African Woman came out without my book review. Again.

Flashback. Previously on Selling Books: Our hero writes one. In the process of marketing the thing, he lands in the offices of African Woman (the magazine, not the Member for Ruhama) and gives them a copy in case they want to do a review.

They did not do the review, so I guess I don’t have to be nice to African Woman anymore.

But what am I supposed to be then? Nasty?

Should I be commenting snarkily on how uncannily close the resemblence in size and decor theme is between the AW office and my rat’s broom closet? Should I be suggesting that African Woman is little more than an overpriced pin-up poster?

I can’t do that.

Because, first of all, Sylvie Owori is Woman of The Year. She did what they all said could not be done. Can’t knock the hustle.

Secondly, I don’t care for their fashion pages, but you have to appreciate the fact that there are journalists out there who can, and will take a topic like the death penalty and treat it with the respect it deserves.

So, this is the compromise; if they won’t write a review of my book, I will write one for them.

 the book I wrote

The African Woman Magazine Book Review

Book: Ernest Bazanye’s Worst Idea

Author: Ernest “Baz” Bazanye

Review Ernest Bazanye’s Worst Idea? How? In words? In mere words? How? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

This book transcends merely verbal description. To even half-adequately convey how awesome it is, I, your reviewer, will have to be transformed through magic and witchcraft into both Jessica Alba and Kerry Washington and then do twelve consecutive stripteases in your office at noon on Wednesday.

With chocolate sauce.

Because Ernest Bazanye is the finest writer the Museveni age has produced; he is a ninja with nouns, a maestro with metaphors and an absolute asskicker with idioms. The potency of this man’s literary gifts is so intense that our legal department has forced us to recommend that our readers do not attempt to touch his book unless they have a diaphragm or a femidom installed. Otherwise the African Woman’s African Ovaries are liable to be spontaneously fertilised by the proximity to the awesomeness, and Sylvie Owori will not be held accountable for the consequent bastards.

He wields his art with such finesse and panache yet, at the same time, such power and force, that were his keyboard a basketball, he would be LeBron. Were his keyboard a sword he would be El Zorro. Were it a strand of dyed horsehair it would be swishing and swaying around Beyonce Knowles’ head. But it is a keyboard and that is why he is Baz.

Phenomenally so.

Buy it please.

the book I wrote