Grow Up? For What, Exactly?

Growing up, what exactly does it mean? Does it mean that you shred your act like a rattle snake shreds its skin? Do you suddenly start talking smooth and acting nice?  Maybe get rid of the all the cursing and have a firmer hand shake? Do you laugh at length with your mother’s friends and scratch your side burns in the company of your father’s associates? Do you send your girl Mobile Money every once in a while to keep her dreadlocks fly? Do you bail your boy out when his girl needs a fuckin abortion?

I don’t know.

You see, I don’t get this whole growing up thing. If it was science, I would say that I have not as yet stumbled upon the formula of being a fuckin grown up. What, you want to tell me how to act like a grown man? Okay;

Why don’t you please have a seat and tell me all the ways you can go fuck yourself?

Age is a high price to pay for maturity, I know. I mean, who wants to wear a baseball cap (tilted for extra effect), a XXL T Shirt and sagging denim pants with a bandana hanging out the back pocket while waiting for the birth of their first grand daughter?

Er, yes that will be Arthur Wonny.

My granddaughter will come through like;

“Damn momma, you didna tell me that Ali-G was my granpoppa. Look at him kick his leg forward and lean to the side. That swagger is off the shizzzy granpoppa!”

That would be super awesome. Also, it would probably be illegal to look like Snoop Lion then. Our parliament folks are already drawing up fashion bills because they are bored and because our President wants bald heads to be the next in-thing. I have a feeling we shall have actual fashion police like in 2030.

Complete with batons, laser zapping shit and breathalyzers – for detecting stinking feet and armpits. I don’t think it would be called a breathalyzer though. Maybe an eww-stinkalyzer.

I wouldn’t want to be patted down by some goof with a scraggly beard so I pray that it will be a female dominated profession. Imagine walking past City Square and there are all these hot officers with high heels and short pants and cleavages that you can balance a shot-glass on.

Yep, that would probably be illegal too.

Most of my friends and former class mates graduated like a century ago. They are now preoccupied with portraying a grown up image. They wear tailored clothes and plastic smiles. They will decline an offer of a drink or pork at least 2 or 3 times before accepting. Because they want you to think that they aren’t the type that stoops easily to charity.

You might think the guy had a buffet for lunch but nara. That nigger washed down a defender with sugarless chai at 1pm in the fuckin afternoon.

Defender [noun]: A really big, long ban that every campuser chokes on every time (s)he is stone broke because the thing is really cheap and really big and cheap. The bakers of this masterpiece guarantee defense from hunger attacks for at least twelve hours because it is really fuckin big…and really fuckin cheap.  

I don’t know about the girls but the boys leave their folks’ home as soon as the day after graduation. Some don’t even go back home. Three months down the road, you will find them washing down defenders with water.

I visited an old friend. He was sipping chai (with his faithful Defender in one hand) when I walked in. Since he is a drunkard, I thought he had spiked it with like vodka or kuber so I asked for a taste. He handed it over dutifully.

Mehn, the stuff scalded me badly.

I was like, “Dude, it is hotter than a yeti’s nut sack outside. Why in God’s name are you drinking plain hot water and tea leaves?  There’s no sugar in this…stuff. What’s up, hard times?”

I reached for the sugar tin. There was like half a kilo of sugar so I looked at him, baffled.

With concern, I said, “Bro, you didn’t tell me you are diabetic.”

He laughed and said, “No, broke niggers don’t get diabetes. They starve to death. I am just practicing for when the sugar gets over.”

I.have.never.laughed.so.fuckin.hard

Anyway, I am not saying that you shouldn’t try to put out this responsible, grown up appearance because that’s how people entrust you with their jobs and their daughters’ thighs.

All I’m saying is that don’t forget to be exactly who you are. Go out, make mistakes, and act a fool. No one wants to be around a wet blanket. Don’t be a damp squid. Don’t bore me with all your office talk. Drink with me, let’s go to the corner and try to score some drugs and girls because that’s how you became my friend.

I believe that friendships must be built on a solid foundation of sarcasm, alcohol and inappropriateness. Without that, we are just not…I don’t know, meant to be.

Ahem, no homo.

PS: If you combined Awesomeness and Kukussness, what would you get? The Facebook Kukuss Page. Like Me Mehn!

On Drugs, In Love and Feeling Alive

And then that time of the year comes again, that time when you go like, “oh shit, where the deuce did the semester go?” But it’s done. It’s over. So you can postpone your allowance saving scheme for another semester, or decade.

Loser

This has been the most bizarre semester of my entire campus life. Or more accurately, what’s left of it. I didn’t drink that much, I smoked quite a lot, I didn’t excel (without cheating) at class, I didn’t make (m)any new friends, I lost a couple of old ones and I got skinnier a couple times over.

It’s been lonely, I must admit.

The thing about barring oneself from any sort of human attachment is that it makes you cold. You keep feeling that perhaps everyone hates you. Perhaps there’s something you’re not doing quite right. And of course there’s tonnes you’re not doing right because at this point, wrong is the new right.

So, you certify your badness by doing a new drug called something that even that Rebel chic wouldn’t recommend.

It later hits you that the people you’re trying to impress are actually continuously getting creeped out by you. You become unstable, bipolar and worst of all, hurt by everything and everyone.

Most times when this happens, I go to that church at the top of Makerere Hill. No, I don’t go there to pray. I go there to soothe a bruised ego. The view is really amazing. The breeze is so fresh and everything feels serene and divine. The best part is, you can cry your eyes out without any interruption.

Wait, scratch that…

The best part is that there’s a dealer selling some really nice marijuana a couple of meters from the top.

The last time I tried this whole bad boy thing, stuff blew up in my face and I found myself trapped. I just kept on going and going and going. So now I write to you live from the depths of vodka hell.   

You see, it is the people that love us that define our niche and what we become. They are what we base on to justify our actions. We rely on them, though sometimes subconsciously, to make the tough decisions for us.

I met this really damaged up babe. She accepts me, laughs at all my jokes, we watch movies and smoke weed together, there’s the occasional blowjob and she buys my liquor.
Basically, I really dig this bitch.

She is my heroine, in every sense of the word.

When she jokingly hands me the needle, I take it and shoot that stuff up my veins.

You are thinking “dude, what the fuck”?

Well, the fuck were you at when I was sprawled naked on the floor at midday with nothing but a dial tone and an empty pitcher of vodka?

She was there. And god be damned if I’m going to let myself feel the emptiness that comes with facing the world alone. I won’t let go of the drugs because with them, comes someone who actually cares or at least pretends to. That’s all I ever asked for.

I could get a decent straight up girl who probably goes to church every day and masturbates a couple times in a week. All I have to do is sleep with a specific handful of her closest friends. That method is proved and true. The problem is, I would have to put up this act of being a nice fella for all of them.

Urggh, boring

I’ve resolved to tell my parents the entire truth. Mum, Dad…I fucked up is all I can say. Your little golden baby boy is so far gone that he can’t tell his elbow from his ass. I have become a pious hypocrite, an ambassador of self denial and the epitome of grim itself. I am not in control any more. I need to go to a rehab or a church or a monastery or Cindy Crawford’s vag.

That last one, that’s the one…real cozy I heard.

Maybe we shouldn’t judge people by what we’ve heard or what we’ve seen them do. Maybe we should all take out some time to really listen to someone and make them feel like they are not solo in this fight. Maybe there’s much more under the surface.

I don’t imply that you should pity poke me on facebook.  No, I don’t need that hokum. Matter of fact, if you haven’t been calling me, don’t. I will ignore you so hard, you will begin to doubt your own existence. Er, that doesn’t include the buggers that owe me money.

Anyway, look through your phonebook and you’ll find that number that you’ve always ignored and just find out how stuff is coming along.

You just might save a life.

PS: There’s this new drug called Wonnycaine. It’s sort of like cocaine but with the awesome Wonny holding the snort pipe and cracking bad jokes about how miserable your life is.

Also, I should write rap music.

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The Art of Being a Fala

You know a story won’t be funny when it starts with, “guys this is so funny…” 

Like, “guys, this is so funny. I went with that fat woman to her bar and we sexed right behind the counter.”

I don’t don out blood tests. Now shoo fala. Go away.

*

Well, guys this is soo funny. I woke up late, as usual, smoked some weed and walked up the hill to my Faculty for a lecture. Guess what? There was no lecture. There was a test.

Okay, first things first. Which course unit is this again?

Shit

From the body language thrown at me by my neighbor, I knew that either one of two things was true. One, he was bleak too. Two, he knew the jibber jabber but he wasn’t going to hand me the stuff without a hassle.

I made a split decision. I bundled up the question paper and walked out. I went to the computer lab and downloaded the notes. I then answered the entire paper and walked back to class like 5 minutes to the end of the paper.

For a moment, I thought I would get away with it. Then the class rep tapped the lecturer on the back and pointed straight at me. Sweat bubbles pop up all over my forehead and my heart goes BADAAAM, BADAAAM, BADAAAM…

Keep calm. Breath. Focus on the many dirty words you will throw at that rep fucker when all this blows over.

The class rep actually had no problem. Apparently the lecturer saw me moving out and did a second roll call. All the rep had to do was attach a face to the name. The only wahaala I have with him is that he snitched on a nigger with a little more zeal than necessary.

So he (the lecturer) walks up to me and tells me to explain to the whole class how I managed to fill out a whole script in less than 10 minutes.

Er, I am a fast writer?

In MUK, the statement, “I am going to cheat on that test” spurs the same reaction as, “hey, I am going to grab a rolex or something”.

It is as normal as getting shat (past of shit?) on by a kalooli on a Monday morning. However, the statement, “dude, I was caught cheating on a test” prompts only one reaction.

Nigga, get your shit together. Now shoo fala. Go away.

The lecturer told me to state on top of the answer script that I had been in class for 10 minutes. I signed and left my fate to the gods.

Mbu: If you ever have to sign any of that shit, always put “under duress” at the bottom. The University Council can’t pin it on you because in legal circles, you were kukuss (mad) at the moment and therefore not a legal entity.

Anyway this is not funny. I haven’t garnered the guts to go back and bargain. So, I might be facing a suspension.

*

I was a mess in my 2^nd year. I crossed every line, insulted every one, drunk every intoxicant, smoked every leaf, slept with every prostitute, and crashed every house party.

One thing I never did – one thing I never even mildly considered doing, was cheating on a test or exam. Because I am a class A student – crème de la crème. That’s of course when I’m sober. Most times I’m not so the crème de la crème gets rounded off to ethanol de la alcohol.   

I don’t drink much these days. Just about 12 bottles a weekend will do. The irony is that nowadays I can barely sit a test on my own.

Sometimes I think about quitting…

…I also think of the incredible thrill and rush that would come with pulling off the flowered knickers of my female PDD lecturer.

The likelihood of both events happening is close to null.

In short, quitting is not an option. I am from a family of Engineers. The profession is in my DNA. I don’t even need a transcript to get employment. All I need is a Gishu smile and a pic of me in a graduation gown to show the clan.

Anyway, exams are around the corner so…party hard motherfuckers. I’ll be on that good kush and alcohol. By the time I un-high, I’ll have figured out a work around to cheating on the exams like a pro fala.

Yours,

The Badass Nerd

Ay, don't be a patsy, get Kukuss and like me on that Facebook thing.

Just Whining

The last time I traversed the blogosphere was when my bitch was pregnant. No, I’m not talking about you, I am talking about an actual female dog. She gave birth to about two or four bouncing baby bitches.

It’s been quite a while since I last wrote anything. That’s because I don’t have enough faith in the type of writing that I can do. I don’t really think I can write something that’s um...relevant. I don’t think I can be taken seriously.

Even if I told you that the other day, I was smoking pot and I got arrested and I had to stay in the coolers the whole weekend. I was released because I had an exam but I couldn’t sit the exam because I had spent some of my tuition so I went and forged a bank slip. I cheated on the exam and got caught and the lecturers found out about the forged bank slip and I got suspended. I am now in a bar thinking about how I’m going to write all about it in my blog like y’all give a hoot.  

I don’t know what’s going on outside because I’m so busy trying to open all these doors in my head. The reality is clear when it’s cruel and clouded when it’s lovely. How do I find my way if I can’t even walk? How do I get help if I don’t even know the problem? How can I trust if I never learnt how to care?

I honestly want to know what the dickens is going on in my life. I need justification for why things are the way they are. I am looking for something, anything to believe in. I am looking for someone to listen. I am thinking of a place far away.

There has to be a place beyond the pain, the drama, the tears and the loneliness. Somewhere beyond the horizon, there must be a place where the light of the stars penetrates the scars on our skins and heals the pain on our hearts.

I feel vulnerable. I feel really empty. My life is like a bus stop. I keep watching the people come and go. Some of them will come back when they need to get to the next stage. Others just vanish and walk past me on the street like I was an unwanted cloud of dust.  

These clothes that have become my skin, these cigarettes that have become my indispensable accessories, this alcohol that has become my sorrow – these are the things that make it easier to stay in my skin. They are what gets me through the night. I never intended to make mistakes or to drag people in my mess. I am simply trying to get by.

I never wanted anything from anyone. I thought all I needed was solitude, a pen, a paper and narcotics. But this room suffocates me. I want to go out and shout and live my life and make new friends and new mistakes and laugh about it all.

Just thinking about it puts a smile on my face. Then truth,
like it always does, comes down with fierce brutality and the smile fades. There’s nowhere to go. There’s no one to call. I decide to drink alone. The beer tastes stale and I have to talk myself into finishing the last half. I end up crying. I drink a little more, thinking that if I just have one more sip, the void in my chest will feel a little less augmented.

Emptiness and silence…they are like sharks sucking my guts out.

Then I wait for the nightmares as I try to keep my eyes from drooping. I don’t want to sleep because the thought of facing another day terrifies me. Another day of being taken for granted, of being minimized, of getting shrugged off, of being lied to, of trying to do the right thing, of searching for a new friend. It is depressing. And I’m exhausted.

No, I won’t go anywhere. I will stay here. I won’t try to impress, I won’t care about opinions. I will accept my fate. I don’t fit in. In another place, another time, I’ll find my niche. For now I traipse with a little bounce in my step because I’m simply putting that diversity in society. 


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