Letter to my (very few) friends

Let’s kick it old school. Back when you put something down in black and white to put some views across. This doesn’t entail writing low-grade English on a piece of (green) toilet paper like you did to your first girlfriend when she said she wanted to wait a little longer before kissing you. I just think some things are better left unsaid. Not because I am too afraid or shy or scared to say them, but because you ensure that I’m never mentally equipped to piece together a meaningful statement. And if I try, I might stammer so much that it’ll paint the mood grey.

I love my friends to death. In return, you are trying to make sure my death approaches as exponentially fast as mathematically possible. I love hanging out with people so much so that I can confidently say I’m cool to be around. The problem is that every once in a while, I want to be by my fucking self. I would love to chill in my drawers all day without any of you pounding on my door…say once a week. Make that twice a week.

It is sad enough that the only things I like are writing and watching movies. This line of life sucks. I know. But I’d appreciate it if you understood that it’s the only life I know. So please, don’t make those long ass “free” Warid or orange or zain or celtel or whatever calls when I’m trying to concentrate on something even if it is as boring as The Firm.

And enough with the sarcastic laughter, don’t recycle my jokes in an attempt to get my attention.

If I do not call you back, it is probably because I don’t want to lie to you. Ok, I might want to lie to you but I may not think of something that fast and you might not buy it. So please text and give me time to come up with a sensible lie. I hate phones. Mostly because they make it impossible for me to stay secluded. You know how you switch off your phone for five hours and then everyone starts ranting crazily as though Abed Bwanika just took over government?

I do.

They say a friend in need is a friend indeed. I don’t even know which saying applies to y’all. Every time I’m in shit, y’all say stuff like, “man, you are the shit! How did you get into so much shit! Dude, you’re so fucking awesome!”

What?

Even when we all know you are the one that got me in trouble and I’m going to pay simply because…well, better me than you. The humanitarian in me cannot let me not take the fall for any of you. Because your dipsomania makes it possible for me to feed my sousing craze and because without you, dear friends with weed…I have no friends indeed.

I love you all.

Sincerely,

Me.

Stray Cats

 *Loud knock at the door*    

*checks time*

…3 a.m.

Holy faggety fuck! Who the devil is that?

*Louder knock at the door* Aaarghh!

-          Yo, Arthur OPEN UP!

-          Go away!

-          Man, Arthur are you sleeping?

-          No, I’m scuba diving in the Dominican Republic.

-          What?!

-          Of course I’m sleeping, what the heck do you want?

-           Yo, first open up man. I’ve a big deal for you.

-          At 3 am? Look, whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. Just go away!

-          There’s a cold beer out here…if you decide to open.

-          I don’t drink.

-          Cool, suit yourself.

-          *thinks*(…a beer at 3am isn’t entirely the worst way to start the day) if I open that door and there’s no beer I swear I’m going to throw you over the balcony.

-          Deal

*Opens the door*

-          First things first…where’s the beer?

-          Look, Arthur you’re like a brother so I want you to do one thing for me.

-          What do you want? There isn’t any beer, is there brother?

-          No beer. What I want is for you to find somewhere to sleep.

Blinks

-          What? Hey I know I’ve a ruggedy room but I’m fine here—

It was at this point that I realized he wasn’t alone. Some girl came up behind him and by the end of this post, you’ll know why I decided to bestow upon her the name Sergeant Single Slut. She flashed me that naye naawe look. I threw my hands up in the air in resignation and picked up a pillow before leaving the room for them to get giddy with each other.

-          Ay, don’t  mess up my sheets—

*he slammed the door in my face*

It really depresses me that I wrote that last statement.

Anyway it was my turn to knock on doors. My dawg (whom I shall refer to as Dawg in this post) sleeps on the next floor. He refused to open as I would have expected. As I muttered obscene curses directed at his family mostly, I saw him staggering up the stairs.

 My spirits rose.

And fell when I realized a drunk tall babe was literally hanging onto him for support. I’ll call Dawg’s babe Miss Olympic Boobs because…well she has Olympic boobs. I hope you know the hierarchy of boobs. Here’s the menu for future reference:

(  .  ) (  .  )        Big boobs

( . ) ( . )            Medium boobs

( ) ( )                Small boobs

.   .                   Olympic boobs

There you have it! Oh you’re wondering why they’re called Olympic? When have you ever seen a nice pair of racks at the Olympics dumbo? Not never!

I am seriously losing the plot for this post. Boobs can be distracting…

Ok, fast forward to morning. I go to my room to find Bro and Sergeant Single Slut still getting cozy in bed. She looks at me flirtatiously. Mbu can I get her something to eat. What? Well, a blow job would be nice. The guy you’ve been shagging is right next to you, let him get you breakfast Bitch.

Scratch that…of course I didn’t say that because I was brought up by a nice Christian family (love you mum). I flashed that sarcastic smile and went ahead to prepare them breakfast-like some twisted sort of appreciation for messing my sheets. Dawg and Miss Olympic Boobs made an entrance with quite a fuss because she BADLY needed a cigarette. I got her one. Then she mentioned beer and all of a sudden the Slut didn’t want breakfast anymore. Well, not that she didn’t want…she wanted breakfast and beer.

Cool. Beer it is.

We spent the entire day doing nothing but drinking. The Slut was asking for everything from everyone. At some point I jokingly offer to buy her a phone and she lets me touch her boobs for like 10 seconds. Yay! She wanted to have a rolex, rice, matooke, meat and bunch of other stuff that girls from the ghetto eat only on New Year’s. Miss Olympic Boobs was hating all the attention the slut was receiving (like, hello…I am the styled up one from Nkonzi; trust me that bitch has nothing on me *smirk*).

Besides the Slut really knew how to slut. She was rolling with whoever had the D’s. She whispered mostly so we all didn’t know who she wanted bang next. It got so bad that at some point, M.O.B. pulled out the Slut’s boob!

No way!

It was like some early Christmas for us. Every one digs a little girl-on-girl. The sun set…the boys were high, the girls were hating each other. In short, everything was perfect. To spite                                                          M.O.B., the Slut offered to sleep with Dawg.

I hate long posts so let’s just say whatever happened next is a whole other different story.

 

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.