Not Retarded. Just Retaking.

Sometimes I wish my folks would book for me two adjacent hostel rooms so that they can put a maid in the second room to be my substitute parent when I’m at campus. Maybe then, I could be a little less inclined to make poor decisions and settle for low standards.

Like the saying goes – the little things you do always come right back at you. Back in high school, if you were a normal kid, you were required to present a report card (normally pink in colour) at the end of each academic period. This showed that you had spent the last four months scoring Ds and Fs and not blowing your tuition on Sports Betting and Discos.

Personally I think imagination is better than education. Because you can always imagine that you’re smart. The whole education thing – the whole pink report card thing, is the rip off of the generation. I mean, how the hell does someone in their right minds pay close to a million shillings for a silly pink card every few months?

Cui Bono? What good is that?

Talk about a stick up.

Anyway, having a maid next door doodling all over your issues is not the best part about campus. The best part is that you don’t have to carry a silly pink card to your folks after every few months. You’re not accountable to anyone, no one at all. You’re not liable for anyone. If you wind up dead, your body will be discovered after graduation because they’ll need to contact you to inform you that you’re dead and you’re not on the graduation list.

In that exact order

My mother has failed to wrap her head around the fact that I show up at this specific time, every year, demanding hostel money and food money and photocopying money and trip money and whatever-else-I-can-cook-up money – without the glorious silly pink card. So we’re watching TV, just the two of us, and she brings it up.

Mum: You mean they don’t give you a report?

Me:      Give me a report? (I have this thing where I repeat the last part of her questions so that I have more time to come up with proper answers). No, they post the results on the internet.

Mum:  I have never understood this internet thing, it is all very confusing to me. They should know better than to complicate a simple progress report. I mean, I surely can’t be the only parent who can’t use the internet. Didn’t you write anything down?

Me:      Write anything –? – er, actually I did. But I misplaced the paper where I wrote them down.

Mum: You have always been careless. It is like one of your many talents, losing things. You lose things even before you think about owning them.

Me: Yes, mum.

Mum:  Anyway, how are things? Are you passing? What’s this thing I hear – um, repeats? retakes? – they’re called retakes, right? I heard they’re dreadful. Do you have any?

Me:      Well, they’re not as dread –

Mum:  What do you mean “not as dreadful”? (She sits up, heavily, and looks me in the eye) Do you have any retakes?

Me:      Well, er, the thing is –

Mum: The thing is what, Arthur?

Me:      Arthur? Um, no, I don’t have any retakes. But even if, say, I had like three or four or possibly five retakes, they wouldn’t be that bad. I would just have to do them all over again, you understand?

Mum:  No, I don’t. Don’t get any of those dreadful retakes. Every extra minute you spend in that place is costing me a heart attack. As a matter of fact if you get a retake, make sure you lock yourself in that overpriced hostel room and throw away the room.

Me:      I won’t get any (more) retakes mum.

Mum:  You’d better not. And what’s this you’re making me watch? That’s an old man and a small girl for chrissakes

Me:      It’s called Shameless.

Mum:  Well you should be ashamed of yourself for making your mother watch such nonsense. Isn’t it time for news? Let me watch news like every other old woman for chrissakes.

* * *

Happy Holidays! Watch TV. Be useless. Be happy. Throw a coin to a beggar on the street. But most importantly, be high as kites my friend.

Peace sign

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Who Stole My Girlfriend?!

She puckered her lips and playfully leaned in towards me. Her eyes fluttered. I stood there, looking at her, thinking, "How could so much fakeness fit in such a lithe, little sexy being?"

Of course I couldn't kiss her. That's just...gross. The very sight of her duck shaped, lip sticked mouth and her half closed eyes left a vile, repulsive taste in my mouth. It was the kind of thing to make you want to wear a hoodie backwards.

Now, don't get me wrong, she is a very fine, beautiful girl. In fact, she has a boyfriend called Philip.

Maybe it was all the flaming yellow hair, or the nose ring, or her awful collection of music, I don't know. And that confuses me because it was for those very reasons that I hooked up with her in the first place. I mean, how the hell does one say no to those gorgeous fake eyelashes?

I like weird people, they make me feel a little less weird. This girl was a catch. She has no ambitions in life, she smokes weed, I don't know her last name. She knows like four songs that I know. Basically, she's purrfect.

But I can't do it. I haven't been able to since I hooked up with my childhood sweetheart last holidays. I'll call her Belinda just in case my side chick (called Belinda) stumbles upon this.

Belinda loves hiphop, like, big time. In fact when we talk music, I feel embarrassed at how little I know.

I downloaded all of 2Pac's songs in anticipation for our flirtationship (more than friends, but not exactly lovers).

It never came.

She always has some shit to do and I have no wahaala with that. It's just, I don't know how much longer I can hold on to these hateful Outlaw lyrics in my head and still keep my sanity.

I like this girl. She's more intelligent than a Chinese genius. She has a job, she's fly as pigeons, she has a phone charger like mine and she's like the first girl I ever fell for. It is for those very reasons that I hate her.

Everytime I call her up, she's into this or that and the convo never lasts a few seconds. I whatsapp her but she never replies. I never push it. Because I know she's making money and when it's all safe and piled up, we might even sext.

Our flirtationship is gangster. We're like Bonnie & Clyde except we can't afford guns and we're too chicken shit to rob banks.

I know we have Chemistry. Chemistry is hooking up after 14 years and making out in the bar bathroom half way through the first beer and getting bounced and inhaling marijuana smoke the next day straight from her full, sexy lips and walking in the rain and talking about how lame exes are.

That's Chemistry.

She understands me the same way Einstein understood Physics. She calls me her "Dawg" and that makes my chest feel like alligators.

I doubt there's a girl that can compare to her. That's why I can't "get jiggy" with other girls. It feels like such a downgrade. Well, there's the part where she's getting nutted on by other fellas but I honestly don't like such thoughts. She probably needs it and I choose not to judge.

Anyway, I've been trying to contact her but all my attempts have proven futile. If you see that girl, will you tell her where I am?

* * *

On a lighter note, I just got short listed for the Writivism Writing Workshop! How about that for "Yay!"? Thank you very much for all the support.

Follow @KukussBlog on Twitter. You're awesome.

Posted from Bed

How To Unsuccessfully Break - up a Girl fight

MUK students have known nothing outside exams since this year started. As usual, during this period, emotions run pretty high. Those of us who know better (or are at least intoxicated enough to think we do), believe that ‘whatever got you to a situation will eventually get you through it’. Like if you’ve been praying all semester and it has got you to these Exams, then by all faith, praying will get you through them. So if you got here through cheating, guess what’s going to get you through it?

Exactly, cheating.

It is midnight. These girls, let’s call them Book & Boyfriend Club, are in the reading room (yeah, we have one of those) studying “hard”. I like to think that they’re thinking of how soon their boyfriends (read random guy) will come and do unspeakable things to them before the semester closes. I walk past the reading room, to some other girls’ room. Let’s call these other girls the Loud & Lesbian Club. These ones have egos the sizes of cathedrals and inflated senses of self entitlement.

Bring it, bitch!

I like the LL Club. They’re unpredictable, it’s like something is always about to go down. So I come in, the room is unusually quiet. This girl, I’ll call her Leticia for issues concerning bad memory. Leticia struts her sexy self to me and hugs me. She has a nice rack (or a nice push up bra) and she’s taller than me so my face is like all in her boobs and her butt is like those ends of Makindye (remember, unpredictable) and another girl touches my hand and a third girl comes up behind me and all I’m thinking is, “must be the new cologne.”

Nope, it wasn’t the new cologne.

These girls seduce their way through everything. Spell that again, E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. Like right now, Brenda is seducing the video lib guy to get us another season of Shameless.

They wanted to listen to music but “those bu local girls” - BBC -  had switched off current in the sockets and now they (LLC) were going to die because there was no music. “Arthur, sweetheart, you’re our Engineer. Put back the current for us pleeease?”

Duck faces

I was like, “babe, it is just a matter of flipping a switch. The boner isn’t exactly necessary.”

I turn them on and I walk to the balcony and light up a cigarette like the boss that I am. 

Then the lesbians start playing “music”. I’m talking about stuff that would make you feel like shooting people you don’t even know.

Within minutes – seconds really, I hear a barrage of obscenities flying all over the place. It was like a bunch of chattering monkeys were out on a day pass from the zoo. The Book babes accused the Lesbian babes of being lesbians. The Lesbians, in turn, accused the Book babes of being book babes.

Nothing sexier than a cat fight for sho

In a voice so clipped (it could make Hitler cry), the head of BBC shouted “You make the music loud so we can’t hear you moan and scream while you touch yourselves!”

“Well we all know you haven’t been touched in forever and you’re dry down there b*tch cobwebs are growing in your ****t. You p**sies, admit it and come and join us!” Leticia, whom I will now call Fifi for reasons to do with foul mouth, shouted back.

I’d been up for about 50 hours straight working on my final year project so the only thing on my mind was more cannabis and eating enough mairunji to keep me up for at least 18 more hours. I didn't "need this sh*t". 

But things got heated and this guy (we shall call him Fool for reasons involving low IQs and skinny jeans),  came out like;

IT WAS THAT NJAGGA BOY!!!

   

Nigga. Die.

I bummed out my cigarette and quickly walked downstairs – to the main switch – and I switched off everything, lights, sockets, everything. The whole place was wrapped in darkness. Then I walked back up and lit another cigarette like the boss that I am.

Quiet

When everyone had forgotten about me and the quiet got too loud, I went back and “switched on” the hostel.

I guess they all realized they were at the same level there was none better than the other. Everyone went about their business, music was low, people were reading and I was feeling a little less useless and clever. 

Then Fool let it slip that he’d seen me turning back the current. The Book Babes were horrified. The Lesbians were even worse because they felt betrayed. So they all turned on me, called me a “short, skinny, useless, drug abusing, impotent smoker.”

I just stood there…looking too silly to even smirk and yawning uncontrollably. 

Seriously, I don't need this

And then the landlord showed up – drunk – and I’m in the middle of it all and he waggles his finger at me and says, “gwe, are you an electronic?”

I said, “You mean an electrician?”

He said, “You’re not the boss of me! I want you out of my hostel tomorrow.”

As he staggered away, he paused, turned slowly and raised a hand, “No. don’t go. You still haven’t cleared my shs50000.”

 * * *

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A Back-up Eulogy for Paddy "Bitama" Ssali

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here, at this center of arts (National Theatre) to pay tribute to a great, honest, down to dirt gentleman.   

He could have made a fine President some day. For someone who appreciates the art of laughter, I found (still do) his comedy heartwarming. Paddy “Bitama” Ssali was translated to heaven on Saturday –

No. I’m too bore down with this mountainous weight of despair to continue the Eulogy. So I’ll speak from the heart.

*Throws away intended Eulogy*

I think God played an unfunny joke on us. How do you create a vacancy without nominating a successor? I mean, look at all you useless, unemployed, homosexual – hating drunkards. 

Just. See yourselves.

The whole bunch o y’all can’t even wrap your nuts around the definition of a knock – knock joke. He was one in a – oba what’s the population of this dump of a country? He was one in a lot of millions.

By the way, do you know that if you die in Uganda, you die in real life? 

Now, before you start feeling the need to “give me some good talking to”, I just want you to know that I’m sad – and pissed – so sad, in fact, that this post is being accompanied by a copious discharge of hydrated chloride of sodium, from the eyes. 

But...whyyyy??!

The same stuff that flowed each time I watched a clip from Amarula Family – but with less snort. And less bodies.

Paddy was so funny, he even played us jokes on his death bed. Who gets announced dead three times? There’s only one thing that’s worse than being declared dead – being declared dead twice, and then dying, and being declared dead all over again. I’m not even sure whether to cry or laugh so I'll just...take a hug.

You'll be fine...I promise

There’s a quote from an old play that kinda fits that. It goes, “whether on the gallows high, or where blood flows the reddest, the noblest place for a noble man to die, is where he died the deadest.” – Old Play.

After the noble man “died” the second time, a bunch of idiots who spend most of their free time meditating on the vices of idleness, tagged themselves as “close family” and went to Facebook and wrote popularity posts, demanding “TYPE AMEN”, “COMMENT”, “SHARE” because “we don’t have the money to cash the good ol’ man’s bills.”

Well, if you really cared, why didn’t you just not buy a data bundle and send that shs500 to the real family? It would have meant much more than those silly comments that are dumber than bucketfuls of spit and just as useless. And in such cringingly awful spellings too – seriously, how can you misspell “R.I.P.”???

By the way, the Vatican called, the whole bunch of you colloquial assholes are going to hell – right after the Pope himself kicks you in the dangly bits.

Time for absolution ma nigga!!!

I’d intended for this post to be a sort of back-up eulogy or a revised and edited version of a sinner but whaddayaknow, look how it all turned out.

Sighs.

Anyway, may we all to stop whatever it is we’re doing right now and have a moment of silence – or in more blunt terms – to shut up – and feel the weight of this troubled nation’s loss.

MOMENT OF SILENCE

.

.

.

.

Rest In Peace, Paddy Ssali Bitama.

Hope you fill up the Heavens with Much Laughter. And if it isn’t much to ask, please tell God to deliver us from the Homo bill, the Skirt bill. And Facebook.   

Amen. 

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No Hard Feelings Buddy, You Are Not Invited.

I don't like visitors. They make me awkward. I can "be easy" if the visitor has, say, a 750ml Bond7 whiskey. In that case, we'll be BFFs for the next two hours or so.

After that, Adios! Later! Go Away! Bye!

No hard feelings...

Er, unless it's a girl and she's a visual orgasm numero uno - then we'll leave the hard feeling (or two) in some random rubber.

So, really, no hard feelings.

It is a pleasant afternoon, I'm trying to fix my dad's old Mitsubishi Pajero. One of the pistons isn't firing so I'm in overalls all greasy and everything, cranking up the engine like it's my third arm.

Then a fellow shows up. I don't care to look up. Because, you see,I left all my fucks in my other pair of jeans.

"Arthur, right? I can't believe this! I didn't know you come from this pocket of the country! Jesus (to mum), I know Arthur! I was with him at Nsibirwa--"

7. Mmmkay, if our acquaintance is somehow underscored by Nsibirwa Hall, Makerere University, you're a goon.

You fellas fired Oga, my only source of free cigarettes. How heartless! What happened to A.P.??

And you crap too much.

Y'all look like you've just visited the shitter all the time - all bored smiles and teary eyes. Heck, your toilets have dibbs on poop. They're the reason why all latrines around the country stink. Blaming your toilets for being filthy is like blaming Sevo for being president. Or Straka for being fat. It is fruitless.

6. It's 3pm and I'm bargaining with this hunger in my tummy to get on its best behavior and stay on the DL ..

With all the reefer on my head, that's  like stifling a boner while watching Chinese teen porn. C'est absolument impossible.

So, when my mother, sweet woman that she is, offered you a 2nd helping, you were supposed to politely refuse. All 2nd helpings are pour moi - for me.

The hint was when I sucked my teeth and made one eye smaller. You clearly didn't get.

5. And by God, do you really really have to finish every last piece on the plate? Jesus, you have even eaten the pattern off that plate. This is supposed to be lunch, not a goddamn food convention.

Now what will my puppy eat?

Do you think he goes around doing random deeds of kindness? Food is his idea of a payday you goddamn mutt. Scheiß!

4. I hate 8-9pm because soap operas. They sound like taking a crap but through the nostrils. I think they rehearse and/or shoot the breathing part(s) separately.

But it's the only time I have to be with family. So sincerely, that Christian broadcast on Impact fm can wait.

It's not like Jesus is going anywhere or anything.

And he's playing it on speaker phone - those Chinese ones whose ringtones can be heard in the middle of a packed club.

I was like, "hey, buddy, you must be such a Christian. That's awesome. Here, have my earphones. This soap is really funny! Have you heard the way they breath..?"

3. "It's getting late, why don't you sleep over?" is my mother's idea of being nice. She doesn't really mean it. Even if she does, be a gent and bounce. You don't want to wake up and the whole place is crawling with bed-bugs and everyone is all, "I don't get it. These bugs showed up right about the same time that Red-Shirt dude slept over."

2. I've got abs - really nice ones. In fact, when NTV was doing that story on masturbation, I wanted to ask, "what if you don't watch porn and you have a fly ass babe (who can make her titties wink for real) and you honestly don't mean to jerk off but you step out the shower and you look at the mirror and gosh, it's so damn sexy..."

So you've got yourself some abs. We all have them, it's nothing special. So, beyond the 4 meters from the bathroom, don't walk around in a towel. What are you trying to do, bang our maid?

1. I just got the July/August collection of Chinese Teen Porn. Bring back my earphones.


Sincerely,
Me.

posted from Bloggeroid

Ay, Badilisha this Thing. Gotta Go!

Greetings from rainy Mbale, where "gals" are women, people are "folks," a little bit is a "skosh," if you're tired you're "logy," if something is a little off it's "hinky," when the sun comes up it's never called sun but always "sunshine," boyfriends and girlfriends are "partners," beer tastes better than it has any right to, you're not allowed to cuss but someone might occasionally "drop the c-bomb," you can cough but only into your elbow, and any request, reasonable or unreasonable, is met with "no worries."

It's all rot and funk up here. And I'm stuck in it. I thought I'd be out of here right after intern but whaddayaknow? My folks heard about the MUK lecturers strike.

"We don't want you to go and start "lousing" around and sleeping in baalas (bars). You'll leave when school starts (i.e. when we watch it on the 9 o'clock news).'

Closing baalas (and chasing fast women and trouble) is exactly what I want to do for the next 3weeks or so. I had a tidy, neat, little excuse in my back pocket for my folks. That "I gats to be at Campus like ASAP coz, guys left me with the key of the lecture room's like trash can's padlock..."

My dad said, "Son, it's called thinking outside the box, not thinking outside the dictionary. You'll report when I say you report."

I was infinitely miffed. See, it is not just boredom up here, it is boredom plus losing the will to live. Like smashing my brains on a pavement would be an easy call right now. Sadly, there's a six month waiting list for if you want to jump off the roof of Mulago Hospital.

It isn't that I expected home to be all fancy schmancy or that I'm exactly eager to get back to the campus routine of dealing with the who's who of magnanimous assholes from wherever and beyond, it is just that there's nothing happening here!

The place is so empty, there's more activity in Jacob Oulanya's head.

Don't get me wrong, I love home - a lot. But I hate - no, not hate - I loathe inactivity more.

Did you know? The leading cause of death in Mbale is people falling asleep. Mudslides are running a close second - but that's just because people are asleep.

In fact, I kinda miss Intern. Even though it took so long, that Craig Kadooda went through menopause.

Even though I had to put up with barbaric, annoying questions such as;

"Where are you from? Did you go to College? Did you go to Prison? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have a will? Am I in it?"

Even though I wish to but etiquette demands that I don't respond with, "Yes, also, I'd very much like to replace your teeth with my fist."

At least when I was going through that intern drill, I didn't have to spend so much time listening to my weed dealer's life stories; for which, I'm awarded marijuana mountains which leave me pushy, obnoxious, crass - anything and everything - the full catastrophe.

I want to go. Anywhere. Badilisha this shit, the world awaits my grand entrance. It's my show. And as always, I'm running late.

*Drags on cigarette*

And it's so freakin cold! Gosh, I've had to pee ever since I picked up my phone to scribble this.

P.S. I fully expect you to charge me for the time it takes to go through these ramblings. But I'm dirt broke so spend whatever you hadn't intended to and put it on this blog.

Happy Academic Year, 2013/2014!

Sincerely,
Peeing.

posted from Bloggeroid

Let's Play "Who's The Baby-Daddy?"

On some evenings, a random relative pops in for a chat with Mother – a little gossip here and there. I never bother to listen because (*dotcom whine alert*) it kills my internet vibe. While they blabbermouth, I’m all chill on the sofa, tweeting away like I don’t put on my pants one leg at a time like everyone else.

Bitch, Dant Kill My Vibe

I could've tried to follow their conversation if it didn’t sound so much like Yoko Ono singing.

It would’ve been easier if I wasn’t reading Joan Rivers’ bat shit crazy book. Even easier if I wasn’t watching Klint the Drunk on that NTV show – the one with the dude who has a closet which looks like your dirty laundry basket.

Despite all that, a story caught my attention and I thought I might just share it with you, my dear *insert relationship status here*. It is high time I wrote something that didn’t leave me feeling entirely like a literally gas bag or a transcendental schmuck.

This young girl, let’s call her Miss My-Thighs-Are-Never-Never-Ever-Getting-Back-Together. She’s my cousin, or niece. Sometimes I fail to get the difference.

Apparently, this girl’s legs have spread so far and wide, the only way she can get them together is by calling for a parade every last Tuesday of the month. 

So good to have both of you here again. Now, in our last meeting...

Rumour says she has had sex in places which are so tiny, that the rats that live there are hunchbacked.

Sadly, she got knocked up in one of these dingy hideouts sometime last year. Slutty Legs didn’t know who the father was. Slutty Legs put it on some pimple-faced high school-dropout. I’ve met this guy. He is so nice it is irritating. You know those people who never fail to compliment? You tell him that some white chum killed Thirty Three bloody kids and buried them in his back yard and he says;

“Well, he sure was a hardworking fella,” he ponders, “All the thirty three?! Boy, he must have a really huge back yard.”

His niceness, however couldn’t keep the girl’s parents from fining him 1.8Mill – UgShs – Cash.

*Checks Forex Markets*

Yes, those will be 720 Cold Nile Special Beers.

Sighs.

When I refuse to cross with high school girls with their heart-shaped asses and wry smiles, people call me a fala. And I don’t mean to brag but the fact is that if Campus babes checked me out half as much as high school girls did, I would have something resembling a sex life. But I’ve been turned down by so many Campus babes, I should probably apply for government funding.

When the baby was born, it was handsome, which was confusing because my friend Pimple-Face looks something like a black avalanche. 

That's your son. You both look hungry. See?

The girl thought that perhaps the kid had a condition like slow metabolism or a glandular condition and would, in a few months, ease into its father’s ugliness. It didn’t happen.

Instead, the baby looked more and more like the twins who smoke weed down by the river.

It gets better.

The twins came to demand for their kid – separately.

At this point, the story teller started unwrapping a candy bar slooooooowlyy and annoyingly, demanding one more like on Kukuss Blog.

But he knew that if you turn your radio volume down to the bottom, you’ll hear Mama Fina tell the end of the story. So he’ll continue. Because he’s such a show off.

The twins are gut-chewing, good for nothings who steal their auntie’s purse money at times. They live on the streets looking for a quick buck. 

To date, my cousin doesn’t know which one of these goons is her baby-daddy because they are totally identical.

Pause. 

This is the part where we play the Which-family-is-more-disappointed game. 

It’s kinda like the Radio-Lillian-Weasle scenario. Except that my cousin, Miss Slutty, is a nun when compared to Miss Lillian. Like babe, Radio and Weasle are not even twins!

Blech

Anyways, I have nothing on her. Who knows? Maybe when she was studying The Balanced Diet in Lower school, the teacher overemphasized the point that semen was one of the four basic food groups.

I bet the twins sometimes got to the riverside and be all chill and smoking weed and one of em goes like;

"Dude, you know that baby could have easily been there before I hit her?"

The other is like;

“I know, right?! That’s why you’re getting the diapers today.”

*  *  *

On a serious note though, defilement (and bestiality) is some serious shit nowadays. Young girls are promised dates with free meals while the goons get free feels. I don’t know what they promise the animals though, I’ll refer that query to the Kenyans.

But if you’re one of those girls with a Jamaican dancehall ass and the abs of a lesbian gym owner and the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits and you’re all for guys’ attention, please, set yourself on fire – you’ll have our undivided focus. Don’t shag every Dong, Dick and Jimmy. 

You don’t know what you might catch out there. My friend Pimple-Face lost his parents to HIV so what’s to say everyone in this story isn't already six-under?

To learn more about defilement, like this page and join the movement to stop the scourge. 

Yours truly,

Still Not Getting Any

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Hey, stop touching yourself!