The Art of Being a Fala

You know a story won’t be funny when it starts with, “guys this is so funny…” 

Like, “guys, this is so funny. I went with that fat woman to her bar and we sexed right behind the counter.”

I don’t don out blood tests. Now shoo fala. Go away.

*

Well, guys this is soo funny. I woke up late, as usual, smoked some weed and walked up the hill to my Faculty for a lecture. Guess what? There was no lecture. There was a test.

Okay, first things first. Which course unit is this again?

Shit

From the body language thrown at me by my neighbor, I knew that either one of two things was true. One, he was bleak too. Two, he knew the jibber jabber but he wasn’t going to hand me the stuff without a hassle.

I made a split decision. I bundled up the question paper and walked out. I went to the computer lab and downloaded the notes. I then answered the entire paper and walked back to class like 5 minutes to the end of the paper.

For a moment, I thought I would get away with it. Then the class rep tapped the lecturer on the back and pointed straight at me. Sweat bubbles pop up all over my forehead and my heart goes BADAAAM, BADAAAM, BADAAAM…

Keep calm. Breath. Focus on the many dirty words you will throw at that rep fucker when all this blows over.

The class rep actually had no problem. Apparently the lecturer saw me moving out and did a second roll call. All the rep had to do was attach a face to the name. The only wahaala I have with him is that he snitched on a nigger with a little more zeal than necessary.

So he (the lecturer) walks up to me and tells me to explain to the whole class how I managed to fill out a whole script in less than 10 minutes.

Er, I am a fast writer?

In MUK, the statement, “I am going to cheat on that test” spurs the same reaction as, “hey, I am going to grab a rolex or something”.

It is as normal as getting shat (past of shit?) on by a kalooli on a Monday morning. However, the statement, “dude, I was caught cheating on a test” prompts only one reaction.

Nigga, get your shit together. Now shoo fala. Go away.

The lecturer told me to state on top of the answer script that I had been in class for 10 minutes. I signed and left my fate to the gods.

Mbu: If you ever have to sign any of that shit, always put “under duress” at the bottom. The University Council can’t pin it on you because in legal circles, you were kukuss (mad) at the moment and therefore not a legal entity.

Anyway this is not funny. I haven’t garnered the guts to go back and bargain. So, I might be facing a suspension.

*

I was a mess in my 2^nd year. I crossed every line, insulted every one, drunk every intoxicant, smoked every leaf, slept with every prostitute, and crashed every house party.

One thing I never did – one thing I never even mildly considered doing, was cheating on a test or exam. Because I am a class A student – crème de la crème. That’s of course when I’m sober. Most times I’m not so the crème de la crème gets rounded off to ethanol de la alcohol.   

I don’t drink much these days. Just about 12 bottles a weekend will do. The irony is that nowadays I can barely sit a test on my own.

Sometimes I think about quitting…

…I also think of the incredible thrill and rush that would come with pulling off the flowered knickers of my female PDD lecturer.

The likelihood of both events happening is close to null.

In short, quitting is not an option. I am from a family of Engineers. The profession is in my DNA. I don’t even need a transcript to get employment. All I need is a Gishu smile and a pic of me in a graduation gown to show the clan.

Anyway, exams are around the corner so…party hard motherfuckers. I’ll be on that good kush and alcohol. By the time I un-high, I’ll have figured out a work around to cheating on the exams like a pro fala.

Yours,

The Badass Nerd

Ay, don't be a patsy, get Kukuss and like me on that Facebook thing.

Just Whining

The last time I traversed the blogosphere was when my bitch was pregnant. No, I’m not talking about you, I am talking about an actual female dog. She gave birth to about two or four bouncing baby bitches.

It’s been quite a while since I last wrote anything. That’s because I don’t have enough faith in the type of writing that I can do. I don’t really think I can write something that’s um...relevant. I don’t think I can be taken seriously.

Even if I told you that the other day, I was smoking pot and I got arrested and I had to stay in the coolers the whole weekend. I was released because I had an exam but I couldn’t sit the exam because I had spent some of my tuition so I went and forged a bank slip. I cheated on the exam and got caught and the lecturers found out about the forged bank slip and I got suspended. I am now in a bar thinking about how I’m going to write all about it in my blog like y’all give a hoot.  

I don’t know what’s going on outside because I’m so busy trying to open all these doors in my head. The reality is clear when it’s cruel and clouded when it’s lovely. How do I find my way if I can’t even walk? How do I get help if I don’t even know the problem? How can I trust if I never learnt how to care?

I honestly want to know what the dickens is going on in my life. I need justification for why things are the way they are. I am looking for something, anything to believe in. I am looking for someone to listen. I am thinking of a place far away.

There has to be a place beyond the pain, the drama, the tears and the loneliness. Somewhere beyond the horizon, there must be a place where the light of the stars penetrates the scars on our skins and heals the pain on our hearts.

I feel vulnerable. I feel really empty. My life is like a bus stop. I keep watching the people come and go. Some of them will come back when they need to get to the next stage. Others just vanish and walk past me on the street like I was an unwanted cloud of dust.  

These clothes that have become my skin, these cigarettes that have become my indispensable accessories, this alcohol that has become my sorrow – these are the things that make it easier to stay in my skin. They are what gets me through the night. I never intended to make mistakes or to drag people in my mess. I am simply trying to get by.

I never wanted anything from anyone. I thought all I needed was solitude, a pen, a paper and narcotics. But this room suffocates me. I want to go out and shout and live my life and make new friends and new mistakes and laugh about it all.

Just thinking about it puts a smile on my face. Then truth,
like it always does, comes down with fierce brutality and the smile fades. There’s nowhere to go. There’s no one to call. I decide to drink alone. The beer tastes stale and I have to talk myself into finishing the last half. I end up crying. I drink a little more, thinking that if I just have one more sip, the void in my chest will feel a little less augmented.

Emptiness and silence…they are like sharks sucking my guts out.

Then I wait for the nightmares as I try to keep my eyes from drooping. I don’t want to sleep because the thought of facing another day terrifies me. Another day of being taken for granted, of being minimized, of getting shrugged off, of being lied to, of trying to do the right thing, of searching for a new friend. It is depressing. And I’m exhausted.

No, I won’t go anywhere. I will stay here. I won’t try to impress, I won’t care about opinions. I will accept my fate. I don’t fit in. In another place, another time, I’ll find my niche. For now I traipse with a little bounce in my step because I’m simply putting that diversity in society. 


Don't forget to become Kukuss. Like me on Facebook.    

Save the Miniskirt yoo!

Brace yourselves, this day is upon us. Uganda’s very first fundraising Slutwalk. All proceeds will go to the prostitutes in Mbale and of course Father Lokodo’s daughter. Or niece, or auntie, or sister, or mother, or jajja – as long as you are in some way related to the Minister fellow and a bit female. We feel your pain.

All women, girls, de-toothers, choir-girls and lesbians (read campusers, campusers, campusers, campusers and campusers), are hereby called upon to slut their skimpy selves to work this Monday. 

We shall be slutting under the theme;

“Screw the thighs, Save the Miniskirt.”

Dress Code:

1.      Miniskirts – you see the distance from your wrist to the tip of your middle finger? Yes, that is the maximum length required.

2.      Double slit (siliiti) miniskirts – slits should go all the way up.

3.      Boob-clasping tops – can I please bury my head in that cleavage?

4.      Paper thin see-throughs – Oh My Gawd your tits are right there!

5.      Clear heels – I recommend that you put on these with nothing else.

6.      Leggings – only put these on if your butt is in business for itselef. Leggings with no ass are like a wallet with no cash.

7.      Tiny, tiny, dresses. Did I mention tiny? Yes, they should end as high above the knee as humanely possible.

8.      Total bukunya-ness (nakedness) is not an over-kill, put it on.

9.      Bikinis and “hawt” pants.

10.  More mini-skirts.

The position of Lead Slut Walker is still open. Applicants should be…well, slutty but not essentially sluts. Being a professional slut would, however, be an added advantage. Five Lokodo look-alikes will carry out the screening process. We shall call them Maxi-skirt-Priests. The successful candidate should be able to simultaneously induce at least four of them to pocket.

Miria Matembe will be in charge of the Lead Slut’s personal security. Her impeccable skills at slapping the lights out of religious zealots cannot be overlooked. Invite your grandmother too. No, not for (God forbid) the Lead Slut Auditions, for the slut walk just.

Uganda is not Mecca. We bind, refuse, rebuke and refute any efforts to turn Rolexville into a mosque. There’s a busty babe killing a tiny dress in the Premio next to your taxi. Please, do have an eyeful. Those are some of life’s “little” things that keep our minds off the electric bill.

FYI, miniskirts are going for like 90% off at Owino this week. Let’s toast to Hotness!!!

* * *

I get high a lot of recent, I think the world is getting so fuckin cold. Call that shit Global Freezing. God, I'm so fuckin drunk right now. I need someone to smoke all this pot with...do hit me up on my facebook.

Thou Shall Not Crawl

First off, I'd like to apologize to all those who were supposed to get the sex tape. I'm a perpetual procrastinator. Besides, it's hard to afford a stick of weed and the fuckin internet at the same goddamn time. I promise, once again, to send you that thing.  

Now...

Thou Shall Not Crawl

The CNN guys ranked us eighth among the top alcohol consumers. We were number two in the previous report. Someone is not doing their job and their sobriety is costing us big time.

Personally, I suspect that the ka chic who compiled the report didn’t want to do her coursework so she copy-pasted the report of 1996.

With face palms, all drunkards convened at the Beer Depot in Kamwokya. They had to forge a way forward. A motion was passed declaring that everyone should report for roll call at his or her kafunda at least an hour before the usual arrival time and leave at least three hours after the usual departure time.

Then the sadist teetotalers in government dropped the second bombshell. I hear they are going to arrest drunken pedestrians.

What?

But these guys also, this is the one thing we are good at. You can’t take this from us yo. That’s like declaring that men shouldn’t throw offensive comments at busty dames in Katanga.  

Then it happened.

Uganda Breweries Limited said not to worry. That we can drown ourselves legless and they will deliver us to our mothers – for free.

My friends in the group, “Drunkards for Hire” will testify that this move might be the next best thing to happen to Uganda ever since…well, the first best thing – alcohol.

Drunkard for Hire [noun]: You drink. You are paid. You drink the money you are paid. You are not sure if you are already too deep into the height or if you should go further for stuff to become normal. So you drink the money for the rolex and the one for the Police and the one for transport.

…I would like to pause here so that we can say a prayer for all dead Ugandan livers;

Your Liver, who art in heaven. Cirrhosis be thy name, the booze will come, your liver function be done, on a floor as on a bar stool. Give us this day our daily Bell and forgive us our hangover. As we know now, what we should not have done. Lead us not into Kaihura’s patrol but deliver us to UBL. For thine is the alcohol, the height and the black out, forever and ever;

Amen.

The best things in life come free to us. If you are staggering home at 3a.m. and you happen to bump into a Police patrol car squad, you just immediately stop and stand still. When they ask why you are pedestrianing while drunk (or is it drunk while pedestrianing?), you tell them;

“I am waiting for the drunk bus. This is the stage.”

Anyway, with all these iThings popping up day in day out, I knew we were very close to such an awesome invention. Now we don’t even need money to get drunk.

On Easter Sunday, I wrote to my liver;

Dear Liver,

Today is the day we have been preparing for. Just remember, you are the champ.

Love,

Me.

 

Too Busy Doing Nothing

Have you watched the University Hall sex tape? It is the real deal. After watching that thing, I felt like I’d slept with all campus girls. All of them? Yes, all of them. That dude took one for entire male species of Makerere University, even the kaloolis. You want to watch it too?

Like the KukussFacebook Page, I’ll inbox you a link.

There’s this guy. I seriously want to shag his babe. Kinda like Lil’ Wayne and Mrs. Chris Bosh but without the basketballs, foul language and publicity. Get this; I have nothing against the brother. I just want to do it and check it off that campus bucket list. It would be really magical to be the one they cheat with for a change. I intimated my intentions to my homeboy, adding that “life is too short y’know.”

He said, “No, you are too short y’know.”

So, what makes me so sure she will?

The thrill that comes with sexing me is akin to the one a guy gets when sexing an underage high school girl.

Not my words, FYI.

When she blows me, I’ll make sure she’s under the covers so that she doesn’t realize that I’m too busy browsing through cat pics on my phone. I’ll insist on kissing her even when my mouth stinks like a hobo’s taint.

I’ll basically be the King of Douche bags with a specialty in mortification.

Then she’ll see that her greed and forlon-ity cost her a really nice guy. You can’t have your cake and eat it too babe.

One of my friends told me;

“You are not a fuckin writer. You are a skinny douche with an irresponsible lifestyle who cusses almost as often as he takes a breath. It just so happens that you are also really fast at typing.”

Point

I manage about 70 words per minute and I hate to see that skill go to waste. That’s why I write. I don’t take myself as a natural at writing. All I know is that if I don’t have the reader in my grip within the first 15 seconds then my shit will suck balls. I guess the above ramblings did the trick.

That doesn’t however mean I won’t have designer sex with that nigger’s girl. You see, there are Louis Vuitton condoms these days. So don’t just have sex fwaaa. Get your dick in style yo.

I have nothing to write about this weekend so this is going to be one of those keyboard-to-dashboard posts. Plus, I am a little drunk right now so…

No Ctrl+S in this bitch.

Wait, I could tell you the one about the big ghoulish woman that my lecturer is shagging. Mmm-huh, you like? Apparently, her conjugal obligations include filling in for him in class. I hear she wants to lecture also.

Woman, this is not How-to-Ride-a-Dick class. This is Year III Mechanical Engineering class.

You remember that Primary Three teacher who always told you to sit boy-girl-boy-girl? The one who told you to stand in front when you talked in class? The one who took roll-call twice in a lesson? The one who stalked around the room like King Kong daring you to speak while at the same time asking a question? The one who always gave 50 Grammar questions for homework? The one who told the class monitor to teach the class while she sat at the back sexting? The one you hated?

Yeah? You remember her?

Well, give her a monotone fake-accented voice, bigger lips, a feeble, annoying laugh (she tilts her head to one side while executing it like a little girl) and a fat ass. There, you have my new Product Design and Development “lecturer”.

Oh, add a few pounds of fat to her stomach too. Her entire trunk is like being held captive by this huge “tyre” of fat that runs along her waistline.

Urggh, turn off. Big time.

When I look at her, two things come to my mind. 

1.      God this woman is so fuckin fat.

2.      Umm…just that first one actually, she's fat. 

I know it is wrong to call people fat. So I try to do it as often as possible. A friend of mine visited me a few weeks back. She had this…thing. She had this thing on her stomach that suspiciously looked like fat but I couldn’t tell her that. That’s just mean! So I asked her;

“Hey, when are they due?”

She’s like, “whaaat?”

“The twins, when are they due?”

We.are.no.longer.on.speaking.terms

It is like when you post, shout out to all my bad bitches on your facebook and a babe inboxes you asking, am I also one of your bad bitches? You tell her, no you’re not a bad bitch and she goes wasps about the whole thing. It is clear my intentions were good when I called you preggers instead of fat. The same intentions I had when I told this other one that she’s not a bad bitch – at all.

Like wait, you wanted to be my bad bitch?

Kudos!

I get the feeling I’m treading the fine line that divides relevance and bullshit. Someone remind me, what’s the title of this post again?

Oh, that’s right, nothing. The title of this post is nothing.

*thinks***

That bastard Judas Iscariot sold The Lord for silver last night. I suspect he spent it in a bar and woke up wondering, “Did I or did I not sell Jesus to the fuckin Jews?”

“You did motherfucker,” the whore lying next to him says. He looks at her and says ‘shit’ in nine different languages.

Happy Easter y’all!

I’m going to Mbale to drink with this one who uses a computer mouse like a TV remote when she gets drunk. You, on the other hand, should make it a point to have sex in a bunny costume before Monday.

Now if you don’t mind, I am a very busy boy. Please leave, I need to get back to doing nothing.

Adios!

Dying of Thirst

-          Dude, you’re facebooking in church?

-          At least I am in church. For you, you don’t pray at all.

-          Of course I am praying. It is Sunday yo.

-          So you are also facebooking in church…

-          No, I’m watching mass on TV.

The session I love the most during mass is the one for testimonies. You get to relate with people’s experiences. So I’m watching this dude giving a ‘testimony’ and it goes something like;

“…brothers and sisters I want to tell you about my experience. It is very very worrisome and I hope you all learn from it. I used to say that I have swag but that word is very very bad. I found out that SWAG actually means, Secretly We Are Gay. Can you believe it? Gay? I knelt down and prayed for forgiveness then I fasted for three days. Now I don’t have swag. Please don’t have swag brothers and sisters.”

Sincerely, kill yourselef.

Ay dude, you’ll love this one; how about Stupid Weak Ass fagGot? Nice, huh?

I honestly hope that dude’s wang is bigger than his brains.

I don’t often get a chance to listen to the Word of God. I haven’t been to church in like forever. No, my nephews’ baptisms don’t count. The only reason I was there was to hold the camera. I even failed to take any clear pics because my hands were shaking. Yes, you’re right – I was hangover, mob. Three hours earlier, I had been in some club with my hands in some skank’s bra. I just wanted to have a laugh at the funny names people give their children.

Guzagugunyaga Telefonsa Scovia

So I am watching some Christian thing for students on UBC (don’t ask, I was with my auntie). A woman walks to the podium. I think she’s a gospel artist or something. She talks about how one’s body is the temple of God. She talks about fornication among the youth.

I hear you guys are shagging like rabbits.

Then she tells the congregation to touch their dick/vajay (tick where applicable) areas so that she can pray for them.

Boy, did it feel good to be on this side of the TV.

You should have seen the size of the awkward cloud that dawned in that room. The guys started scratching their beards in an effort to exhibit SWAG. Some girl placed her hand on hers briefly before burying her head in her palms in apparent shame. It couldn’t be done. The woman was serious. She said, ‘if you don’t have one put up your hand and I pray for you also.’ A small number took a deep breath and touched their procreation arsenals.

Then she told everyone to close their eyes. This way you couldn’t see that the ka chic you’ve been eye banging every mass since October wants to pray for her thing. Nanti she doesn’t want to have sex until she’s married.

Ouch!

Most of them then did as instructed. Now there was some babe who real – what’s the word…dried? Eh, that babe could dry banange. Her she didn’t even close her eyes. And the camera guy was also merciless. He also dried on her. At that moment, Saddam Hussein was an angel in comparison to her.

She had this look of I have no intention whatsoever of impeding my wanton mentality.

You go girl!

Last weekend I travelled home to see my mother. I needed to talk to someone. The logical refuge would have been church but I had no interest in touching my penis in public. I was slowly losing touch with reality. I was running low on self esteem and purpose. See, I don’t have many friends. I keep a small circle.

Freddie, I see you. Matter of fact I be you my bikki – realest!

You’re going, “whaaat? How about me!?”

Hey, you are a booty call, not a friend.

As soon as I arrived, my Big Bro (big up to yoselef over deya!) rolled me a sweet, well sorted stick of hash. Not those sloppy, headache inducing, soil stuffed Kampala joints. I’m telling you, when this brodda rolls you a joint, you understand why TRUTH rhymes with SMOOTH. He combines truthness and smoothness…

A few hours later I’m standing behind my dad’s old pickup truck with my mum. She’s holding my duffle bag which is like a weed store of sorts. I am trying to find the words to explain how the weed got in there.

“Maayi, I’m telling you, that’s not my bag. Wait, what’s that? Is that what I think that is? I know that’s not what I think that is. Is that – is that weed? That is what it looks like? I knew that old woman on the bus would pull some shit like this…”

I see the hurt and pain in her eyes. I should have stayed away. I don’t want to become unwelcome in this place. There’s nothing the world has for me. I have the whole world in the person standing in front of me. They say we hurt the ones we love the most. How can I explain to her that if I don’t have my fix, I’ll probably lose my mind?

Alcohol puts problems on hold. You might wake up with a few more. On the other hand, when you smoke weed, you take a step back and figure out your problems. It makes you see that it is you who’s complicating life.

But I cannot tell her that. That’s just stupid. What problems could you possibly have at your age? All you have to do is wake up, walk to class, understand that Engineering rackus and replicate it on a piece of paper. What could possibly be so hard and problematic about that?

She told me the bitter truth;

If you don’t work, then you haven’t earned the right to drink. Otherwise, you are just grooming yourself to become a crook. Now smoking is the worst. A cigarette has thousands of harmful substances which have like a hundred side effects…each. Marijuana will make you paranoid and there’s short term memory loss to worry about. You’ll read a book cover to cover but you’ll remember nothing, zippo. Spend more time on your books instead of hanging with the who’s who of magnanimous assholes. You won’t be of any use to them if wind up jobless three years from now.

Don’t do that shit yo.

“You young men are dying of thirst. You need water, holy water. You need to be baptized with the spirit of the Lord. Do you want to receive God as your personal savior?”

By the way, you gatsa check out this girl's blog. She has awesome fashion sense and sweet lugambo those things...