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.

10-7! 10-7!! Help

Hello there,

this is me being peaceful. Today I am maintaining a sense of mental decorum, no rubbish in these here posts. No sir, today, I am being objective in whatever I am discussing. Which brings me to the problem at hand, I can never figure out what I want to write about before hand so I think I'll just abandon all the stuff I said earlier and teach you the hook to my new song about Golola Moses of Ntinda, Uganda. Here goes...it must be sang to the tune of Drake's "Find your love".

1st verse:
This is Golola Moses
Gwe gwe gwe,
I own the hottest temper,
gwe gwe gwe
I am the champ kick boxer
Gwe gwe gwe
and I know you joke about me
Gwe gwe gwe

Hook:
You're tempering a temper,
Don't you value your life
You're tempering a temper,
Don't you value your life
You're tempering a temper,
Don't you value your life
You're tempering a temper,
I'll kill you dead, then deader then deadest

My kicks are sweet connections,
Gwe gwe gwe
one to the head and you're toast
Gwe gwe gwe
so make sure you're far,
gwe gwe gwe
When Golola goes a-kicking

Repeat hook until you die. Don't stop or else

Drake did a fair rendition of Golola Moses' song. If anyone tells you otherwise, report and the main man will pass him away.

Now I promised only sense and I've delivered. If this is not dead sensible, I don't know what is. My next post will be an in-depth analysis of Uganda's political situation...in keeping with my resolution to transform this blog from the ramblings of my decadent mind. Shalom and remember to love your neighbor and hate your landlord.

To Keira

Hey Keira,

I miss you so much. Tonight I am like the saddest former father ever. You were so young and so pretty and you'd just learnt how to not disturb your daddy. Why the fuck you have to leave so soon. How the hell am I supposed to recover from all this pain that I am feeling? I survive day after day, pretend everything is okay and humor will heal me eventually. It's been a year and humor or anything hasn't done sh*t so far. I am sadder than I've ever been before. I am crying and crying and I doubt I'll ever stop. If you've lost someone really close to you, you know what I am talking about. RIP Keira Kanyana Wanyenze, I am gon miss you for the rest of my life. Damn! I am gon miss you for as long as I am me. I know you probably looking down and wondering why your daddy's crying. Babe, I am crying coz you are not my baby anymore, apparently, you someone else baby now. No more holding you or playing songs from the playlist you used to fall asleep to. It's done. We can't chill in the couch anymore while you listen to stories I made up just for you.

I am so sad. Tomorrow is a fucking public holiday and I just don't give a f*ck. I miss you and love you so much I don't know what to do. Damn! I even learnt to change your diapers. All these tears, this dehydration is really not for you. It's for me, you're probably very pleased wherever you are. I just can't help thinking about how it would have been now. You, a year old, just saying your first words...me teaching you how to call people lumpens and hooligans and how to say sorry before they start beating you up :-) I gotta run now. I love you, I love you a lot. Try not to get into any trouble now. Although, if the punishment for getting into trouble is getting sent back to earth, get into a lot of trouble. I am gonna miss you a lot. Love ya.

P.s.
I still have your playlist on my notebook. One day perhaps, we'll waltz to it again. I miss you.

Love,
Your daddy.

Passaway

It's raining heavily and the car...STOP!! Do I really need to explain myself for blogging, on a laptop I own, with internet I pay for in a house that's mine? Hmmmm,I guess so. Anyway, it's raining heavily and the car is parked kinda far away so here I am...blogging. I just checked and I have over 50 draft posts some with more than a paragraph. This is a relevant fact, no?

Anyway, this afternoon, I am sharing bits and pieces of myself with you. After some hard thinking, I have come to the conclusion that I am the ish. I am actually what women want. I mean, over the years, I've created a checklist based on what my female friends (who I think wanted me all this time but signed a treaty to all leave off)have said and allow me to finally present the official guide to what women (and girls) want.

Disclaimer: If some of the guidelines strike you as impossible, please remember that this is ME (the guy that women want)

1. Women like guys who drive automatic cars
This automatically disqualifies expensive sports car owners, taxi drivers and a few friends of mine. Why this peculiar behaviour from the females of our species? I have the answer...it boils down to multi-tasking (forget all the management theory they taught you in school). Multi-tasking means being able to do everything else and keep a conversation running while you drive. No grunting and huffing while you drive eg. I think , we can not load anymore passengers. Ok, this example is off coz that would mean, the chick is in the taxi drivers ride during working hours.

2. Women like guys who work from dining tables
There's nothing as sexy as a guy working at a dining table, ask my wife, and she is an authority on sexy men, she lives with one 24/7. Anyway, as I was saying before I started blowing my vuvuzela, chicks absolutely love dining table guys. U know what it shows? Once again, that word, multi-tasking. If you can work at the table at which you eat, who knows what you can do on the bed in which you sleep. This is common sense and I really wonder how sharp all you guys out there are. I mean, it took me a while to figure this out and I've just given it to you on a silver platter. I am a philanthropist (which brings me to my next point)

3. Women love philanthropists
This is true. No woman likes Bill Gates (or me) for his money. Women like men who like to give and keep giving and giving and giving. Ok, this sound lewd but it's my blog and my mind has since left its gutter days behind (unlike you, yeah you, stop turning your gu head, I mean you with the spectacles and the ka bald spot <-- apply applicable description). CAUTION: Do not give money to beggars while in a woman's sight. It only makes you look like an easy target, only give money to rich people. Now, rich people did not get rich by giving money away so they are only too happy to get free money from you e.g. Yo! Sudhir, lunch is on me today. Just pick your spot. Guaranteed, if you feed Sudhir, Kirumira and uncle Kutesa while she can see you, it's a wrap. You now have a dedicated follower. This woman will do anything for you. "Go buy me socks," and she'll deliver them and help you wear them. "Take off your ear rings," and she'll take them off. "Take off your sweater," you know what will happen.

There are a total of 5671 rules to ensure you ensnare the woman(en) of your dreams. If you analyse me, you'll probably find like 5000, the other 671 I have to tell you. I am a working man so I gotta go. Peace out, Jah bless, Shalom and catch you on the rebound. You have your women only coz I don't want them. As earlier said, I am a philanthropist.

P.s
If you are wondering about the title, it's a term used to refer to a situation where something alive is passing away eg the taxi passawed the dog.