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.

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.