The Ballad Of Black Bosco

What does a novelist do when he or she (he in this case) finds himself in Uganda, where neither Penguin, Random House, Barnes nor Noble ever set foot? Does he fly to America? But he wasn’t given a visa. So does he then not write the novel. That’s what I did.
Or that’s what I thought. Until the idle typing I had been doing in between bits of actual work at office began to take the shape of a real story and not a blog post, so I just went ahead and wrote it. I had a novel there.

So, what does a novelist do when he has a novel and Random House, Penguin, Barnes and Noble still haven’t called? He lets the novel gather dust on a C-Drive somewhere.

Actually, I wrote this so long ago, the computer I typed it on is actually junk now. It was in 2007 those prehistoric ends.

So what does a novelist do when he finds it on a backup CD and thinks, hey, someone might enjoy reading this?

He puts it up online and says, well, if you want to read it, please take a look. It’s funny. You might like it.

It’s a PDF file, right here.

A Rap About A Cap.

I’m going to rap.

Yo. Ugh. Ugh. Check me out now. Ugh. Yeah. Yeah. Ugh. I lost track/ Of my brand new cap/ It was all black/ But cos my cheddar stack/ I went and bought another one back. Word.

See, I had cap that I had recently purchased and then almost just as recently lost. A day after I had bought it I was having tea with my lawyer (and simultaneously having tea with a very lovely friend of mine, but I say “tea with my lawyer” because it just sounds more impressive, and I do want to impress you. Deep seated issues, see. Fear of abandonment rooted in a traumatic childhood experience involving an owl, a roll of cellotape and my one-eyed teddy bear called Jicho Maponye.)

After tea I went home and found that I had left the cap at the café. When I returned to the café to ask for it the next day,  the waitress was adamant when she said no such object had crossed her sight and that those were entirely mine of simanyi where is my cap. She smiled nicely so I believed her. I am not assuming that she is planning to rock my new cap when she hits her kivulu this weekend.

But my head was now bare, so I thought quite seriously of just going back to the shop and buying a new one. I know. Who does that? Impulse shopping is one thing. Impulse re-shopping is a whole new recipe.

But I was feeling like a rapper. That is to say I was in the state of mind that allows one to be reckless with money so I seriously considered just going back to buy a new one.

Peer pressure was added to the equation and an innocuous “considering” quickly transformed into a fully-fledged “decision”. I was going to buy a new cap. What about. Do I sit here all day to earn feathers and leaves or do I make money?

Now that we have explained the rap, let us go on to discuss things you need to know when you go to Nakumatt Oasis Mall.

1. Go by boda. Don’t worry. Nobody will mind.

2. They check your pockets as you go in and sometimes it’s a dude who does the checking so get your telephones out of your front pocket. Do I need to explain this?

a) Okay. I assume you have two telephones. If you don’t, go to Nakumatt and buy another one. You need one for facebook zero and one for endobbo.

b) Now, the man waves his wand around and when it detects a phone, it beeps.

c) You remove the phone from the area (in this case, front pocket) and he waves wand over area again to ensure that there is nothing left.

Nakumatt guy might… well, um… this happened to a person I knew, not me. Not me… might put his hands there as well as waving the wand… Bad Touch. BAD TOUCH! I don’t want to talk about it any more.

3. If you are going to Mr Price don’t go there in a shirt you bought from Mr Price. It’s kind of weird. Yes. I was going to Mr Price, and I have a shirt I bought there and you do what? Sue me. I’ve got a lawyer.

4. If you are not part of the Java’s Boycott, don’t go to Java’s. If you want to sit down and write the next chapter of The Further Adventures of Chandler and Fraiser because you are planning to have two, not one booklet out and this advert was brought to you by The Audacity Of Self-Publicity ™, don’t go to Java’s. People say whenever you go to Mr Price you bump into people, but if you go to Java’s you bump into people more. Everyone goes there. It’s like the Old Park.

On Sunday I saw Francis Babu there. I must harp on about this. He is not as small as he looks on TV; he is a tall and extravangantly massive man and today, to add insult to expanse, he was wearing a white agbada that was flowing and flapping and billowing over almost half the place. He looked like a cloud: like condensation had taken place in the atmosphere of Java’s. I thought the man was going to rain on us. This message goes out to Mrs Captain Francis Babu. Please burn that agbada. It’s going to be hard to find enough fire, but you have to at least try.

When We Ride

Potholes used to feature a lot in newspaper columns. Even by those written by my favourite columnist and Ian Clarke.

The two of them would often, when their hacks were raised, thrust their fists quivering into the air. And harrumph loudly. And belch plumes of fire into the sky. While doing all this, they would simultaneously type spirited and beautiful tirades about the state of Ugandan roads all over my newspaper.

I couldn’t relate. Potholes, schmotholes. As a member of the public transit class, such a set and confirmed and prolific taxi rider that I even had a favourite seat, I had no idea potholes were anything but picturesque deviations to the general grey of the road.

Taxi drivers are, as we all know, forged in the fires of hell. They are not humans created by God. The other guy made taxi drivers.

The dark one who created them also endowed them with certain powers, including the ability to float over, snake round, or teleport through potholes. I could sit in the back left seat with my wap-enabled mobile phone and facebook at my cool friends and the other friends, too, as the taxi vroomed and rattled along, never knowing what this whole pothole hullabaloo was about.

Then I, myself, me who you see me here, me, I got a car. Her name is Fiona, The Silver Queen of Kyali, and my love for her is real.

Now, when I drive her, I drive her in Kampala and, consequently, on Kampala’s roads, which Doctor Ian Clarke and Angie Kintu had kept warning me about when I was all being stubborn, all acting like I already know everything I need to know about life. He who knows not and knows not he knows not. Those things.

I would say, “Banange. There greater potholes on the road to development than potholes,” and think I was being clever.

But then you get a car you like and try to move down a Uganda road with it and you will see things other ways.

These roads are ridiculous. First of all, they are narrow as sewing thread. And there are two long streams of cars trying to use this road that is as narrow as sewing thread and these cars are moving in opposite directions.
Some of these cars are ridden by Ugandans with whatever kind of major malfunction it is that makes a person buy a gigantic four-wheel-drive vehicle and then try to squeeze it through a road little more than half a foot wide.

That same road is being shared by pedestrians because roads in Uganda don’t like to have pavements. Most of them just assume footwalkers can go (do rude things unto) themselves. Where a pavement somehow manages to occur even against the odds set up by our cherished traditions, it’s soon filled with hawkers and traders and merchants selling underwear, hats, shoes, roasted maize, old magazines, jeans, transistor radios which make every song they broadcast sound like it’s being performed by cockroaches tapdancing on the corpses of other cockroaches and, soon, copies of my upcoming novelette, The Adventures Of Chandler And Fraisier (Yeah. I’ve started advertising. Haven’t even finished the book itself).

The pedestrians cannot walk there. They have to walk on the road. Well, they are either walking, or they are leaping out of the way of bodabodas, which are piloted by the effluvium that was left over after the dark one created his taxi drivers.

I shall also mention that there are fools who PARK their cars on the sides of these roads.

How can this possibly be made worse?

By potholes. Potholes just roll up one night and sit in the middle of this and every other road in the city.

I presume the potholes in Nairobi and Dar and Arusha and Kuala Lumpur and Little Rock and, well, other parts of the world, just show up and be. Our potholes don’t be. They do. They perpetrate actions. These things are alive.

They exhibit what my biology teacher Mrs Nakayima (Shout out!) taught me were the signs of a living thing. They eat and they grow. They feed on shock absorbers and then put on weight. They not only expand in breadth; some of them buck the trend and decide that growing wide is for losers. For them they are going to grow deep. When your wheels plunge into them you hear echoes.

Kampala potholes are dangerous and merciless and vicious. They should be deployed for national defense.

In other, unrelated news, I hate Abba so much I wish they were food products so I could shit it out of my ass. I may have to edit that sentence out of the post a bit later.

Urban Legend Kampala

This is a trailer. This is a taste. This is the little thing before the big thing. This is the whispery whistle before the full blast of the fart of one of the funkiest bowels of bloggery. This is the teaser for Urban Legend Kampala, the next step in the evolution of blogging.

First spot.

SleekandWild: a man who is so badass that he is actually two people and both of them are fraught with danger and concealed weaponry that massacres every single Monday.

Erique: the man who does the electric boogaloo next to real live electricity sockets, using live boogers extracted from his own nose and science, even after months of study, has yet to find out how one man can get so much phlegm out of one nose…

Streetsider: a man who says Motozela and makes it sound like a filthy word because he is so full of darkness that he can make any word sound filthy, a man who therefore eats Mountain Dew bottletops and shits out shuriken…

And finally, Myself, Mr Ernest Bazanye, a man who wears a full body boot so that when I kick an ass my entire being is involved in the process…

… have all come together to present some shit that will make your eyes quiver.

Because you know us. You have seen our work. You know what we are capable of.

And now we done gone and did it.

Bazanye.com is live

And finally, I am able, with no compunction, hesitation, second-guessing or remorse to finally tell you whasgono.

I’m not going to stop blogging at this dump here, but I am moving into other areas. Starting Teusday I shall be working for http://bazanye.com and http://urbanlegendkampala.com. The first link is live. The second is on the way. Ugandans are the ones delivering and you know how they are with keeping time.

Hope you will pass by, check out, like things, leave comments, link back, forward addresses, and we take and together we build this nation of ours.

Please, follow me. Let’s go. This way.

Chandler and Fraiser and the Agents of Fate’s Reckoning

You may perhaps have noticed over the past few so and so weeks a marked lack of activity on this blog. I mean, the fool comes here, changes the theme, notes the dark threat from commenter Pinky, (She said “get yo ass off the couch Baz n write somethin dimwit”) shivers, but then still somehow manages to leave without an update.

To steal a word I read the other day that I have been dying to use, you might be wondering, “Whasgono?”

I like that word a lot and shall deploy it again very soon.

Some of you haters out there might even be sneering at your screens saying, “You see? He thought he would never run out of crap. Well, there you go! Finally the crap is finished. The bowel, so to speak, is empty!”

To such people I say, don’t be so hasty. I know what I’m doing.

Actually, I know exactly whasgono.

The full story is that I am preparing to leave for a better place.

For the longest time, blogging has been a game, a toy, a hobby, but then, that has to end. I am about to become a businessman, people. I am about to start to take this crap

And sell it.

Let me explain. I was visited by The Agents of Fate’s Reckoning  one late night and they, (The AoFR) imbued in me the seed of an idea.

They said, “Baz, whasgono? Gwe, first visualize this object here, at the edge of your dream as morning approaches.”

The object was a small, thin, blue booklet with the words “The Adventures Of Chandler And Fraiser” written on it, a little cartoon, and a low price tag.

I realized when I awoke (typically about two hours after I get out of bed. Coffee hits the bloodstream, metabolism metabolises, the caffeine meets the blood, the caffeine says to the blood, “Whasgono?” and the blood accepts it in and finally the consciousness is stirred back into being) I realized when I awoke that this is what I needed to do: Write cheap little booklets about the adventures of Chandler and Fraiser.

Chandler and Fraiser are my two sons. Well, not really. I don’t have kids, (I swear it!) They feature occasionally in the column I write for the Sunday Vision. (Hit the link please. I want you to read that).

I have been working on a couple of booklets and trying to get them printed and put into shops in the hope that you will not mind picking one up one afternoon and reading through when you need a bit of a laugh (for it is intended that said booklets will be funny) and that when you do so, I shall earn enough money to for once have grown-ups airtime on my damn phone.

Secret Origins: Muganzi The Magnificent

Muganzi Vincent B. Food Tech (Mature Entry) delivers his speech at the opening of campaigns for Makerere University Guild Presidency. He is expected to expound on his slogan “A Candidate With a Difference”.

Cough. Hem. Mic check, mic check. Hem. Good afternoon fellow students.

You have gathered here to hear the assembled candidates give their speeches asking you to support their bids for guild president. They are going to offer promises and slogans and smoke and shadows.

That’s them.

I’m not them.

I am a candidate with a difference. I am not interested in becoming your guild president. I stand before you today to announce my candidature for the post of Makerere University Guild Tyrant.

I do not seek to be elected representative of the people’s power. I seek to be supreme overlord of all you pawns.

The cape and British accent should have been your first hint.

There are various reasons why, instead of voting for these charlatans around me, you should instead surrender to me and call me your lord and master.

The first is that, well, you are Makerere university students. Time has shown over and over again that MUK students’ body simply does not have the intellectual discipline or the moral wherewithal to manage your own political affairs in a smooth and sane fashion. You are always rioting and cheating in your exams and getting unplanned pregnancies. You create nothing but reckless mayhem. That is why you need me. If you turn to page 12 of your brochures, where it gives a list of my aliases, you will see that I am Muganzi The Magnificent, Master Of Mayhem.

Serve me, Makerere, let me be your evil overlord and I shall lead you from reckless mayhem to proper, professionally-managed, efficient mayhem.

Cos that’s my thing.

That is not, however, the only reason I call upon you to cower at my feet in submission. There is another reason which shall be demonstrated by my assistant Igor.

Igor? Igor? Igor was supposed to be here standing next to this large object currently covered under a tarpaulin. Well, I can unveil it myself.

Behold: The DOOMSDAY DESTRUCTO-RAY MACHINE! Surrender or be turned to dust!

(Postscript. You won’t believe how old this post is.)

I Have A Theory

Mrs Ruth Kavuma Nvumetta is a Ugandan member of parliament. She represents the islands of Kalangala.
She was recently seen participating in the continent-wide reality TV show Big Brother Africa, prompting much distress. Big Brother Africa is known as a place for pointless social misfits to compete, if you can call it that, in idleness. They sit around in what is called the Big Brother House just scratching in their pants and rearranging their bits and hoping that, from this, they will gain some celebrity. The whole business is embarrassing and silly, because this isn’t dumbed down television: dumbed down TV needs to bend over and extend a telescope to see Big Brother.

This is no place for an honourable elected member of the third arm of government. How did she end up in there?

I have a theory.

I imagine her aide was rustling through her mail one day in her island MP office and came upon one letter. “They want you to visit the house next week, Hon.”

“We’re not that close, Aide.”

“No, when I say ‘Hon’ I mean short for Honourable. Not short for Honey.”

“They mailed me to invite me back to the house of parliament in Kampala?”

“No, this one is in South Africa.”

Oh, okay. So let’s fly to Johannesburg to visit the SA parliament.

Shwweeeee (That’s the sound of plane-flight)

And she found out too late.