Paper Plane Life (No Worries!)

Babe, if a boner is a feeling then yes, I have lots of feelings for you. If it was all about money, you’d be my girl. Unfortunately, it is all about personality (or is it?) so run for your dear life bubu because I’m the wrong kind of crazy. Initially, I wanted to write down some romantic wahaala but I’m guessing that last line isn’t.

So let me preach about no worries and more stacks.

When most people meet me for the first time, they figure I’m an ordinary nerd who tells a lot of bad jokes. After two weeks, they say, “eh, this guy never runs out of cash!”

After two months they say, “Man, that guy has refused to pay me my dime.”

After two years they say, “do you have thingy’s number? He went with my TV to the village.”

After a decade, they say, “fuck that nigga!”

I am one of those people who will tell you to live your life large even when mine is as dull as that of our VP. No, scratch that. That guy’s life is so pathetic that even if he committed suicide, he’d still end up a bored ugly guy with over-size cracked shoes. He’s never involved in any scandals. He doesn’t steal money, doesn’t catch people who steal money, doesn’t kiss Iryn Namubiru in public like Bukenya – he’s just there chilling fwaa.

I would describe my life in two words, paper planes. Sail high in the air and move along with the tide down the path of least resistance. That’s a messed up way to live, I know.

You know those peoplewho pretend to be rich even when they are not? Yeah? Well, that’s me. Before you judge me I want to make it clear that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. Some people don’t know that Lawrence Mulindwa has more money that Rick Ross, Meek Mill and all those MMG guys combined. Besides, if you think it is messed up, try acting broke for a week.

You’ll realize that the only thing worse than being broke is people knowing that you’re broke.

Your closest friends will open their doors an inch, see who it is and slam it in your face. It is a tit for tat world. One good turn deserves another. If you’re broke, what use are you to me? All that I’ll be rich someday claptrap doesn’t work anymore. Instead, walk into his room with that rich boy swag and say, “hey buddy, lend me a twenty and I get us lunch. I’ll give it to you like at 6pm.”

At 6pm, there’ll probably be a Mobile Money network problem or the ATMs will not be working. You can pull that cliché I’ll-give-it-to-you-tomorrow line and buy him a beer (with his money). You should keep your word; give him a tenner the next day. After all, it is his money. Chances are that he’ll forget about the remaining tenner because you bought him lunch and booze.

The icing on the cake is that he’ll still think you’re loaded!

See, it is not that hard, is it?

If he consistently bugs you for his money, pull a borrow-from-Peter-pay-Paul thing. Make sure to come back after a month and borrow a fifty. But this time, don’t give him jackbecause he’s an uptight bastard who doesn’t understand that sometimes shit is tight and a boy is on a 9 to 5 grind.

My friend was telling me how his girl’s girlfriends caught him trying to get into a kafunda to have a polite kikomando. These girls knew my boy stacked mad paper to the ceiling. He’s a lot like me. We borrow big and live large. Flashing money at the right moments to leave a lasting impression when we’re actually broke motherfuckers.

He was doing his thing - you know, that five-oh thing that guys do before diving into a kafunda. Unfortunately, he looked left, right but forgot to look across the road. The babes were apparently buying some stuff from a supermarket. They looked at him stretching his neck like a crack head smoking weed in a church toilet. Do you know how absurd you look when you’re trying to do a five-oh and the person you’re hiding from is watching you?

Very absurd

I bet they laughed their pretty asses off. In fact, they bought some ice cream and waited for him to come out. He came out a good thirty minutes later - very satisfied. With his face all shiny from the heat and his shirt un-tucked (it is not easy to eat a six chapattomando). He stretched and looked around – a wide bland smile covering most of his face.

Then he saw them. His face looked like youtube.com/youfuckedup.

Whether it was the shock of being found out or the effect of the meal that made him quickly duck back inside, we shall both never know.

One thing you should never do when you live this kind of life is never let yourself appear embarrassed. Here’s what I would have done. I would have walked to those babes like it is the most normal thing in the world. They’d of course say something like,

“Eh, naye you boy! So that’s where you have lunch from these days? Kale I wish Patricia would see this banange – kyaba too much! This is so funny, hihi!”

I would have replied, “eish, atte what is wrong with having lunch from there. For you, you’re having ice cream outside a supermarket.”

“But naawe no…that place of all places? Kyoka this boy, that place is so filthy!”

And her friend would interject like, “I know! And it is so cheap!”

I would say, “Cheap? Seriously? Look, your ice cream costs 800shs and you’re having it under the sun. I sat in a shade and bought a kikomando of 3500shs with even drinking water. Your butt would have to be in business for itself to afford my lifestyle. I won’t go hungry for like 12 hours so sincerely, quit acting so itty bitty and go have some bikomandos. It is on me.”

I’ll then walk away like a boss and pray that they don’t call me back to take up the offer because I won’t even have the dime to buy them that kikomando. God knows I’ve been eating on credit.

I’ve done some stuff in my life that I’m not very proud of.

*thinks*

No, actually I am pretty proud of them.

My landlord told me never to go back to his hostel. Not as a resident and not as a visitor – mostly because doing the right thing is not one of my initial instincts. I travelled to Kampala a week early to look for a place to stay. I’m not into big hostels. There are too many lights (read people) plus, how the dickens does someone pay a million shillings to use a few square meters of space for four months?

After a lot of failed attempts, I walk into this hostel with my head pounding like the devil is playing drums in it. I’d spent the previous evening hanging out with the Writivism mentors, Zukiswa Wanner (who is one of the most awesome people to be around) and Connie (who told me about Jesus) and another sweet woman whose name I didn’t get. I had a drink too many so I was totally hangover.

The manager, like me, didn’t pass on his tall genes. He tells me that there are no ‘single’ rooms. There were only doubles. I don’t do roommates because it often ends up spelling lifetime enemy at the end of the semester.

Me: Are there completely, totally, no rooms at all?

Him: No, you’re late.

I put on my innocent face and sigh whilst trying to look very depressed (which wasn’t hard because I was hangover).

Me: I’ve been walking for four days, looking for a room. Isn’t there somewhere you can fix me? Even if I sleep in the Askari’s Room I don’t mind.

Him: *laughs* are you looking for a room or a job? We already have an Askari. The only place which I could have given you is locked. The owner went with his key.

Me: But has he already paid?

Him: No, he hasn’t but he has been staying here since his First Year. He called me and told me to keep it for him.

Me: So there’s no way you can give it to me? Because I have all the cash right now, I have no relatives in Kampala; you have to help me out my boss.

Him: No, it is not possible. What will I tell him? There’s no way I can help you.

I walked away depressed and disappointed. I reached the road, took one look at the dust and realized I didn’t want to spend another second in this suburban death maze looking for a bloody hostel. Then an idea popped in my mind. I quickly walked back to the Manager’s room, a devious smile playing on my lips.

Me: I would like to make you an offer which will make both our lives easier.

Him: What do you have in mind?

Me: Last year, I went home with the key to my former room. Unfortunately, the room was given out and I was told ‘first come, first serve.’ So, what if I give you a little incentive to remove that friend of yours from the equation?

Him: *laughs* What kind of incentive do you have in mind?

Me: I could give a twenty for your breakfast. Then we shall discuss additional incentives when I move in.

*thinks for a very long time*

Him: You know what? Give me thirty and I help you.

Me: Done!

I put on my earphones with my braggadocio and volume on max like I owned the world. MIA was on that bass like,

Ifly like paper, get high like planes, If you catch me at the border I’ve gotvisas in my name…everyone’s a winner, we making our fame. Bona fide hustlermaking my name. All I wanna do is Bang Bang Bang and Click! And take your money!

Thank you for reading, quit worrying and click that share button like a free spirit.

Lemme Show You Badness

They are known by Eskimos as the most calculating people on planet E. Their music is true proof that if you play copycat for long enough, you might just sound like the real thing. Their country is the only place where you can find drug dealers, lesbians and some Al Shabaab fellas hanging at the same strip club. These sneaky bastards are responsible for more than 70% of internet based scams. They are the reason why people in Mali prefer to speak Portuguese and not English. They have released more awful movies than the whole of Africa and Asia (and wherever Eskimos come from) combined.

They are BAD!

Nigeria is the true definition of Ninja Territory. These schmucks are the closest thing Africa has to the five mafia families of New York. They’re some goddamn bullies I tell you. They can hack into your bank account and sweep your cash in a blink (yes, don’t argue). They’ll then call you soon after your landlord throws you out like,

“…yes, I believe I’m talking to a Mr. Onyango Opio? Yes, er…we have taken all your money. Do not worry; it is in a safe place. We are going to invest it in drugs and human trafficking. It is very good business…normally we shove the drugs in the humans and sell the whole package. All the profits will of course be reimbursed to you – in form of a sizeable donation in your name to Ayman al-Zawahiri, our supreme leader. Thank you for being a part of the fight for the cause.”

Whether a movie is from Ghana, Zimbabwe, Togo or even the US – as long as it has black people with slurry shoot-me-dead accents, it will always be called Nigerian. That is what I call badness.

I love the girls in Nigerian movies. If you’re lucky (like I was) there’ll sometimes be a girl with booty the size of a sub-county. They have some of most exquisite babes onthe continent. I saw Genevieve Nnaji stepping out of a shower and I was definitely sure that is what my first wet dream must have looked like.

So I threw my feet over the sofa armrest, picked up the remote and went Nollywood.

Shit

Ten minutes in. Besides a very painfully slow soundtrack, nothing has happened. They’re still sweeping the compound. The scene then changes to a Land Cruiser snaking its way around pot holes. For some reason, no matter the time of day, their headlights are always on; it is like they’re trying to add some luster to the ram shackled roads. Then the overly obese “chief” starts a detailed discussion with a very fine dame about overwhelmingly unexciting class – related topics. She smiles sweetly like it is the best vibe she ever heard. Marriage arrangements are made blah blah blah…>>fast forward>>…blah blah blah…he realizes she’s the ghost of his third wife.

What the –?

Okay, here’s the thing – let us be realistic. If you found out that you’ve been shagging a ghost for God knows how long, would you suddenly breakdown in tears and start mopping like a lil bitch or would you get the hell out of that joint like you’re bat shit crazy?

Cut the scene before I slit my wrists you sleazy, narrow minded nincompoops.

It is hard for me to admit that I made a mistake…so I won’t. Watching Nigerian movies isn’t bad at all. But I won’t talk about it anymore. Go and read more awful facts about them elsewhere.

You’ll learn from them that you can decide to be a bad motherfucker in your own right. That is exactly what I did when I was born. I came out with this Sylvester Stallone snicker like,

“What are y’all lookin at? Ay, you with the awful green dress. Yes you – can’t you see I could use a bath five minutes ago? I stink like death. And please pour me some vodka while you’re at it, will you?” I then turned to mum, “Mum, tell the other women to try not to dress like local town lesbians next time I’m born.”

As a self proclaimed bad boy, I don’t celebrate birthdays, Christmasses, anniversaries or any of all that she-bang. Because one, I did not know my real birthday till I was 13. Mum would sometimes tell me it is on the 15^th and then correct it to 18^th when slightly drunk. She’s more sincere when she’s drunk so I picked the 18^th (it even makes me 3 days younger).

That doesn’t however mean that I’ll take the fun out of it for other people. That’s why I’ve crashed more birthday parties than – I don’t know, whoever has crashed the most birthday parties. Wait, wouldn’t that-? T-That would technically be me, right?

*thinks*

Okay…this is getting a teeny bit confusing.

I crashed some party at UCU last semester and boy, was it a drag? Me and my fellow goon heard some people chanting “Happy birthday to you…” and he looked at me like, “sounds like liquorish! I’m the life of any party - let’s take over that joint and show ‘em what time it is.”

We stood close to the exit and tried to fit in. We didn’t even know who the birthday girl was or anyone else for that matter. The only acquaintances in the room that we could relate to were Gilbeys, Johnny Walker, Uganda Waragi and White Mischief chilling over there on a table in the centre of the caucus.

It was close to midnight, and these fellas were still giving speeches about how special the babe is and all that social crap. We just kept on clapping impatiently and clearing our dry throats, one eye on the table. Just when I am about to call it a kaffu (dead plan), small plastic disposable cups were passed around. My buddy started rubbing his hands in glee and even managed a smile for the first time since we arrived. They handed him his and he held it gratefully with both hands.

Then his face went blank.

I looked at him, puzzled. But I needn’t have asked – they handed me one too.

I peered into the cup and found that the contents were nothing but popcorn. And poorly prepared popcorn at that.

I died…twice.

Sensing our dismal reaction at their token of “generosity”, the emcee quickly announced that there were some new faces in the crowd who hadn’t introduced themselves –us. We were supposed to state where we’re from, what we do, how we were related to BD girl, love life and all that. It was apparently only the two of us who were unknown…my comrade elbowed me to go first.

“Er, h-hullo everyone…my name’s Arthur. I’m from MUK and I’m a friend to a friend of the birthday girl. Er, relationship status – I’m in a flirtationship!” No one laughed; the joke was obviously lost on them, “y’know…more than friendship, less than a relationship?”

Nothing…no reaction.

I.literally.started.sweating.like.a.whore.in.church.

…

The seemingly infinite silence that followed was broken by the other goon. He cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward.

“Hi…my name is *insert your dog’s name*. I’m from around. I don’t know the birthday girl at all. I’m just here to take the drinks back to the shop when you’re done. I wish you’d hurry up because it is long past midnight.”

The way they kicked us out!

SMH

A few days (or weeks, or months or even years) later, there was another birthday party near my hostel. This time, I was invited. From my previous experience it dawned on me that if you’re invited to a birthday party, you should be courteous enough to come with a drink. Sadly, I’m always broke (I’m even still paying bar debts of 1998). So, I didn’t suddenly go yeppeee because there was simply no way I was going to spend 17k on a muzinga for these babes.

Some of my better thinking friends came up with a plan. They bought five sachets of Zed Waragi, five sachets of Royal Vodka, five sachets of London No.1, five sachets of Coffee Spirit, five sachets of Empire and a bottle of pineapple juice quencher. They mixed it all up with very cold water and put it in the freezer for about a hour.

It was the sickest, meanest, roughest, sweetest drink ever! I didn’t touch that shit because it had death spelt all over it.

At exactly 1 am, there was a massive brawl at the roadside. I came to the balcony with a cigarette hanging from my mouth to check it out. Three guys were tearing each other apart over some really drunk babe. I didn’t have my spects on but I could swear she was wearing one shoe. Some other guy came out staggering…asked her if she wanted to go home and she accepted. They hailed a boda-b and left the three guys still flexing.

They hadn’t even noticed that the babe was gone.

*  *  *

I don’t know if some of you noticed – the sun was rather shy in rising today. That is because it was afraid of being out shined by the most complete girl I know. Today is her birthday and she is real special to me so I want to do that drum roll and scream HAPPY BIRTHDAY +rashydah sarah!!! May your Dreams stay Big and your worries stay small. 

I’m currently celebrating it with a coupla bad bways over some kush, shisha and your facebook pics. 

Mob love.

Time Flies: Mine is First Class.

Random guess – you are one of those hip hop freaks who thinks the title of this post is in some way a reference to the (terrible) lyrics of a certain black guy whose fashionsense is limited to tattoos, tank tops and boxers, right?


No?

Okay, go back to bed. 

A female dog (c’mon don’t make me say the word) is notoriously known for not knowing which one is the “dog father” of its puppies. It is only natural to infer that a girl who sleeps around a lot should be called that. So if someone calls you a bitch, find it in your heart to smile.

Because humans stopped giving a crap about the dictionary a decade ago – thanks to the escalation of Lil Wayne’s career.

See, when I’m listening to Lil Wayne’s music, I try to rummage through the thick cobwebs of heavy bass beats, insane lyrics, incessant screaming, gun shots and sex sounds generally characterized by poorly adjusted auto tunes to find anything that makes even a little bit of sense. I can be there nodding my head vigorously like a gecko, second guessing what he’s about to say until I get the lyrics straight.

This is considered cool in some circles although I must admit; most times I end up sounding like constipation.

So at some point in some song he says, “…and they say time flies, well mine is first class!”

I went like, “yep! I think we’ve got one! Time flies! That makes a whole lot of sense. I – I don’t really care for the first class bit of it, Lil Weezy just spat (that’s how they call it) some real shizzz!”

I turned down the volume and realized, time really does fly. I’ve watched my baby sister grow up. She’s now sixteen and going through all these changes. She now wants to sit perched sideways on that boda-b like older girls. Even when mum and I can clearly see that she’s struggling to strike the balance between looking hip and not falling off the thing.

To mess with her I said, “That’s nothing. Babes from UCU sit sideways and then cross their legs to show off their very smooth thighs. I bet if you can try that!”   

And she did.

The other day, I escorted her to see the dentist. I realized she was getting a lot of stares from the fellas. From general street juveniles to full grown ass men, every dude was checking her out – y’know, throwing her lustful looks. All this of course got me a little upset. When some toothless old man smiled at her I was about to go loco on the Nigga like,

“Ay, that’s my litto sister you fuckin fossil! You should be checking out her Granma – she’s still kinda hot – also kinda dead. I could send you to the afterlife so you can introduce y’self. Granpa should be in there somewhere so you’ll be all good.”

But I looked at her and saw how composed she was. It was like she was totally used to the drill. She flicked her hair sideways from time to time, swung her hips a little excessively, bit her lip every now and then and all I’m thinking is,

“Oh my God, my baby sis is probably stuck somewhere inside this woman.”

I can see how excited she is when her phone rings…then the disappointment on her face when she realizes it is just her girlfriend next door beeping. Lately, she is less inclined to listen to instructions and prefers to first eye ball someone before doing whatever she’s supposed to do. I pity mum in all this.

How do you keep her in check while at the same time making sure she’s able to spread her wings and fly?

It all makes me wish I’d go back and make life easier on my mum because it must have been hard raising me up too. I never listened to her much and therefore didn’t turn out quite right. This is rooted in the fact most of my tight friends are perpetual smokers, dedicated drunkards and serial womanizers.

Their careers are either “Sports Betting” or “Upcoming Artist.”


There’s this homeboy I know; we went to high school together and we were both at the top of our respective classes. We used to smoke weed every Friday night in the girls’ toilets – it was our thing. We called it “Friday Night Heights”. It felt so good being able to get high and get top grades. He liked to say we are the h!gh grade cartel. We felt invisible.


I met the guy and I’m real happy to see him. Like most of my childhood friends, he now speaks two languages; street vernacular and job interview. Of course we stroll for a joint – for old time’s sake so while we’re in the ghetto puff puffing and passing, I try to catch up with him;

 Me: So…what’s up man? What’s the big plan?

Him: Aaaah man, nothing much…just beating a chill. You know how it is, pushing these blunts like a zib. Gwe, have you checked out the joints from *insert your drug dealer’s name*? Those things are ILLEGAL! The purest grade I ever smoked, where the fuck you been? I’ve been getting high on your sorry ass!

Me: The fuck you think? Of course I’ve done that guy’s Kush before. Shit is sick! Man, I’ve been at campus…getting high as a muff. I’m trying to chase this Engineering thing. Where you at?

Him: Hahaha…dude, I chall out (past of chill out) on that shule ruckus. That’s some Babylon crap right there. Here, get this weed and put some sticky icky in that brain. That’s all you need.

Me: You sick son-of-a-bitch…so you’re just smoking blunts because that’s all you need? That’s real tight man.

Him: Yep, that’s basically what I do these days.

Me: So you’ve got no job? Where’s the cheddar for the reefer jetting from?

Him: I told you, you’re pershing on the job. I’m making sick dime and you’re just there masturbating through your misery.

Me: I’m all ears you needle – d*cked moffo.

Him: I met some dude who threw me some sick plan. Have you heard of Potassium Permanganate?

Me: I hated Chemistry…still do.

Him: Now, Potassium Permanganate can melt shit.

Me: What?

Him: It can melt shit. Like human shit – faeces. Okay, it doesn’t melt. Decompose is more like the word, right? Anyways you’re the English guy so I’m sure you get. Instead of someone hiring a cess pull to remove shit from pit latrines, I can show up with my formula and bang! The stuff vanishes in a move!

Me:  What the –? Know what, I won’t even dignify that with an answer.

Him: - I’m telling you, that thing is legit! It is going to get me mad loot (er, a lot of money).

Me: So this Potassium thing…it has no side effects? Like it doesn’t react with the shit and give off some hazardous gas or something? You’re the Chemistry guy…don’t you think it’ll kill the maggots? Maggots are good for latrines, you know that right?

 
Him: *thinks* Okay, the thing is…this whole thing is a scam. That’s the truth. But you believed it for a moment, didn’t you? Not many people are as sharp as you are and no one will figure out that maggot theory. I am going to spin (con) people, get sick paper and fly to the States, just wait!

 Me: Sick paper huh? You are literally too stupid to insult. But it is quite a plan…here’s my number. Hook me up with some of those D’s you hope to mint. You can also call me in case you need some bail posted.

 I feel like it is a wakeup call. My life (up until now) has been relatively easy. I drink 365, I do more blunts than you can count in a week, I’m very reckless and careless; but I’ve managed to get away with it. Somehow, I’m still on track to get my degree. Hopefully, someday mum will “tie” her Gomesi, dad will put on that (recently oversize) coat and we’ll head to Makerere to pick up my degree. Because I now realize that life is too fuckin short to be messing around. Some day you wake up and you’ve used up all your chances. I realize that I have little time left…everyone is expecting results so I guess it is this time again that I tell the strange fella in the mirror to  “get your head out your ass and get your shit together.”

 This is my longest post yet…but the share button still works just right. Keep sharing and thank you very much for reading!

 Deuces