And now, for some New Year’s Resolutions

1. Greet everybody by saying “Well done.”
2. Bid them farewell by saying “Nice Time.”
3. Get the hell off MTN. Warid, here I come.
4. Or Hits. Whatever. Either way, I am tired of MTN, Celtel’s adverts. are. stupid. and I am already on UTL anyway.
5. Become a chap who wears ties all the freakin’ time so that way I can finally get some respect around here. What about.
6. Two words: Joh. Nnie. Two more words: Every. Night. No more being a casual social drinker. Why should I continue with sucking life when I might just have dormant alcoholic’s genes that I could exploit?
7. Make my annual attempt to move out of Kireka earlier than usual. Maybe March.
8. Buy a car.
9. Hah hah. Just kidding about part 8. What part of “I’m broke” don’t you understand, banange? You give me the car money. I’ll find something to do with it. Like move out of Kireka, buy a Warid phone, some neckties, bottles of Johnnie Walker…
10. That’s ten resolutions.  Ten is enough. Time to go, now, so goodn–  Oh. I mean, Nice Time.

Stage One: Success!

The ULS (Ugandan League of Supervillains) launched phase one of our secret plan (codenamed “Operation Kidnap or Rescue Mukula and Muhwezi”) last night. I can report that it was a success.

Iva— I mean, Long Raider went in first. His brief was to cause a diversion by posing as an itinerant manicurist/pedicurist offering to do Mrs Mukula’s toenails in a small plastic basin and subtly seducing her at the same time. With Mike’s cunning watchdog thus distracted, the tactics team was able to freely storm the mansion to seek out our quarry.

He wasn’t easy to find. We went from room to room to room, and still was no sign of him until after the seventeenth room, electronics expert Rogue Trooper caught a blip on his radar indicating that the quarry was in his computerised bathroom.

We kicked the door in. He was hunched over a little keyboard, keying in the code that flushes the toilet.
“You’re coming with us!” I bellowed menacingly.
He looked up. “Who are you?”
“Shut up! I ask the questions around here!” I shouted. Then sniffed. “And the first question is, what is that smell?”
“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly. “Mongolian buffet at Kabira Country Club for dinner. It never agrees with me.” He shrugged. “Excuse me.”

We waited as he punched in the rest of the code. 412568. There was a sudden sloshing sound and then a calm, throatless, robotic, female voice said, “Flushing complete.”
“Heh heh. I know that voice,” Dr Despicable said, with a chirpy  voice that was not appropriate to the situation at all. “That is the chick who bes in the MTN thingy telling us our airtime is finished.”
“Yes, she does freelance work as well,” said Mike. “You are a fan? You want to meet her? She is very down-to-earth.”
“Shut up!” I snapped again. “We are not here to chit chat! Besides, why would I be a fan of people telling me my airtime is over in the middle of my conversations? Put your hands out and we handcuff them!”
He put his hands out.
“Idiot! Wash them first!”

We were at the gate half an hour later (it is a huge house. And our map expert needs to stop drinking on the job.) where we encountered a glitch. “Where is MisAndry.? She is supposed to be here with the getaway van,” I wondered.

A small voice next to me said, “Ooops.”

“No. I swear. Tell me I didn’t just hear the guy who was supposed to arrange for our getaway van just say ‘oops.’”
“Sorry boss,” Whimpered Valley Dam. I was going to call her, but then I was watching Cuandos and I forgot…”
“Oh the rolling of eyes! The wringing of hands! The agonised utterance of cusswords! Well, what are you waiting for? Call her now!”
Dr Despicable looked up from the kabiriti at his ear. His look wasn’t reassuring. “It’s no use. They tell me she’s in Ngamba Island with chimpanzees.”
I took a deep breath. Whooo-saaah. “Well, Let’s round up a couple of bodabodas. Are there bodabodas around? ”
“In this neighbourhood?” Dr D, shrugged. “What for? Everyone who lives here has like one SUV per limb. There are no bodas here.”

A rumbling sound interrupted us and Mike nudged me with his handcuffed hand. “Excuse me. Guys?” He said through grit teeth.
“I think I need to go to the bathroom,” he said.
“Dude! You were just IN the bathroom!” Could exasperation mount any higher?
“I know. I know. I really shouldn’t eat Mongolian…”

So stage one of the plan was successful. We managed to kidnap and get Mukula out of his house. Stage two, getting him out of the house and over to our hideout, was not so successful. Valley Damn gave him our business card and we agreed to return after the Christmas break.

Right back at’cha

I replied to Maina 41naina three days ago, but I haven’t heard from him. Which is scary, because if he doesn’t reply soon, I will get bored of the whole thing and move on to other forms of idleness.

Like making lolkinstons or something

But even if he does reply this very minute, I am weighed down by doubt and feelings of inadequacy. Yes, I was hoping to string him along and have some fun at his expense, but I know I will never be as good at it as Mike.

Mike (full name never disclosed) is a scambaiter. His hobby is collecting 419 emails, replying to them, and toying with the scammers, then publishing their full email exchanges on his website. Look at it. The results are hilarious, and gripping. I suggest you print out and take home, so that you don’t spend an hour at work laughing at your screen.
Next to this guy whatever I do will be pale and limpid and weak.

I mean, the guy made one of them get a tattoo. He even managed to scam one of them right back. The scammer sent him money!

After Tumwijuke, he is my hero.

What is this, Christmas?

I’ve been dying to get one of these for ages, and now one just plops into my inbox. I feel like Tom in that top secret never-released finale episode where he finally catches Jerry.

Okay. The basics: I got an email from someone whose name I will not disclose (for the mutual security of  “our both families” and also because I don’t want dude googling his way to this blog). I will give him a codename, I think.

I will call him Maina 41naina.

Subject: accept my sincere apologies, thanks
How are you and your family I hope fine? Do accept my sincere apologies if my mail does not meet your personal ethics.

Enough of this gay banter. Who are you?

By introduction, I am, a branch manager in one of a reputable financial institution here in Ouagadougou Burkina Faso “Bank of Africa”.

Pleasure. Now please tell me why we are here.

I would love to build up a solid foundation with you in time coming if you can be able to help me in this business proposal. Listen,

I’m listening.

a generous customer of this bank died on March 11th 2004 at Madrid train attack, this decease left Sun of Eight Million Five Hundred thousand United State Dollars ($8.5)


Well, if I was sceptical at first, if I t hought it was, perhaps one of those scams I had heard so much about, this, a bbc news link, sets my mind at ease.

I Hoped that you will not expose or betray this trust and confident that I am about to repose on you for the mutual benefit of our both families.

I am intrugued…

proceed lolcat

I need your urgent assistance in transferring this above mentioned sum into your bank account or you come here in this bank for cash paying into your hands. I don’t want the money to go into our Bank treasury as an abandoned fund. Since our bank could not locate any of his nearest person to inherit this money. So this is the reason why I contacted you, so that with me giving you all his information we can release the money to you as the nearest person to the deceased customer.

Sounds like a plan, actually…

Please I would like you to keep this proposal as a top secret and delete if you are not interested. Upon receipt of your reply, I will send you full details on how the business will be executed.

Stay Blessed.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Maina 42naina.

I guess there is only one thing to do now. Delete the email.
Hah hah! Yeah right.

I am going to reply tonight even.

I like the philosophical ring “By introduction I am” has. Think about it. My name is my essence. My identity, my very being as a person, is expressed in who I say that I am.  So manifest identity is not a superficial aspect of the man, it is fundamental. Whoa. Deep. 

In defense of my friend Moli

You may have seen the scandalous photographs of Maureen and Code that have been going around the email circuit. If you have been living in a cave, let me fill you in: the email shows the two cavorting in a fashion that looks suspiciously sexual. They are both naked in passionate embraces and “the codebreaker” can be seen. It is in alert mode.
Yes, I took a brief glance when I saw them, but that’s all. A brief glance. Moli never really did it for me, you know. Sue me, but she didn’t. I just saw the email, and after raising an eyebrow, moved on to the next email. I am a busy man. What about. Anyway…

This has led to speculation that Moli was lying when she told us that during her stay in the house she always conducted herself like a perfect lady. Some have taken the Hiltonesque nature of the photos as evidence to the contrary.


Well, let her set the record straight. She Did Not Have Sex With That Man.

In fact she invites you to look closely at the pictures. Look closely, she says, and you will see.