Random Thuroggits.

 

  • We open this weekend’s Thurrogits with a request. Wanted: An authoritative comment on the malicious rumour that the word Akaboozi in Luganda actually means something else.
  • Secondly, on the 13th of September, we we mark the day, 12 years ago, when our brother, Tupac Amaru Shakur, left us. And retired to Havana where he is living under the name of Esteban Ocero Dos Scianta and currently runs an antique bookstore/ cannabis bar/ ballet studio in a small hacienda. On the west side of the city, of course.

Tupac was a powerful musician, and even though I don’t agree with some of his messages, I appreciate and respect his talents. The only people who can deny his gifts, are those who haven’t listened to him anyway, but be that as it may, I’m still going to fuck with him, because what’s he going to do to me? Cuba is miles away.

Tupacs new song – Dave Chapelle

  • What do Blu*3 and rectal surgery have in common? And if you raised your hand and began making frantic yipping sounds in the hope that the teacher picks you so that you can chirp up a quip about pain in the ass, you are a hater ?

Introducing the Candiru.

Welcome back, if you clicked on the link, from the trip to trauma you just took. Yes, you read right. The Candiru is an invisible fish that swims up your ass and lodges itself inside. With spikes.

  • One last thurrogit: I was googling myself (and not because I am insecure or suffer from low self-esteem; quite the opposite. I think I am awesome and just want to know how far across this web my awesomeness goes. Or maybe I am pretending to be all egotistical to hide the fact that I am reallly shy. Whichever) and I I found this http://www.thebobs.com/index.php?w=1203581200919464CAVKNHVI

I’m on a German media company’s blog awards. Deutsche Velle has blog awards and, well, I’m up for one. I don’t know how it happened, but now that it has, please don’t let this thing close without me getting at least some votes.

Well, there are other bloggers on the list,  (full list of Ugandas here) but can we focus? This is about my self-obsessed, narcisistic, concieted, ego. This is about me. First Person Singular.

Besides, Kampala.ver doesn’t blog any more, so give me his votes. Tumwi is up, too (of course. That woman!) and I am scared of her. So she will keep her votes. Give me Gug’s votes. He is just as self-centred as I am after all.

 

 

Looks like we’re out. Whatever Darrel Bristow-Bovey is smoking, I want some and that’s all.

Ati wot? Big Brother update. Sheila and the closet

As usual, since I have not watched Big Brother, I will have to make up what happened. Your update, then.

Sheila is sitting on the sofa, languidly drawing on a cigarette, inelegantly and coarsely bored, when Tawana enters the room and joins her on the couch. Tawana is smiling broadly, but Sheila is frowning.

“Tawana, you know this is a big couch,” Sheila says. “Big enough for two people to sit comfortably on it. You don’t have to squeeze up so close to me. There is plenty of space.”

Tawana continues smiling. “I don’t mind being close to you. In fact I like being close to you. I’d like us to be … close, if you know what I mean.” She flutters her eyelashes.

Sheila is about to respond when their attention is drawn away by a sudden commotion. It is Morris running across the sitting room from the kitchen to the diary room. “Biggie, I have a problem. Can I come in?”

The door swings open and Morris enters. You can almost hear a weary sigh waft out of the speakers before Big Brother’s voice says, “Yes, Morris, what is it now?”

“We need better kitchen utensils,” Morris says. “I’ve been trying to chop vegetables in the kitchen but this knife doesn’t work. And it hurts.”

He raises his hands to Biggie’s camera. They are covered in blood.

“Morris, which end of the knife have you been using to cut and which end have you been holding?” monotones Biggie.

Ten seconds of blank stare from Morris follow before suddenly it hits him. “Oh, I get it. Thanks Biggie.” And he retreats from the room.

On the couch, Tawana has not stopped. “Your skin is lovely, Sheila. So so very smooth,” the Gaboronean coos.

“Kwanza hebu stop touch-touching my face you manze!”  snaps Sheila, lapsing into vernacular.
Latoya wanders into the sitting room looking very restless. “I am so totally bored. Isn’t there a guy nearby?”

“Morris just went through here. I think he is at the First Aid kit,” volunteers Tawana.
“What is that?” Latoya asks.

“You know it better as the box where they keep the condoms.”

And with that Latoya springs up and dashes off to where Morris had gone. With Latoya gone, Tawana can turn her attention back to fluttering her eyelids and licking her lips at Sheila. “Now, where were we?” she says, trying to make her voice husky.

Sheila who doesn’t seem to have got it yet, and is still perplexed by Tawana’s actions, replies, “I don’t know. The Twilight Zone?”

“That is what I like about you Sheila. You have such an adorable sense of humour. Hah hah hah!” fake-laughs Tawana. “Hey, let’s go for a dip in the pool. We can take our clothes off and leave them here…”

Sheila screws up her face. “You know Tawana, you are acting suspicious. If I didn’t know you were a woman like me I would suspect that you are trying to put the moves on me.”

At this moment Takondwa bursts in. “Sheila, do you have a matchbox? Mimi wants to see if she can get high by smoking the fluffy blue bits sticking out of the carpet—Oh.” He stops in his tracks when he sees that Tawana is leaning over Sheila like a blanket. “I didn’t realise you were… um busy,” he says. “I’ll leave you two alone. Please continue.” As he turns to leave he winks at Sheila and gives her a thumbs-up.

“What the fuck is going on?” Sheila explodes. “Somebody needs to tell me what’s going on here. And I don’t want sijui ati I don’t know. I demand an explanation! Kwanza quickly-quickly!”

“Hey, you don’t have to get mad. If you don’t want to have sex with me, it’s not like I’m going to rape you.” Tawana is miffed.

“Ati wooooott?” screams Sheila. “Why would I want to have sex with you? You are a woman!”

“Yeah, but you don’t mind that. You are a lesbian after all,” blinks Tawana.

Sheila exclaims, “%#$!!@^!!*&!!” And that is not a way of euphemising the word fuck. She actually pronounces a curse like that. “Ati a lesbian? Who told you I’m a lesbian? I’m norra lesbian! Ati wot?”

Tawana is very confused. “But everyone says you are a lesbian.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Don’t deny it, it’s all over the internet?” Latoya says, walking in. Behind her Morris staggers Morris. Panting.  He takes the cigarette from Shiela’s hand and takes a deep draught.

“The internet? How the hell do you even know what is on the internet?” Sheila turns to Latoya.

“Biggie lets me check my gmail and my Facebook messages,” she replies. “In exchange for a few favours.”

“Holy shit. You’re sleeping with Big Brother, too?”

“No. Don’t be absurd!” she scrunches her face. “Just a bit of fellatio now and then, that’s all. I need to stay connected, you know.”

Rico walks in. “Hey, Latoya, you got a minute?”

Latoya looks at Morris, who is now asleep on the floor, then she looks at Ricco. “You had better not mean that literally.” And she follows him to the bedroom.

 

(Ad break: I am contributing Uganda on the Web pieces to theKampalan.blogspot.com.  If you feel like kuwagilaring, or even if you are just interested in what Muwangizi Achilewo, that Mateos child preacher, was doing on the BBC, please click here.)

This is not a real blog post. This is just some bullshit.

I am torn.
I believe in sincere, honest, and passionate debate. I believe in discussion. I believe that no one has a right to believe a belief that hasn’t been tested repeatedly through orderly argument, and I believe that a good pow wow can be a lot of fun.

I would have been ecstatic to hear:

“Yes, people have the right to write whatever they want on their blogs, but I wish more people wanted to write about the pressing social and political issues.”

Or: 

 “The hope of ths country is in the hands of the educated, privileged elite. It is their duty to take an active interest in politics.

 are

Or even:

“You missed the subtle joke Muhumuza was pulling on you: He wanted to illustrate that traditional journalism is superior to blogging and he did this by writing a newspaper article in the style of a blog. I think he made his point.”

You know. Something that addresses the issue.

Instead I get this.

“The best think CB did was to ignore you baz. I think the way you juxtaposed his picture was bad. You also lack journalism ethics. I am not suprised if some one tell me you never passed through MUK because if you had atleast student introduction to photojournalism. I am sure Opolot would have told you that playing with some one’s picture is more warse than  writing a wrong article coz a picture   tell 1000 times more than a story.
By the way, were you writing in monitor requesting  requesting the editor to sack him??????
You need to style up too……..”

 

What should I say to this fellow? Clearly this argument is over.  The matter is dead and everyone has moved on, except those who have nothing to contribute at all at all at all. Let me go and work on some fictional Big Brother. Ntsssss!

Verbatim vs Verbatim 6.0

For the first time this encounter takes place at the home next door to our hero’s. He is at the gate addressing the little girl next door.

  • When you are older and men tell you this you will slap them and or throw drinks in their faces, but I had a dream about you last night.
  • Really? Was I awesome in it?
  • You were a Swedish rock star.
  • Rock star? like Hanna Montana?
  • I have no idea who hanna Montana is. No one over the age of 14 does. Pick a better reference.
  • Okay, like Avril Lavigne?
  • Not really. You had all these facial piercings and all these tattoos and all this horrible black makeup.You looked more like the thing that shows up after Lavigne has had an abortion and says, “Excuse me, y’all won’t be needin’ that, will you? Cos I’m feelin’ kinda hungry.”
  • EEEeeeeeuwwww!
  • Don’t Euwww. You are too young to even understand what that whole image means.
  • I wasn’t reacting to your sentence. I don’t know what a borshan is. It is just that you spit when you talk in long sentences and it’s very gross.
  • This coming from someone who spends nights sleeping in her own urine.
  • You really don’t know much about kids and bedwetting, do you?
  • Nope. And you know why? Because I change the topic every time a kid mentions the subject.
  • So, I had this very odd dream, where you were a Swedish rock star…
  • I have a similar dream. The difference is slight—I am not a Swedish rock star, I am a Texan R&B star. In fact, why mince words? I am Beyonce in my dreams.
  • Beyonce is still popular? Man, that chick has lasted!
  • We figure she has about seven months left. Eight tops. But I am glad to hear this news, Baz. It means a lot to me to hear that you share my dreams.
  • No, that was not sharing, that was being freaked out by, and it wasn’t your dreams, it was my dream, and I am only here to tell you for the umpteenth time to leave me alone. I don’t want you in my dreams any more than I want you on my veranda and compound. You make them dirty.
  • I make your dreams dirty?
  • Exa—No! No you don’t! And don’t you go around telling people I said you … I have spoken enough. I must leave. I have said my piece. Stay away from me!

And our hero retreats. Hastily.

Verbatim Vs Verbatim: The one that is tripping.

Previously on Verbatim Vs Verbatim: Verbatim Vs Verbatim Part IV and Part V

A girl with costume dreadlocks, several piercings in her ears (and one on her lower lip), tattoos on her arms and shoulders, a bare midriff and a pair of very filthy jeans is framed in the doorway when our hero opens it. After he gives her the disapproving once-over, he speaks:

  • Whoever you have come to see doesn’t live here any more.
  • Hah hah. Still the same old Baz, putting up this front, pretending to be all caustic and inhospitable, just to mask your delight at seeing me.
  • Sorry. Do I know you?
  • Do you know me? Sheesh. A girl just goes to Stockholm to pursue a music career for a few years and she is totally forgotten? I thought we were friends, Baz.
  • The only person I know who went to Sweden to pursue a music career is what the hell no it can’t be: Screaming Lizzie?!
  • Ta-da!
  • No way. You were just a tiny little kid last time I saw you.
  • Oh, spare me. I have been hearing nothing else since I came back. I know, I know. How time flies and they grow up so fast and blah blah blah. Can I come in? Do you have a beer in your fridge?
  • But I saw you just like the other day and you were three years old.
  • …and it seems like it was just yesterday, doesn’t it? Blah blah, I said, I’ve heard it all before and it is boring. I’m all grown up now, Baz. Get over it.
  • You’re not a kid anymore?
  • Nope. Not any more. Can I get a Guinness? Don’t worry. I’ll help myself.
  • Wait. What are those— those things there? Those things you’re carrying.
  • These? They are called my boobs… They have been stared at a lot, but this is the first time it is happening in horror.
  • Take them off this minute and return them to wherever you found them. I won’t stand for this!
    Damn, homie, will you lighten up? I have boobs. I drink beer. I fucking cuss shit out like a crazy bitch, too, you know? Accept it and get me that Guinness, already. I just came back to say hi to my old buddy Baz, and to check in on my fans at his blog. Does that have to be such a big deal?
  • Speaking of your fans, I think they will have a problem accepting you as being a punk rocker chick.
  • Why would they? And why is your fridge empty?
  • Because you are not cute any more. And that fridge is teeming with my leftovers and my cheese and my safis and stuff.
  • What I mean is, there is no beer in it. And as for me being cute, there’s a whole biker gang in Stockholm that would disagree with you very vehemently on that…
  • A biker gang?
  • Yeah. I got it on with their leader, Sven, right. He was an animal! Oh my Gosh! He was sooo…
  • SHUT UP! Stop that! Stop it. Who are you! That is not a question! Stop talking about sex and looking for beer and freaking me out. I demand that you return immediately to the state of extreme prepubescence from which you came!
  • Is this waragi?
  • It’s paraffin.
    (wails, as blog post ends abruptly)

Blogging on Serious Issues. Or Not

The question of the week appears to be: Why Don’t People Talk Politics?

But I would rather address the question’s reverse. Let us ask why people do talk politics. I think by answering this we will find ourselves answering the other question, too.
If you are ready, pull up a chair and pour a drink. It’s a long one.

And even if you are a kitten-drowning hack who writes stories about Canadian students without even bothering to find out whether they are not American tourists, pull the chair all the way up. Make yourself comfortable. Tomorrow you can get the riding you deserve from your editor but for now, let us chit-chat.

I have a theory about political talk.

I think there are three reasons for it.  The first reason will be illustrated below:

The NSSF scandal has proven yet again that the powers that be have no regard for basic tenets of civil responsibility. It boggles the mind that, at a time when 67% of Ugandans live in abject poverty, the NRM party heads at NSSF who are entrusted with their future are recklessly flushing it down the drain through flagrant corruption! What shall we do? Who shall save us? Instead of rising up to demand change, we are wasting our time watching Big Brother…

You see?

Okay, maybe you don’t. Because you are not a fool.
Any intelligent person will notice in a matter of seconds that that paragraph is total bullshit because, first of all, that statistic is completely bogus. Secondly the NSSF is not run by the NRM party, and mostly, logic has to leap across light-years to make the rant work because people living in abject poverty do not contribute to NSSF. The little rant also has the tried-and-tested staples of handwringing bombast (Who shall save us!) and the technique of making itself seem high-brow by juxtaposing itself with something allegedly lower-minded — by claiming something (e.g. Big Brother) is beneath him, he tacitly suggests that he is above things. You see?

There are people out there who will be impressed to no end by that sort of claptrap. They revel in it. Their conversations are full of then flinging swill like this at each other in glee, so glad to be having what they think is an intellectual discussion about political issues. Yippee!

So if my lovely assistant would not mind wheeling out the panel…

I know. But I never said I dance the Photoshop.

Anyway, there you are. The first reason people talk politics, I have learnt, is because they think it makes them look smart. Avoid such people, children, I urge you. Shun them. Go and watch Big Brother instead.

And now, the next reason: Are you ready? No? You would like to hear more about my lovely assistant.

Her name is Rere. She is a singer. She once sang a song with Young Jeezy. Oh, I see you are no longer interested after hearing that.  Let us proceed then.

The second reason people talk politics is because they are geeks about it. Smart people often like to find a hobby that will stimulate and exercise their minds. They want something they can obsess over, something about which they can amass large amounts of information, something about which they can obsess as they discuss its intricate details with one another. Some people do this with sports, some with the arts, some with computers, some even with astronomical objects. Some do it with politics. Rere, the panel please…

That’s right. Geekiness. Note that this does not apply when it comes to sex. When you obsess about sex and collect trivia about sex, it isn’t being a geek. It is being an adolescent.

And now for the tippy top of my theory.

 

What is politics for? Is it, like Big Brother, just for looking at and discussing? What does it do?

Politics is how the individual relates to society, is how I’ve always seen it, and how the shaky balance between individual freedom and social order is maintained–how the tenuous compromises that create this balance shift and change.

Society wants order, the individual wants freedom. We sort out compromises and these become government and politics. In the end, the aim of politics is to map out how free I can be without threatening order, and how free others can be without disturbing my freedom. Ultimately the aim of politics is to see that, as much as possible, one is okay, free to live ones life and that no one bothers one.

Which means that if I am afraid, I will be talking about the army and the police. If I am poor, I will be talking about business and investment. If I am perplexed, I will be talking about the legalisation of Marijuana etc. But as long as I am secure, content and at peace, I will have no reason to talk about the government.

Oh my gosh. Do you realise what this means? What am I saying? That political apathy can be a sign of good government?

Whoa!

But Wait. Stay with me. Let me finish first before you start your wololo.

Apathy is, in a way, the goal of effective government. We pay attention to things when they are not working, then we discuss ways to fix them. When everything is fixed, we won’t talk about government any more than we talk about that auto-giga-processor in your Internet machine.

You see? You don’t know what that even is. It is a thing that works the internet. When it breaks down we will all know what it is. 

Now we all know that apathy can also thrive in a state with bad government, and it shouldn’t. Even if we had an efficient government, if such a thing ever comes into existence, its citizens have to watch it closely and keep it under close scrutiny. For it to work it has to have power and power can be misused, so we need to watch it closely. Lest it murder us in our sleep, metaphorically speaking.

But consider this: If you have a job, a home, kids and plans for the future as well as a government that needs scrutiny. Typically, the intelligent and responsible citizen will make a list of priorities that put the government kind-of near the bottom.  After your budget for the month, your bitch boss, your wife finally getting her driver’s licence (thank God!), your ballgame with the kids (little Festo is fearless in goal) the new beer that sucks (you will never ever cheat on your Guinness again), your favourite entertainer who turned 50 last week and that cool new reality show on TV etc, you will finally probably have time to contemplate that new district they just carved out of Bundibugyo.

And that, people, is the third reason to talk politics: You have a problem with the way things are being done to you and you need to find a way to fix it. Your kids are not learning in schools because it is overcrowded, so you start to lament the merits of UPE. Your father’s ARVs are getting expensive, so you watch the GAVI fund scandal unfold with keenness. You are 58 years old and broke so you stare at the NSSF saga with consternation.

Then you talk politics because you care and are genuinely interested.

This of course means that “I don’t see what it has to do with me”, “I am too busy” and “I find it boring” are valid political opinions, borne from a fact we don’t want to admit, but one that is nevertheless as true as Rere is hot: that we are selfish creatures whose only true motivation for doing anything is personal interest, and that patriotism and a sense of civil obligation only rises if it can lead to a personal benefit.
For example, “I am too busy” will translate to “We need to nationalise strategic industries and return to a controlled economy structure” when you get fired from that job that keeps you too busy.

And that is why we don’t blog politics. Because, as young middle class professionals, the system is working for us. The problems we have that need immediate discussion cannot be solved by government, so when we talk about life we are not talking politics. You see?

Okay. That is my piece. Now, please, tell me where I am wrong so that I can learn from your comments and improve my theories. Or, if necessary, abandon them entirely.

 

You bloggers don’t talk intarekcho things also you

 

It is a collosally silly piece of journalism that blithely ignores dwanyama.blogspot.com, thisisafrica.wordpress.com, citizenuganda.com, owerahabits.blogspot.com and others, and choses to pick on the lunatic fringe of the Ugandan bloggers who sometimes talk politics —the guy who says we says we should be ruled by priests  and the pretend-communist who wants to massacre Americans— to illustrate an alleged derth of political discourse in Ugandan blogs.

There are so many things wrong with this story, not least of all the writer’s dishonesty in failing to inform the readers that he is himself a blogger who posts pictures of his family and their birthday parties, talks about his day to day life and writes about about his favourite books.

Then there is the glaring lack of research. It is the layman who thinks that the bloggers who comment with live links on Cheri’s blog are the only ones blogging. There are other Ugandans out there who blog. If you were a journalist about this, and not a spoilt and lazy hack, you would have done a simple google blog search.

But Carlo had the post first. Take it away, Carlo

 

And some comments so far:

Dennis D who attacks the elite(am i right? am i right?) just to remain relevant.

Angry about being misrepresented by the media? Welcome to the world of mediocrity that is Uganda’s media.

Secondly, he quotes SAGE, a “clever” blogger. Do they know each other outside the blogosphere? Do they share the same beliefs? Can he be objective and neutral when quoting him?

And for someone who is encouraging a “patriotic” blog-style (whatever that may be) why use an irrelevant, unknown American as your focal point?

This was a petty piece of journalism, akin to walking into Rugby Club on a Saturday afternoon and scolding the people there for not being at Kimeeza. There is nothing wrong with a fun hobby, Dennis.

Other blogs have began to appear:

What is with all this intellectual bullshit? What I find intellectual might not be intellectual to you? For example, your failure at being an objective reporter have significantly reduced my view of your intelligence. Does that mean I should stop reading your blog or the Monitor for that matter?

Does the reference to the American make the article or the points therein more believeable?

Ugandan bloggers, you’re at liberty to write about anything, yes anything, and that includes things you do in your bedrooms, how people are suffering under abject poverty… or how shower hour is so good to watch in the morning.
It matters, it really does and its makes blogging a worthwhile experience and reading your blogs a pleasure.

I will post comments in support of Dennis “Countryboyi” Muhumuza’s article as they appear.

This just in, in support of Countryboyi: Felix wonders how the world will know about these things if we don’t take the initiative and expose them!

Look at the issues affecting out society..the corruption at every level, the suffering in the North of the country no one has ever mentioned, the “deals” peole are cutting at the highest levels in office. We coudl do something to expose these things! Expose them to the world.