Live in the moment, enjoy it!

This post is intended to make you hate me. I place your declaration of love very high on the list of things I don’t need to know on this Friday morning. I’ve reached a level of vanity where I feel like if I were more flexible, I’d blow myself. So make sure to hate me when you hit the bottom. Er, the button – when you hit the share button at the bottom.

Don’t let my pissed-offedness offend y’all. Now, let’s break open this condom, shall we?

I do not have a mirror in my room. Not because I can’t afford one but the thought just never crosses my mind. How do I know if I’m looking good or not? I don’t. Well, some mornings, curiosity gets the best of me and I take a pic. So, it is like 3a.m. on a Tuesday night and I’m in the men’s room at Casablanca. Through my drunken eyes I look at the mirror and the guy looking back literally scares the creeps out of me.

I have like two new lines in my brow that no one told me about. Ketchup is white in comparison with the latest color of my eyes. I am getting skinnier by the minute. Probably because nowadays I prefer to buy cigarettes in packs and those dreadful little motherfuckers are like blood sucking vampires.

Basically, I look like I’ve aged 3 years in 3 months.

And yet I just won’t quit.

I do not want to quit – I stopped fighting it a long time ago.

I stopped letting myself feel guilty because the sound of beer bottles clinking excites me the same way sleigh bells excite kids on Christmas Eve.

I stopped regretting each morning I woke up with no money at all. I bite my tongue each time I am about to say “holy crap” when I wake up on a strange bathroom floor.

I stopped calling people every time I woke up feeling suicidal and full of self-loathing. It used to take longer for the tightness in my chest to subside but I’ve condemned the grieving process to even more sousing.  

I turned it all off.

For the first time in a long time, I feel very good about myself.

Life is too dreadfully short to listen to the opinion of every dimwit who can string together a sentence. I was sipping Vodka at 2p.m. on a week day in some kinky, dangerous, dangerous place where morals and dignity are washed out as soon as you step in. One of my buddies said something that made me order another round.

He said, “Why would you let yourself lose sleep over people you met barely a year ago? They don’t have a right to have a say in anything that concerns you. They are not supposed to matter. They don’t even have a right to ask you how the fuck your morning is.”

We were picking on the unfortunate fella who committed suicide at Mary Stuart last semester. He did not kill himself over a girl but we dictated that he did. He killed himself over what? Books? Money? We didn’t give a flying fuck; it was at Mary Stuart – the biggest girls’ hall in the biggest University in the country.

Most of my friends, including the above mentioned guy (no, not the suicide guy, the other one), are people I met less than a year ago. The friends I have this year are not the very ones I had last year and probably won’t be in my inner circle next year. Because I get bored easily and I always say or do some inappropriate mind numbing doodle that leaves them no choice but to let go. Do you know what that means? It means one thing;

I don’t give a shit.

Living life on the edge gives me an incredible adrenaline rush. I know I am on a crash course but hey, the good die young. Last weekend, I was with the most awesome person on earth. With this babe, I’ll never run out of stuff to write. We got to the bar. There was an old bloke sipping beer solo at a darker end of the bar. My friend thought it necessary to pick on him. 

As in, how the hell can you be in a bar and not have a lighter at your age?

The guy’s face darkened. The poor sod was offended and he was out for blood. I gave up shooting pool with a girl whose T-Shirt said “Drink ‘till She’s Hot” and spent the next hour trying to keep my friend out, and this nigger in. Now, I’m just over a meter tall so some of you must be thinking, ‘No freakin way!’

I got this stunt from Kevin Hart. In case there’s an impending fight, I’ll try to convince you that fighting me is a very, very bad idea. I made it clear that if he touched my friend again, I will, “FUCK YOU UP REAL BAD DAWG!”

I was treading terra incognita so when he started shoving me around, I aborted the mission. I touched the tip of my imaginary cowboy hat in farewell and said, “I’ll be anywhere else moffos.”

  

Later in the night, we went to a club in Munyonyo. I’ve forgotten the name of the place. I always forget the names. Most times I hit a random club and I’m like, “Wait, I’ve actually been here before! I bet you a tenner the toilets are that side.”

She said, “I have enough money for transport or booze, but not both. Do you want a beer?”

Why, yes, I thought you’d never ask!

It was nice not to be certain of the future. Not to care about outcomes. We watched girls whore around. They were to trying to make it seem like it is at least a little bit difficult for guys to hook up with them. After that we flagged down a random ride and it dropped us somewhere I don’t even know. Then we got a boda-b to go to her place.

Somewhere along the way, we started arguing. It had something to do with me over tapping her breasts. I was offended and told her she’s such a fuckin bitch. She told the boda-b guy to drop me because I was such a fuckin asshole.

4a.m, alone, broke, cold and in the middle of nowhere.

Welcome to my world.

Leonard Cohen once said that there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So if you still love me, I’m glad to know that I rate above a cabbage on the friendship scale.

Happy Women’s Day everyone! I’m heading over to Writing Our World to cook for my lady writer friends. This is going to be no menopause festival so you’re all welcome!

Re-Scripting the Hangover

The night might have involved snorting cocaine off the belly buttons of a few young girls who had a few hugs less from their fathers. It could have involved a primate and a gay couple getting married before dawn. There are flashes, images of me hitch hiking for a ride on a deserted road at 5a.m. I flagged down a random ride, looked at the driver, and told him to take me to my favorite brothel.  

He said, “There’s a drunk woman in the back seat. It just so happens that she’s my wife.”

Every time Freddie calls me for a link up, I brace myself for a cornucopia of the best and worst. While some girls pride themselves in being mobile brothels, this one prides herself in being a mobile bar. I find crazy people compelling and this girl is like nine different shades of weird. She called me for a “ketch up” at some hostel in Wandegeya. I should’ve prepped myself for a rollercoaster when she showed up donning torn baggy jeans, a tank top peeping under a XXL Polo T, slippers and a duffle bag full of Guinness bottles.

The room we went to was more of a bar than a students’ residence. Everything was thrown everywhere. The only thing giving off a faint sense of organization was the neat arrangement of every tribe of liquor on the floor. Curls of sweet smoke lazily crawled up to the ceiling, blending with the dim blue light. It went without saying that time here was measured in bottles in cigarettes.

I felt at peace with my chi. Then she started telling me about the last time we were together. Apparently I asked a mutual friend of ours for a “chow”.

Or, as urban reggae lovers would put it, ‘I begged her a fuck’.

This mutual friend is real sweet, real nice and real tight. In fact she’s BFF material so my pleas for pity sex must’ve put her in an awkward position. So the question is, should I have been filled with self spite and regret on hearing that I’d hit on her a gazillion times in a record two hours?

No

I was more interested in finding out, “why would anyone not want to fuck Arthur?”

Because Science.

She narrated how I’d hit on everyone that day and how they had all turned me down. She said, “I felt so sorry for your already sorry ass. In fact, for an hour or so, I considered having you as my first one night stand.”

It hurt that I’d missed out on a possibly enlightening session in coital choreography. You know what they say about missing out on possibly enlightening sessions in coital choreography?

Nothing, they don’t say anything about those.

I raised an eyebrow with this look of you know, the circumstances are more or less the same. I could take you up on that offer tonight…?

She laughed and said, “You can file that request under ‘no chance in hell’. My bae (girlfriend) is coming around.”

Oh, did I mention she’s kuchu (gay)? Well, she is.

It so happens that there’s a girl I am supposed to meet that same day. We share a history – if going to a random club, picking a random babe, getting drunk and making out in the middle of the dance floor counts as history anyway. I haven’t seen her during day and I don’t know her name. I saved her as number as TGIF – This Girl I Fucked.

I didn’t actually – it just looks cool and shit. Hey, did you know that adding ‘and shit’ to any sentence makes it sound cool and shit?

I call TGIF and she’s kind enough to let me know that she’s coming with a friend. The thing I dig about girls like TGIF is that they are down to party. After a few drinks she’ll “accidentally” let you touch her boobs for like ten seconds. Staying for the rest of the party becomes just formality. My mind was working along the lines of ‘if the friend is anything like her then this night is going to be what I like to call a doozy.’

Threesome, I see you.

Two beers and seventeen cigarettes later, she showed up.

With a friend --

--her boyfriend.

He’s younger than me, he drives, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, he wears OBEY and TRUKFIT and all that shit – he’s basically a non smoking teetotaler. They looked so happy together. I convinced him to down a glass of White Mischief and he got drunk. With worry and concern scribbled all over her face, she gave up the party and took him home.

Being single had never felt so lonely.

With all my get-laid hopes bashed, my full focus was on the most faithful companion on earth – alcohol. Freddie’s brother was throwing a house party somewhere along Mawanda road. We got lost. She abused the boda-b guy for not knowing where we were going.

“Do I look stupid to you? Wait, are you saying I don’t know where I am going? Of course I don’t know where the fuck I’m going! Do you want to know why? Because that’s your job motherfucker – to figure out where the fuck I am going and get me the there! You don’t know where we are going? Do you even know where you are going? Have you ever --?”

Add a few komanyokos and msssttcchhewwwws. You get the picture.

Somehow, we ended up in the trunk of a Land Cruiser alongside eight other people and made it to the party. Never before, have I seen so much alcohol in my life. I felt like Dracula at a sex abstinence rally. I didn't know what we were celebrating exactly but for some reason there were quite a number of white people. Freddie introduced me to her sister – who surprised me by being totally normal. Then we had pizza, then I broke a bottle – the two events may or may not be related.

Freddie’s babe joined us at around midnight. I realized I’d met her before. Not from her looks but from the way she laughs. She has this infectious laugh that is impossible to forget. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like telling everything funny. The highlight of the night was when they kissed.

It was like one of those life’s little moments that you live for – seeing two girls kissing.

We went to some club at around 2am. Everyone knew Freddie. It was rather corporate. Most of the revelers were drinking and conversing animatedly. The dance floor was mostly deserted. We got our drinks, I saw a familiar face – some guy from Lumumba Hall. I nodded curtly – because bad boys don’t wave, they point an index finger and nod. Freddie poked me and whispered in my ear;

“By the way, you are currently in a kuchu bar.”  

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!