Teenage Dreams

I am bored.

Seriously, I’ve never been this bored in my whole life. Everything is such a drag. For someone who sleeps for less than four hours a day, I find this ironic. For the first time ever, I’m trying to make myself as busy as possible, burying myself in work, doing favors for the people around me. Anything to keep me from thinking about how shallow and hollow everything has become. At the end of an exhausting day, sleep eludes me.

I stepped up the ladder of ranks of my weed dealer. He now delivers my grade at my doorstep. I get so high that my fingertips feel like sand paper on my face.

Still there’s no sense of fulfillment or achievement.

I asked myself what I really want to be in future and getting drunk is the closest I came to an answer. I know alcohol doesn’t solve any problems but hey, neither does orange juice. Much as it gives me a measure of comfort to believe that my life has no meaning, it is also depressing and the anxiety of facing another day terrifies me.

I think back on my teenage life, boy did I have dreams! Some were ambitious, some were intelligent but most were so wrong and so weird that they bordered on raving idiocy. Here are some of them;

I wanted to build a Taj Mahal the size of Rwanda on the roof of the world and call it something that niggers are not readily familiar with. It would be so big that I’d have a caddy by the side of my bed to take me to the bathroom. I would employ the greatest scientists in the world to remove gravity from one of the rooms to make my smoking sessions more interesting.

Imagine getting high while you float in sync with the exhaled smoke.

One of the reasons why you shouldn’t let your 14 year old kid watch 50 Cent videos.

There was this girl I secretly had a crush on. She was so fat that she could carry me in her bra like a kangaroo baby. I never really let her know that I liked her because most of the time we were dissing each other. I hoped that someday I would own a katrillion dollar company to prove my worth and she’d marry me. I would make her the advertising face of my company and put her on all the big billboards in town.

I later realized that I’d have better luck walking to the moon since the closest I ever got to a girl checking me out were the blank stares of mannequins in boutiques.

Most of my dreams revolve(d) around my mum. She’s the only woman who’s ever said out loud that she loves me. Well, a couple of girls have told me that they love me. The truth is, I’ve learnt the hard way that ‘I love you’ does not count especially when the girl is riding reverse cowgirl on your more magical limb. I wanted to buy my mum jerry cans full of jewels and a huge monster truck such that even if she dozed behind the wheel she’d drive right over the smaller cars.

I’d personalize the plates “Arthur’s Mummy” for the whole world to know.

Sadly, we’re both dying – her from old age, me from everything intoxicating.

When I was about fifteen, I wanted my dad to buy me a car. Of course coming from a family of *insert number here* kids, this was very laughable. But I was serious and I hated the old bloke for quite some time. I decided I never wanted to ever drive a car in my entire life. I made up my mind to employ a fleet of hot female models to chauffeur me around town while I smoked expensive cigarettes and talked on the phone with people in my social class like Muammar Qaddafi, Fidel Castro and the President of America.

I used to watch a lot of TV when I was younger despite the fact that there was only one station – UTV. I hated it. But it was the only pass time I had. In fact, if I think real hard, I bet I can remember the first movie I ever watched. I promised myself to trash all the TVs in the world and pile them in a room in my huge mansion like a private collection. I think it was some sort of nerdy rebellion or something, I don’t know.

The first time I ever went to a night club was also the first time I ever went out on a date – if going clubbing counts as a date. I felt the babe was worth all the 40k I’d stolen from my dad’s wallet. Then I found out that she was a special kind of cunt – the worst. We met some guy whom she introduced as her brother. So I start spending my hard-stolen money on these two monkeys only to find them making out in the toilet. Now, I know I wasn’t much of a sight back then but trust me, that needle – dicked moffo was eight leagues my junior. How do I know? ‘Cause Game Rekenize Game and he was not even on the fuckin court yo!

That’s the reason why I’ll only date girls who smoke weed – they have high standards.

I loved travelling, still do. I wanted to become a pilot and hop around continents. I’d stay in hotel rooms and write about the people I meet and the places I go. I hoped I’d write a song for Simple Plan because those guys really understood me. However, the first time I ever wrote, it was a 96 page book about a lame girl who caught AIDS. I must have been sixteen. When I showed it to my dad he said it was ok.

Ok?

What the fuck does that mean? I gave up the writing dream and decided I’d instead buy an island and settle down with my Jamaican girlfriend. She’d teach me badass patois and we’d smoke marijuana, listen to Bob Marley and never answer the phone. Then reality struck and I found out that romantic relationships were simply fuckjobs with a longer spelling.

Suck it up motherfucker. We are not in a relationship. You are on a fuck job.

                                                  *

I wish I still had these dreams. Nowadays I am scared of dreaming. My dreams are turning into nightmares. I realize that you cannot always get what you want. You know how you feel like you’ve got everything figured out and a few years later you laugh at what a fool you were. This is why I don’t pray. I hate disappointments. I don’t hope for anything. I wake up in the morning, pay my dues and spend my free time with people I find even mildly interesting.

In the evenings, when the world is silent, I sit on the floor of my dark room, bottle of alcohol in hand and pretend like life isn’t that bad when actually all I need is a good night’s sleep.

I’ll sing you a lullaby, tell me your dreams…or nightmares to be more accurate.

Wheels For WOW

Expect more than just a few typos in this post. I can barely see a thing over my swollen mouth. It is possible that I did this to myself. There’s a dead cockroach on my floor so maybe we engaged in a territorial war and I got wounded. Much as that theory is plausible, I prefer to think that someone punched me right before I left the bar last night probably after saying something socially inappropriate.

Wanna know how it happened?

Keep scrolling…

I had a lot of plot last Saturday, the common denominator being alcohol. I always make multiple plans because most of them don’t come through. I wanted to get insanely drunk and high with some chic. She gave me the we shall see, I’ll call you line and I knew she was not going to show.

Life is too short to sit around and wait to be stood up.

Do you know how absurd you look to God when you are trying to stand up someone and they are happily getting soused out of town?

It’s as silly as trying to high five a blind man.

I got out of bed at around midday. This hostel is so awesome that they even have room service. You can get out of bed and order for a vodka right through the window. Nothing screams Happy Saturday Morning like vodka in boxers and some insanely loud rock music.

There was the Writing Our World Book Club session in Kamwokya. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. One, because it gave me a rare opportunity to interact with the sober, well-meaning, nice people who have literally pushed my writing career to this level. Attending Book Club also gave me a chance at relevance. I wanted to be a part of the latest project, Wheels for WOW.

Yes, we’re tired of begging people for rides so we’re getting our own! I haven’t looked at the proposal but it is going to cost Writing Our World Ushs20million. The best part is that you can be a part of it. From Youth Awareness to Writing Projects to Competitions, WOW is one of, if not the most devoted NGO(s) to the development and exposure of young writing talent in Uganda. Personally, I doubt if I would be where I am today if it wasn’t for WOW.

WOW organizes field trips to Secondary and Primary schools all year round in an attempt to identify, encourage and improve creative writing among teenagers. They (or should I say we) give out T-shirts, pens, notebooks and other gifts on some of these trips. We arrange and facilitate writing workshops, parties, Book Club sessions and many other events. Our facebook group and website is a hub for Writing Competitions and a platform for young writers to interact and share their work(s).

And it is all free of charge.

Yes, we do all that for free. We take pride in being a part of the making of the next Okot P B’tek. Not a part of the team that ran him/her broke before (s)he could publish a poem. So sincerely, if you’re not taking part in this project, I don’t know what the deuce you’re doing with your goddamn life. There are going to be a couple of fundraising events and we might even drop by your neighborhood for a cup of tea. It doesn’t matter if your account balance is zippo, you can still help as a volunteer. A lot of volunteers are needed and if you want to be one of us, contact the Executive Director of WOW, you’ll automatically become awesome.

Do you know that as a part of this project, we have style-upgrade on the agenda?

Yes, so if you need to step up your style, or as teenyboppers call it, swag, shout hallelujah because we are in your backyard. We shall be selling fine-looking WOW branded Polo T’s (yes, like the ones Lil Wayne always fantasizes about), bracelets, cups, pens and car stickers. You will LOL when you hear the prices.

We are also going to remove all dirty cars from our City. No, don’t hide yours; we are not going to impound it. We are going to wash it for you. Yes, we know you’re too busy doing whatever it is you do so we shall be coming around to do it at about half the price you would have spent in a washing bay.

Do you know the best part?

You get to chill and eat some cupcakes and muchomo while we put that shine on your ride!

Honestly this project might be the most awe-inspiring thing to happen to Uganda ever since Ziggy Dee left the music scene. We are literally putting the cool in cool fundraising.

Now, back to faces being used as punching bags. Remember, I was in Kamwokya – the locale for one of the biggest beer depots in Kampala. I called up some of my goons, or as the Executive Director at WOW calls them – Arthur’s doggos. We hit some kinky bar where a beer goes for less than 2k. I should have known things were going downhill when a bottle slipped from my hands and broke. Of course I had to be the dick and act douchey about it.

The rest was like the last 10 minutes of a Tarrantino movie.

I don’t know how I escaped but I woke up at 3a.m. this morning with a few bruises here and there. Like all morning afters, I hated myself and cursed out loud. I saw the Engineering encyclopaedia on the floor and decided to do something constructive for a change. I inherited this book from my dad, who inherited it from his dad. On the first page, my grand dad had written;

Your life is a sail; you just need to find your wind. G. G.

My dad had also written a few words of wisdom;

Weep not child, a dark night is followed by a sunny morning. W. E.

This got me thinking…so I also wrote something for my future son;

If you're going to act like the world's biggest dick, you better have it. A. W.

Thank you for reading these idle notes. You’re splendid people! Please share and don’t forget to LIKE my new facebook page, Kukuss Blog. We’re striking tomorrow so I’m guessing no lectures. I’m off to the malwa joint. Adios!

Have a Laugh

Riddle

What does the writer of this blog have in common with the Arsenal Manager, Arsene Wenger?

They both don’t know jack about soccer.

I was invited by some of my more elite chaps to watch one of those Premiership games in Kyambogo. I was supposed to meet them at a place called Norfolk Inn. You might have heard of it. You haven’t?  Well, me neither – at least until last weekend. After rotating in several circles, the boda boda guy finally ‘found’ the place. He obviously overcharged me. I suspect it had something to do the terrible insult I hurled at him (in my mother tongue).

As in, how the dickens can you not know where Norfolk Inn is? Everyone knows that place!

So I arrive in a sweat, pull up a seat behind the counter and start pretending like I know what the cartoon figures on the 21” screen are doing. A lot of back slapping and greetings follow. I am going to call the guys by the drinks they were sipping (awesome, ain’t it?).

Nile Special: You wanker, I can see you finally made it! How are the girls of Makerere? No, don’t answer that, I am sure you have no clue.

Club: Perhaps you should ask him about the number of soap tablets left under his bed. This one has managed to forge a profession out of masturbation.

They all erupt in laughter and I join in, signaling the waitress for a Club.

Me: Congratulations, you are officially in the company of Arthur Wonny. That means you get to make a pass time of my awesomeness.

Club: Seriously, Arthur I know times are hard. My salary is way overdue and the missus needs something for Valentine’s but I am willing to sacrifice. I offer myself wholeheartedly like a saint. Allow me to buy you a slut – at least let’s get that virginity out of the way.

Me: Are you serious? Like a whole slut? Whoa! I honestly didn’t know I held such an esteemed position in your life. Can we get one of those around that plaza next to Mutasa Kafeero? They have three minute asses – as in, when she walks by, you see the end of her butt like after three minutes. Yes, that big.

Nile: You know it baffles and infuriates us all that you are still a virgin. Make me understand - how is it possible for you to stay in a place that is literally raining bitches and not be able to confuse at least one nappy headed dimwit to toast your salad? Aren’t you in 3^rd year now?

Me: I am actually very proud of it.

All: What the ----?!

Me: No, not the virginity bit of it – the 3^rd year bit. I am proud to be a 3^rd year student.

They all laugh. An older guy with a receding hairline who is sipping vodka joins in.

Vodka: This guy has a sense of humor! You’re not seriously a virgin, are you? Because if you are, I will convince everyone in this bar to start sweet talking the waitresses until we get you laid.

Club: Oh, by the way Arthur, this guy is called Voddo, short for Vodka. Voddo, meet the tiniest person on the planet. He is so tiny that he’s verging on irrelevance.

Me: Seriously? Voddo? That’s your real name?

Nile: Yes, it is. This guy is bad news. He is the reason why Vodka is called Vodka. You see, before he was born, it was known simply as the colorless liquid with the blues.

More laughter ensues. No kidding, the guy is actually called Voddo.

Me: So, how did the Man United game end?

They all look at me strangely – like a Muslim in a catholic church.

Me: The Man United – Bolton game?

Nile: Linda (the waitress), get this boy as much alcohol as possible. He is apparently waiting for the Bolton game – I don’t know if you’ll be showing one of those sometime this year.

It was my turn to look confused.

Club: Bolton is in 2^nd division you thick headed motherfucker.

Me: Oh!

*thinks*

Me: Well, which team did we play today?

They all start laughing.

Nile: You see, that is why you can’t even get laid. It is a simple matter of asking. What time is the Man Utd game? Like, what time can I shag you?

Me: Okay, what time?

Nile: You want me to shag you?

Me: #%&&!!???

Club: Hahaha…Sweet Jesus! He is actually a faggot!

Me: No, I won’t argue with you. All we need is your mother and some rubber to prove otherwise.

Club: No worries, you’ll have to add a hoe and a shovel on that list ‘cause she’s already six under. Anyway, the nigger norms dictate that when someone calls you a fag, you’re supposed to stamp it out there and then! Don’t give people any probable doubt.

Vodka: Look to the brighter side of things, at least he won’t be a virgin then.

They all hooted and toasted. I sought solace in my drink and turned to the game. Chelsea players were filing out of the dressing room to the field. I figured it was just starting because that is what they normally do when a game is well, starting. Within a few minutes, Chelsea had scored against some other team. Another goal followed seconds later. And another. After about five minutes, the score was 4 – 1! I quickly wrote on my facebook wall;

Drinking beer, watching the Chelsea game…these guys have scored four goals in five minutes! That’s badness!

The Club guy took a peek at my screen before I posted and shook his head warily.

Club: Those are highlights you asshole. The game ended five hours ago.

<-- Backspace that shit.

Have a laugh at my awkwardness and feel free to share!

Teach me how to be Just Friends

I spent most of last Saturday trying to convince a gay friend of mine that I could make a better lesbian than Ellen DeGeneres but she just couldn’t buy it. After a lot of factual arguments I decided the only way would be to show her practically. Then I started fumbling with my fly and already, I’d lost because there’s nothing as anti-lesbian as flaunting one’s dick.

She’s my definition of a friend. Just a friend.

She shows up in my room and the first thing she says is, “Arthur, I need two things – a Coke and an ash tray.”

She’s real down to earth and I warm up to her even if I’ve taken long without seeing her. It is not the same with other girls. Girls make me nervous. So I met this girl not so long ago. I was totally blown over by her. I’m talking that butterflies and rainbows kind of smitten. We started dating. No, not dating, courting. Those are two different things.

I thought things were not so bad. As a matter of fact I’d bought her a sweater for her birthday. Don’t judge the present - my mummy does all my shopping. But that’s of no consequence. The thing is I didn’t get around to giving it to her.

Why?

Because I called someone a f*ggot.

A horrible thing to say, I must admit. The truth is; if someone sits with their knees pressed together and their feet apart and they illustrate everything with their pinkie finger and they wrap a sweater around their waist and they elongate the last word of every sentence and they roll their eyes and are overly picky with details, I’ll call that fag a fucking fag.

Okay, maybe something softer like a homo in denial.

I think Ugandans are blowing this whole thing out of proportion. There’s nothing wrong with being gay. All of us are gay in one way or another.

Here’s what I think we should do with this whole homosexual debate. Let us attend pro – gay functions. And let the gays also attend anti – gay workshops. Let’s not wear those dreadful, peculiar masks and argue about such and such. Let’s not point fingers on what should go where. Let’s look for souls to convert. Say what’s up to that lesbian. Flash a little more cleavage than necessary for that gay dude. Talk nice and take him or her back home. Make love to him meticulously. If possible, spare thirty minutes to go through a few pages of the Kama Sutra. Bang her in eight different languages (no, not gagging and all that S & M doodle).

Trust me after round three, they’ll gasp and say, “Thank you for sexing me – I feel as straight as a brand new Haco School Ruler!”

But if by morning that person still wants to be gay, shrug it off and move on to the next workshop.

Very many people are in this thing for all the wrong reasons. Don’t be gay because every girl you try to vibe gives you that talk-to-tha-hand thing before you introduce yourself. Rather, work on your pick up line! And just because you’ve never had an orgasm doesn’t mean you should turn gay because you watched all of William H’s Elegant Angel pornos. Those bitches have orgasms that last longer than my two previous relationships combined and it is almost always girl on girl.

Lesbians are the most awesome people to hang out with in this entire universe. I don’t know how they do it. It is like that they have that extra chromosome that spells Y.O.L.O. The problem comes when I approach a lesbian because of her gangster attitude and she thinks I’m trying to get in her pants. Okay, maybe I am but don’t make it so obvious. FYI, hanging with lesbians is the closest you'll get to an all expenses paid orgy. And gay dudes buy the most booze in night clubs. For some reason they’re always stacked. They have the finest wardrobes and an easy going humor that keeps them surrounded by the most exquisite babes.

So, quit segregation and hang with everyone. Who knows, they could even upgrade your archaic style.

I was honestly surprised that this girl would want to break things off with me because I’d called someone gay. She gave me the whole I don’t think we can’t survive this, let’s just be friends or nothing lecture. I was offended! I mean if you’ve put it on the table that you don’t want to see me anymore, let it be over something more relevant than the second rate writer of some bullshit “novel”.

Say, a dirty boxer.

Or a status update.

Or a call to my mother asking her to teach me how to unclip a bra.

I know; I am an impossible guy to date or court or whatever involves two people spending 15 minutes in one room. As a matter of fact, I would never date me in my right mind. In short, it wasn’t her fault. It must be hard getting courted by someone who hasn’t figured out a reason to wake up in the morning. I think we should blame it on Saturn. Or Jupiter – whichever one is being an asshole.

I don’t need her to draw me diagram to know that even if I dived head first into the Grand Canyon, she’d be perfectly fine. But the thing is I let myself think that maybe this girl must honestly like me for the colossal failure I am. I forgot the words of my big bro. When you fall for someone, don’t let them know everything about you because the person who brings out the best in you also becomes your greatest weakness.

After she dropped me, I lost it. I was dropped from the Writivism competition. I made up my mind never to write again. Because she’s my mojo and when I write, I envision talking to her. I quit alcohol and smoking. I sulked up for a few days in this really dark room. I watched White Collar and Scandal, cooked bad food and did lots of sit-ups (you should check out my abs).

Then I realized hey, she’s not actually my mojo! I was writing long before I met her. My mojo was and will always be marijuana and vodka. So I picked up my lighter, emptied my glass and wrote this piece during today’s little hours.

I would like to apologize to you, my dear readers for the previous post. I would never quit writing. A heartbreak, like the devil, comes in many guises. Now that my heart is ripped out and stamped on, by natural law, something else took up that space. Expect some real sicko wacko shizzzy ma nigger and feel free to call me the Devil’s Advocate.

Yeah, I’m back to speaking Criminese and calling bitches by days of the week.

Sunday had better get out of my sheets and Monday should snap shut her makeup bag, pick up Season 2 of Scandal and make her way here pronto.