nothing to do with the Uganda Police Force).

The lowliest ipc is the ripc (pronounciation guide: ripsy), the roadside-ipcs. You'll find them chatting in groups by the roadside, nonchalantly drawing straws to see what charge they will sic on the next driver. Above the ripc is the lipc (guide: lipsy), this stands for loitering-ipc. These are the operational brains of this operation, they dress in leya (or layer) and drive their unmarked Ipsums and harrier cars around. I think they might be funded by JICCA, hence all the Japanese cars – this is yet to be confirmed. When they mark you for interdiction, they overtake you and drive towards the nearest ripc squad, using bluetooth to keep your car in line until the salute that also stops you. The lipc report to the c-ipcs (guide: sipsy), the evil controller-ipcs who sit all day on expensive notebook computers in trendy cafes pretending to surf. They monitor the l-ipcs movements and ensure that they each stick to their routes for the day and that they meet their quotas. Stay away from dashing young men in cafes with ipads!

We don’t know at this point who the c-ipcs report to but we promise to break more news on this shadowy organization as we get it.

The 3 step rule

Shalom friend, I am not a violent man. When you get hit by someone, follow the steps below and start your personal journey to a violence free existence.

The 3-step rule
1. Look your assailant in the eye (if he punched you in the eye, just turn your head in his general direction).
2. Search your brain (and heart). Do some real *deep thinking*. Was the punch justified? Are you sleeping with his wife? Did you steal his phone?
3. Now...kill your assailant. I am serious, kill them dead. Now, you are just 6 billion (and some) killings away from your own violence free life.

These rules have completely transformed my life and I am sure they will do wonders for yours too. I am a wanted man but you have my assurance, no one engages in any form of violence near me.

P.s.
This my shortest post ever. I am pleased.