Dear Boss, I'll be at the bar.

           

(A month ago, during my internship I woke up hangover and decided to justify my reasons for not attending work by writing this for you)

 

Over the past three weeks, I’ve carefully cultivated a habit-a habit of sidestepping work or as it is commonly known in corporate circles, going AWOL every Monday. And it’s by far one of the wisest decisions I’ve made. Before you get your panties in a wad, who the hell enjoys work on a Monday?

Egg-zectly, no one!

Many of you would marvel at the kind of experience and expertise I’ve gained during the long time I’ve spent working at…well, where I work. After 29 days of working, one of the most important things I’ve learned is that I’m about 30% more productive if I work four days a week. On the contrary, if I work from Monday to Saturday, I’m about 50% less productive. It’s okay, don’t be so harsh on yourself, you can call me a genius.

I get that a lot.

          So basing on the above statistics, I didn’t go to work today. It is Tuesday. I like to call it thinking big or thinking outside the box. No, you’re not dumb. I also don’t know the difference but I’m pretty sure they have something to do with engaging one’s mental faculty into a state of mulling over. And mulling over was all I needed to come to the conclusion that, if I worked 3 days a week, I’d probably be 60% more productive. Further deliberation showed that I’d be 100% more productive if I didn’t work at all! Isn’t that awesome?

Totally!

Wait a minute.

Wouldn’t that technically mean that I’m out on a job?

Probably…

With my wits challenged and my brain working overtime, I reflectively sauntered to the bar.

At 11:26a.m.

A little advice; never in your days of human existence should you let your moral fiber lead you to the bar at such an ungodly hour. Everything from then on is downhill. For one, the waitresses are never willing to serve because it’s their nap time. And if you’re lucky or unlucky enough as in my case, the other waitress you tipped over the weekend will carefully fill your glass with beer, then go ahead to drink the rest straight from the bottle. I didn’t mind. Partly because due to my meek nature I couldn’t help it and partly because she was going to offer me free pool games.

         

So the day slowly carried on, with me playing amateurs and sharing Eagles with the waitress. As fate would have it, I ran out of cash.

Time check, 5:43pm.

I discretely motioned beer-guzzling-free-pool waitress to request for another beer…on credit of course. Before, she had been speaking a poor but acceptable version of the Queen’s language but all of a sudden, it was as though we were down hood-rat district or as it’s commonly known-Kisenyi.

Talk to the hands flew in front of my tipsy, blurry eyed face and as I don’t understand hood-rat blabber, I just watched her lips motor-spit obscenities. It was at this point that I got what I’d come for in the first place; the comprehension that if I had gone to work, I would be retiring at this very moment and sipping on a well earned cold bottle of beer. Once again, the bar had solved my problem. At a cost of course…I’m going to have to walk to work tomorrow.

How to deal with getting stood up

If you are my age, whether you are male or female or in between (heard it’s possible), you must have been stood up at least once or twice before. Unless you are very likeable which is boring or a virgin or simply high on weed all the time which I kind of recommend for the virgins...whatever, it should have happened or might happen right after you read this article.

I’ve stood up people, not that I’m proud of it but it’s only fair because I can’t even start to count the number of times I’ve gone through the agony of watching the phone and wondering if there is problem with network or some other issue that stood up losers come up with to avoid going suicidal. I think I’m getting used to it you know, mastering the art of dealing with stand ups. Pshh, who am I kidding? It’s impossible. Actually I’m writing this while waiting for a girl who was supposed to be here 4 hours ago…I’m wondering what to do with these condoms I just bought.

Guess I’ll try to trade them for some marijuana from my dealer.

Anyway, I think I have enough experience on getting stood up to make you, the person reading and waiting feel anything but what you are, a loser. Well, at least for the next few hours or so.

There was one girl who stood me up and made all the others look like child play. At times when I go back down memory lane to that fateful Saturday, I chuckle silently and light another cigarette. Sandra is like an eight on ten.

 I met her on Facebook.

Yeah, it seems all fateful stories start with that particular phrase. So we sort of hit it off, she was sweet, I was flirty…well maybe too flirty but she sort of caught on real quick. My game is on point so I wasn’t surprised when she suggested coming over later since she was in Ntinda and I was around Najjera. After waiting and writing her off, she finally showed up around 9pm, looking extremely stunning. A couple of boys were over, pushing FIFA on Playstation so she caused quite a stir. However this rendezvous is interrupted by my big sister who kind of makes her nervous. She suggests that maybe she would come back at a later time when I was ‘alone’ and I love the idea.

I should have been more cautious to know that girls who do blind dates and show up on strangers’ door steps at 9pm on a week night are not the kind of people you want to get tangled with.

I call her up a day or two later and ask her when she’s free to come over.

“What is there to look forward to?” she asks.

“Oh, um everything, what would you like?” I brag. “Anything really, the fridge has just been restocked.”

“Haha… really? What would I want from the fridge, I don’t do beers…”

“Okay, what do you do?” I like where this is going.

“Um, spirits basically, a girl has to keep in shape y’know. Like Gilbeys, Ug Waragi…yeah.”

“Cool, I happen to have a couple of Ug’s if you’re interested.” Should I mention they were not there at that moment? Well, they weren’t.

“Great. I’m free this Saturday, so I guess we’ll celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Er, dumb question, I think.

“Us, of course…” she hangs up.

I would like to mention at this point that most of what happened later that Saturday is quite a blur in my memory. I got two Ug’s (big size), cooked some rice, chicken, greens. I’m quite the cook btw. I then let my brother-in-law know that I needed the house to myself for the evening and he drove off with my sister. I waited for the fateful phone call in vain. Just when I was about to give up, she calls and tells me that she is just tied up with something small for a bit but she would be arriving in about thirty minutes and that I should start without her.

Which I did

No, I didn't jack-off you huckster!

I put some rock on the record, got the Scarface PS2 game and opened up the first Ug. That’s the last I remember.  I woke up in the bath tub the next morning-an empty bottle in my grip…

Ok, maybe she came… maybe she didn’t…I just don’t remember.

Next time you are about to get stood up, grab a beer. When a friend of mine told me over a beer in a bar that he was banging her that same night, I ordered us more drinks.

She's Limited Edition

Let’s see, how did this story start? Oh, I remember it was such a boring day at work. One of my friends happened to be in the same area code so he hollered at me to link up with him at a random bar and shoot pool. So I ditched work, headed home to pick up some green then went to the bar. We ordered the cheapest drinks on the menu and settled for the game.

There she was, looking stunningly hot. Extremely light skinned and some of my goons would have said her cleavage was “for world cup”. I was obviously not bothered by her existence. I was here to get as drunk as possible before my 8pm curfew. The problem came when she started clapping for my every shot.

Now, let me straighten this out before you encourage me to register for the Nile Special National Shootout. I am a less than average pool player so this was a twisted way of flirting.

           

With her cheerleading, I was winning every game. Shooting everyone down and getting high fives from her. I went to the bathroom since the liquor  was starting to stretch its wings. I came back to find her flirting freely with my friend and I was relieved because at least that was out of the way. I wouldn’t have to buy drinks for her because honestly I’m not good at chit-chat. If a girl looks interested in me I just flick a finger at the waitress and buy her a drink. If she seeks shelter at my place then that is between her and her God.

So it came as quite a surprise when she turned to me and asked for a drink. I didn’t mind. But I wanted to make it clear to my buddy that I didn’t want the stress of a relationship without the fun of the…um, sex. He told me it was a one off. She told us her name was Farida, everything was charming and PG. We later said our good nights and left.

The next day, her name had dramatically changed to Amina. Wait, but she had told me her grandmother was called Amina. The fuck, who cared? She was way older than me. This time she was real close, giving hugs for each game I won. And pecks for every round I ordered. We headed to town and honestly had fun.

I felt on top of my game…

*day dreams*

*comes back to reality*

Oh!

Perhaps I should have known that girls who are willing to jump in bed with Gaga because they are "born that way" and are overly obsessed with that chop my money joint from psquare (and that other black guy) are not entirely the beer buying type. Especially when you have no income. Or maybe I should have known that when someone tells you they were in South Africa the other week, their brother is somewhere in the U.S. and mummy...well mummy is chilling in Paris; there is something fishy. Oh, and she has to fly to Congo and link up with *insert any relative of your choice* then fly to Heathrow.

Bitch...please shut the fuck up. I'm trying to get drunk here.

Um, I went back to just shoot pool two days later. She asked if I was drinking and I declined by pulling the rehab line. Like, babe I’m so fed up of drinking. This shit has fucked up mi vida blab la bla.  

There was no cheerleading, no hugs and definitely no pecks. Some dude came and she was all over him like a rash. I realized she didn’t work there. She just got the men pocketing and pulling out notes. This inspired me a lot. I decided to get to know her better. We walked home yesterday and she told me she has two kids. A sweet lil’ boy and a lil’ girl.

Abort mission.

I have no title for this one

(This article was written about two months ago...I didn't post because you have no idea how hard it is to afford an internet connection and beer at the same goddamn time).

 

Every once in a while, M7 gets to sleep for a bit at night; That’s if he’s not busy abusing politicians and defending corrupt ministers or pointing threatening fingers at cameras, freaking the shit out of three year olds who are always glued on TV. What the fuck is a 3 year old doing on TV?! Christ! Mbu the house girl has other things to do. Well, the illiterate house girls are going nuts because they can’t save any milk for themselves. Why? Because M7 is in power.

…that bastard.

Now she has to stuff some unhygienic bottle down the baby’s mouth to get him to shut up and try to keep Mpekoni off the TV.

Which is impossible because like most old men, he just can’t close his trap and that is perfect because sometimes he apparently mutters things in his sleep that seem like orders to people with a not-so-average IQ. Recently he was overheard by Mutebile saying that if Bassajja-who has been linked to extremist Muslims, wasn’t paid 142bn (like a million beers? Dun no, I don’t really like math), the whole of parliament and BoU was going to be bombed by the Al Shahabad in Kenya. Mutebile, the poor sod signed the cheque whilst taking a dump. When he was apprehended by one of the fellows in Parliament who can actually read and write, he sought refuge at Mpekoni’s Rwakitura farm. Mpekoni doesn’t remember a thing but since he doesn’t want everyone else to know that he’s half mad, which he is by the way, he promises to defend him.

               

Before long, he doses off and says something about MUK. Now, we all know if it’s from Mpekoni, it’s not good for Makerere. What? Did he just say something like Makkerrrrr?? Mother----of God! Perhaps he’s just snoring, comes the logical thought from the Makerere bug planted close to the Always Almost Retired Commando.

Fuck off, he just said Makkerrrrr! Get the guns (word) out!

So while some of us who are comfortable with giving our parents the illusion of getting an education are in class looking at things we have no clue about, the word is out and there is a strike!

Yeppeeeee!

I know there is a strike because I’m on facebook you hopeless fool. At my faculty, there has never been such a thing as a strike. One time a tear gas canister was thrown in my class during a Thermodynamics lecture and the lecturer simply kicked it out and shut the door… Then went ahead to explain concepts from long dead masturbators to a teary/wide eyed class. Did I mention he was ‘a she’ or ‘she was a she’?

Well, she was!

She actually thought the topic was so interesting since some of us were so wide mouthed if flies didn’t also fear tear gas…well, we’d have taken one in the mouth (No, not blowjobs you perv). Ahem…No homo.

Anyway, the strike is on and I’m staring at this stuffed shirt of a lecturer standing in front and promising us that we are safe. Dude, we don’t care if we’re safe! Some of us have better things to do… like download porn clips on our Chinese phones?! Not that I can’t download one in class…problem is my phone, automatically plays the clips after downloading and please don’t get me started on speakers of phones which are of Chinese origin.

Instead of watching porn clips, I decide to read newspapers online (isn’t that awesome? Except I don’t think they should be called newspapers since…um there are no papers, dumbass! Perhaps newspages is more appropriate. Like f.b… I’m intelligent-on full moons) and alas-there is another strike in town! It’s the loom pens also known as taxi operators. Sigh.

Again.

But Mpekoni should not be disturbed; he’s having a sweet dream where his hair is plaited, like in Moon G’s song. Please tell Kaihura, he sleep talks. But Kaihura is on a double date in Kamwokya sipping coffee with Agnes Nandutu, Judith Nabakooba and Bobi Wine.

No, there is no weed. 

Kaihura is not bothered because it’s simply the most boring strike in his career since there are new buses in town! And they are cheap-which is one of the most favorite words in a Ugandan’s vocabulary. No one gives a fuck about these dirty ganja stinking rejects any more. Bobi is now attentive…say what??? Luckily, there’s a studio in the bathroom.

Watch.