Not Retarded. Just Retaking.

Sometimes I wish my folks would book for me two adjacent hostel rooms so that they can put a maid in the second room to be my substitute parent when I’m at campus. Maybe then, I could be a little less inclined to make poor decisions and settle for low standards.

Like the saying goes – the little things you do always come right back at you. Back in high school, if you were a normal kid, you were required to present a report card (normally pink in colour) at the end of each academic period. This showed that you had spent the last four months scoring Ds and Fs and not blowing your tuition on Sports Betting and Discos.

Personally I think imagination is better than education. Because you can always imagine that you’re smart. The whole education thing – the whole pink report card thing, is the rip off of the generation. I mean, how the hell does someone in their right minds pay close to a million shillings for a silly pink card every few months?

Cui Bono? What good is that?

Talk about a stick up.

Anyway, having a maid next door doodling all over your issues is not the best part about campus. The best part is that you don’t have to carry a silly pink card to your folks after every few months. You’re not accountable to anyone, no one at all. You’re not liable for anyone. If you wind up dead, your body will be discovered after graduation because they’ll need to contact you to inform you that you’re dead and you’re not on the graduation list.

In that exact order

My mother has failed to wrap her head around the fact that I show up at this specific time, every year, demanding hostel money and food money and photocopying money and trip money and whatever-else-I-can-cook-up money – without the glorious silly pink card. So we’re watching TV, just the two of us, and she brings it up.

Mum: You mean they don’t give you a report?

Me:      Give me a report? (I have this thing where I repeat the last part of her questions so that I have more time to come up with proper answers). No, they post the results on the internet.

Mum:  I have never understood this internet thing, it is all very confusing to me. They should know better than to complicate a simple progress report. I mean, I surely can’t be the only parent who can’t use the internet. Didn’t you write anything down?

Me:      Write anything –? – er, actually I did. But I misplaced the paper where I wrote them down.

Mum: You have always been careless. It is like one of your many talents, losing things. You lose things even before you think about owning them.

Me: Yes, mum.

Mum:  Anyway, how are things? Are you passing? What’s this thing I hear – um, repeats? retakes? – they’re called retakes, right? I heard they’re dreadful. Do you have any?

Me:      Well, they’re not as dread –

Mum:  What do you mean “not as dreadful”? (She sits up, heavily, and looks me in the eye) Do you have any retakes?

Me:      Well, er, the thing is –

Mum: The thing is what, Arthur?

Me:      Arthur? Um, no, I don’t have any retakes. But even if, say, I had like three or four or possibly five retakes, they wouldn’t be that bad. I would just have to do them all over again, you understand?

Mum:  No, I don’t. Don’t get any of those dreadful retakes. Every extra minute you spend in that place is costing me a heart attack. As a matter of fact if you get a retake, make sure you lock yourself in that overpriced hostel room and throw away the room.

Me:      I won’t get any (more) retakes mum.

Mum:  You’d better not. And what’s this you’re making me watch? That’s an old man and a small girl for chrissakes

Me:      It’s called Shameless.

Mum:  Well you should be ashamed of yourself for making your mother watch such nonsense. Isn’t it time for news? Let me watch news like every other old woman for chrissakes.

* * *

Happy Holidays! Watch TV. Be useless. Be happy. Throw a coin to a beggar on the street. But most importantly, be high as kites my friend.

Peace sign

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Who Stole My Girlfriend?!

She puckered her lips and playfully leaned in towards me. Her eyes fluttered. I stood there, looking at her, thinking, "How could so much fakeness fit in such a lithe, little sexy being?"

Of course I couldn't kiss her. That's just...gross. The very sight of her duck shaped, lip sticked mouth and her half closed eyes left a vile, repulsive taste in my mouth. It was the kind of thing to make you want to wear a hoodie backwards.

Now, don't get me wrong, she is a very fine, beautiful girl. In fact, she has a boyfriend called Philip.

Maybe it was all the flaming yellow hair, or the nose ring, or her awful collection of music, I don't know. And that confuses me because it was for those very reasons that I hooked up with her in the first place. I mean, how the hell does one say no to those gorgeous fake eyelashes?

I like weird people, they make me feel a little less weird. This girl was a catch. She has no ambitions in life, she smokes weed, I don't know her last name. She knows like four songs that I know. Basically, she's purrfect.

But I can't do it. I haven't been able to since I hooked up with my childhood sweetheart last holidays. I'll call her Belinda just in case my side chick (called Belinda) stumbles upon this.

Belinda loves hiphop, like, big time. In fact when we talk music, I feel embarrassed at how little I know.

I downloaded all of 2Pac's songs in anticipation for our flirtationship (more than friends, but not exactly lovers).

It never came.

She always has some shit to do and I have no wahaala with that. It's just, I don't know how much longer I can hold on to these hateful Outlaw lyrics in my head and still keep my sanity.

I like this girl. She's more intelligent than a Chinese genius. She has a job, she's fly as pigeons, she has a phone charger like mine and she's like the first girl I ever fell for. It is for those very reasons that I hate her.

Everytime I call her up, she's into this or that and the convo never lasts a few seconds. I whatsapp her but she never replies. I never push it. Because I know she's making money and when it's all safe and piled up, we might even sext.

Our flirtationship is gangster. We're like Bonnie & Clyde except we can't afford guns and we're too chicken shit to rob banks.

I know we have Chemistry. Chemistry is hooking up after 14 years and making out in the bar bathroom half way through the first beer and getting bounced and inhaling marijuana smoke the next day straight from her full, sexy lips and walking in the rain and talking about how lame exes are.

That's Chemistry.

She understands me the same way Einstein understood Physics. She calls me her "Dawg" and that makes my chest feel like alligators.

I doubt there's a girl that can compare to her. That's why I can't "get jiggy" with other girls. It feels like such a downgrade. Well, there's the part where she's getting nutted on by other fellas but I honestly don't like such thoughts. She probably needs it and I choose not to judge.

Anyway, I've been trying to contact her but all my attempts have proven futile. If you see that girl, will you tell her where I am?

* * *

On a lighter note, I just got short listed for the Writivism Writing Workshop! How about that for "Yay!"? Thank you very much for all the support.

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Posted from Bed

How To Unsuccessfully Break - up a Girl fight

MUK students have known nothing outside exams since this year started. As usual, during this period, emotions run pretty high. Those of us who know better (or are at least intoxicated enough to think we do), believe that ‘whatever got you to a situation will eventually get you through it’. Like if you’ve been praying all semester and it has got you to these Exams, then by all faith, praying will get you through them. So if you got here through cheating, guess what’s going to get you through it?

Exactly, cheating.

It is midnight. These girls, let’s call them Book & Boyfriend Club, are in the reading room (yeah, we have one of those) studying “hard”. I like to think that they’re thinking of how soon their boyfriends (read random guy) will come and do unspeakable things to them before the semester closes. I walk past the reading room, to some other girls’ room. Let’s call these other girls the Loud & Lesbian Club. These ones have egos the sizes of cathedrals and inflated senses of self entitlement.

Bring it, bitch!

I like the LL Club. They’re unpredictable, it’s like something is always about to go down. So I come in, the room is unusually quiet. This girl, I’ll call her Leticia for issues concerning bad memory. Leticia struts her sexy self to me and hugs me. She has a nice rack (or a nice push up bra) and she’s taller than me so my face is like all in her boobs and her butt is like those ends of Makindye (remember, unpredictable) and another girl touches my hand and a third girl comes up behind me and all I’m thinking is, “must be the new cologne.”

Nope, it wasn’t the new cologne.

These girls seduce their way through everything. Spell that again, E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. Like right now, Brenda is seducing the video lib guy to get us another season of Shameless.

They wanted to listen to music but “those bu local girls” - BBC -  had switched off current in the sockets and now they (LLC) were going to die because there was no music. “Arthur, sweetheart, you’re our Engineer. Put back the current for us pleeease?”

Duck faces

I was like, “babe, it is just a matter of flipping a switch. The boner isn’t exactly necessary.”

I turn them on and I walk to the balcony and light up a cigarette like the boss that I am. 

Then the lesbians start playing “music”. I’m talking about stuff that would make you feel like shooting people you don’t even know.

Within minutes – seconds really, I hear a barrage of obscenities flying all over the place. It was like a bunch of chattering monkeys were out on a day pass from the zoo. The Book babes accused the Lesbian babes of being lesbians. The Lesbians, in turn, accused the Book babes of being book babes.

Nothing sexier than a cat fight for sho

In a voice so clipped (it could make Hitler cry), the head of BBC shouted “You make the music loud so we can’t hear you moan and scream while you touch yourselves!”

“Well we all know you haven’t been touched in forever and you’re dry down there b*tch cobwebs are growing in your ****t. You p**sies, admit it and come and join us!” Leticia, whom I will now call Fifi for reasons to do with foul mouth, shouted back.

I’d been up for about 50 hours straight working on my final year project so the only thing on my mind was more cannabis and eating enough mairunji to keep me up for at least 18 more hours. I didn't "need this sh*t". 

But things got heated and this guy (we shall call him Fool for reasons involving low IQs and skinny jeans),  came out like;

IT WAS THAT NJAGGA BOY!!!

   

Nigga. Die.

I bummed out my cigarette and quickly walked downstairs – to the main switch – and I switched off everything, lights, sockets, everything. The whole place was wrapped in darkness. Then I walked back up and lit another cigarette like the boss that I am.

Quiet

When everyone had forgotten about me and the quiet got too loud, I went back and “switched on” the hostel.

I guess they all realized they were at the same level there was none better than the other. Everyone went about their business, music was low, people were reading and I was feeling a little less useless and clever. 

Then Fool let it slip that he’d seen me turning back the current. The Book Babes were horrified. The Lesbians were even worse because they felt betrayed. So they all turned on me, called me a “short, skinny, useless, drug abusing, impotent smoker.”

I just stood there…looking too silly to even smirk and yawning uncontrollably. 

Seriously, I don't need this

And then the landlord showed up – drunk – and I’m in the middle of it all and he waggles his finger at me and says, “gwe, are you an electronic?”

I said, “You mean an electrician?”

He said, “You’re not the boss of me! I want you out of my hostel tomorrow.”

As he staggered away, he paused, turned slowly and raised a hand, “No. don’t go. You still haven’t cleared my shs50000.”

 * * *

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A Back-up Eulogy for Paddy "Bitama" Ssali

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here, at this center of arts (National Theatre) to pay tribute to a great, honest, down to dirt gentleman.   

He could have made a fine President some day. For someone who appreciates the art of laughter, I found (still do) his comedy heartwarming. Paddy “Bitama” Ssali was translated to heaven on Saturday –

No. I’m too bore down with this mountainous weight of despair to continue the Eulogy. So I’ll speak from the heart.

*Throws away intended Eulogy*

I think God played an unfunny joke on us. How do you create a vacancy without nominating a successor? I mean, look at all you useless, unemployed, homosexual – hating drunkards. 

Just. See yourselves.

The whole bunch o y’all can’t even wrap your nuts around the definition of a knock – knock joke. He was one in a – oba what’s the population of this dump of a country? He was one in a lot of millions.

By the way, do you know that if you die in Uganda, you die in real life? 

Now, before you start feeling the need to “give me some good talking to”, I just want you to know that I’m sad – and pissed – so sad, in fact, that this post is being accompanied by a copious discharge of hydrated chloride of sodium, from the eyes. 

But...whyyyy??!

The same stuff that flowed each time I watched a clip from Amarula Family – but with less snort. And less bodies.

Paddy was so funny, he even played us jokes on his death bed. Who gets announced dead three times? There’s only one thing that’s worse than being declared dead – being declared dead twice, and then dying, and being declared dead all over again. I’m not even sure whether to cry or laugh so I'll just...take a hug.

You'll be fine...I promise

There’s a quote from an old play that kinda fits that. It goes, “whether on the gallows high, or where blood flows the reddest, the noblest place for a noble man to die, is where he died the deadest.” – Old Play.

After the noble man “died” the second time, a bunch of idiots who spend most of their free time meditating on the vices of idleness, tagged themselves as “close family” and went to Facebook and wrote popularity posts, demanding “TYPE AMEN”, “COMMENT”, “SHARE” because “we don’t have the money to cash the good ol’ man’s bills.”

Well, if you really cared, why didn’t you just not buy a data bundle and send that shs500 to the real family? It would have meant much more than those silly comments that are dumber than bucketfuls of spit and just as useless. And in such cringingly awful spellings too – seriously, how can you misspell “R.I.P.”???

By the way, the Vatican called, the whole bunch of you colloquial assholes are going to hell – right after the Pope himself kicks you in the dangly bits.

Time for absolution ma nigga!!!

I’d intended for this post to be a sort of back-up eulogy or a revised and edited version of a sinner but whaddayaknow, look how it all turned out.

Sighs.

Anyway, may we all to stop whatever it is we’re doing right now and have a moment of silence – or in more blunt terms – to shut up – and feel the weight of this troubled nation’s loss.

MOMENT OF SILENCE

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.

.

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Rest In Peace, Paddy Ssali Bitama.

Hope you fill up the Heavens with Much Laughter. And if it isn’t much to ask, please tell God to deliver us from the Homo bill, the Skirt bill. And Facebook.   

Amen. 

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