Here comes another one, just like the other one. Three hundred sixty four and a quarter days long. Teeming with ass to kick. I am going to enjoy myself.
To that end I have equipped myself with some resolutions.
One: Walk naked in public on occasion. I have a nice-looking body. This may be difficult for some of you to believe because most of the time you see me I am hideously dressed, but I really think that if you set eyes on my awesome torso, my sculpted bottom, my divine calves and my pendulous et ceteras in all their unclad splendour you would appreciate that clothes just do not do me justice. You would be filled with awe when you realize that I wasn’t lying when I spoke of ten-packs. They do in fact exist, and I have a sterling example.
I really think that many people out there would appreciate the sight of a naked me walking down the street, and so I resolve to, once in a while, give the world the benefit of that sight. In Uganda no one tries to stop you if you walk around naked, so it will be perfectly safe.
Dos: Attempt to grow dreadlocks, fail in that attempt, opt to go for a bald-head look instead, fail in that as well, and return to the baseball cap shop. Probably have the cap surgically attached to my head so as to forestall any further flights of fancy. Dreadlocks? Me? I must be mad.
Satu: Make a serious commitment to Buy Uganda, Buy Quality. No more imported liquor. If they are out of Bell, Tonto will have to do. It hits the spot.
You guys, let’s make sure that 2009 is a better year, and that we are better people in it. In other words, please be nicer to me in 2009. Thank you.
That is an archaic slang term for the police. The writers of this series have used too much modern language in the dialogue they have written so far. This time, one of them has decided to make an effort.
Open door.
Listen, officers. I can explain. First of all, it was all Rahmet’s idea. Look, I’ve got a family to look after. Can’t we talk about this? We can help one another. I didn’t even know it was illegal. I swear. It was like that when I arrived.
Mr Heptutet, you have the right to remain silent.
We don’t have that in our constitution.
You have the right. I just gave it to you so you can shut up for a minute. Now, we have reason to believe that you have illegal materials on the premises.
…
For crying out loud, this isn’t a Benny Hill sketch. Don’t do that thing of saying I told you to shut up so you can’t answer my question.
Okay. Um, no, officer, I have no illegal materials in my house. All the stuff is at Rahmet’s place. Don’t tell him I snitched.
Note that down, partner. We have to pay a visit to Mr Rahmet down the street.
Yes, Detective.
Mr Heptutet, we understand that you have recently come into possession of a newly born son.
Have I? Really?
Where is your wife Hermopli?
Um… Hermopli? Um, sheesh. I don’t even know. I got a new wife here, you see. Young Dispesis here. She’s brand new. Just 15 years old. I had her delivered about seven months ago and have been having a blast since, so you understand why I don’t even know where the hell that old bag Hermopli even is.
Doesn’t she live here?
Yeah, I guess. But I really don’t pay attention to the furniture and the livestock and the women. I have slaves who take care of that.
So, Mr Heptutet, you were not aware that your wife, Hermopli recently gave birth to a boy?
Really? She has always been giving birth to girls. It’s about time she gave birth to a real person. You know, sorry to go off on a tangent, but I wonder if there will ever be a day when women are considered to be more than property. I mean, a day when they have equal rights.
Yeah right. This is no time for jokes, Mr Heptutet. Step aside. We need to search the premises. Hey, slave! What’s your name?
Nefrusoput, sir.
Nefrusoput, who is hiding with you in that room?
Nobody there but us chicken, sir.
Slave, bring forth that woman and her newborn child. We have instructions to kill every newborn male in the city.
Officer, let me ask. Is that right? How can a king just wake up and kill everyone’s children and no one complains?
If you don’t like it, go invent human rights and democracy.
I was reading the internets this morning as I rode to work and these internets included one of my and your favourite blogs, Carlomania.
That is not actually the beginning of the story.
It technically begins a handful of years ago, when Carlo was born.. Or not really. Maybe it begins when I was born. Back in the good old days.
After our respective births, we proceeded to meet and become close friends. We are so tight, my dear reader, that when her young boyfriend, who, due to my maturity I shall refrain from calling Lil Bow Wow, unleashed on me, poking merciless fun at me, flinging insensitive and cruel jibes at my innocent person, jibes that were drawn from my relative advancement in years, to whit, my being of distinguished age, calling me “Gandalf The Grey” to be precise, and thereby hurting my feelings, and I confronted him, tears in my eyes, quivering from the pain of the heartache, and I said, “How could you bruise me so? Were we not brothers? How could you?” and he said, “It wasn’t me who said it, it was Carlo,” I instantly forgave it all, thinking, if it was Carlo, then I cannot be mad. She was just joking, obviously. Carlo is incapable of saying or doing anything malicious to me. She’s my tight.
Besides, this was Carlo making fun of my age. Using a pop culture/ movie reference. This opened a huge bottomless can full of worms that I was going to delight in spewing for as long as it would take me to get bored.
I got bored eventually even before I began trawling for photographs of Eseza from Emiti Emito, and thought that it was time to look for other venues of amusement. Maybe, I thought, I could provoke OD to expose himself to my arsenal of pregnant man jokes. He has a glorious pot belly that is just begging for it.
Now, we get to this morning. Please take a moment to read Carlo’s lament:
I walked onto the plane that would take me to a distant Asian destination (Singapore) and the air hostess smiled and says, ‘I have something for you here’ while handing me a kiddies bag. A kiddies bag!!!! For crying out loud, do I look 10?
I responded to it this way:
It’s because you carry your Bratz dolls in your hand luggage, Miley Cyrus.
I sniggered as I hit save. These things amuse me very very much. You have no idea.
But then blogspot did something weird. The comment appeared without identifying me. It looked now like some cowardly wuss was making mean-spirited anonymous attacks on people. Which was wrong.
And I got to thinking, that maybe all the delight I take in calling my young little friends The Lil Rascals was not entirely pure. Maybe I was being mean. Maybe I was being spiteful.
Maybe, and by now I was weeping in shame, I was bullying! Bullying the little ones! I am so ashamed. That is not the type of person I am, really. I am not. I honestly do not ever mean anyone any harm. I am not a bully!
So, this post is to apologise to everyone, especially to Carlo. Please know that I have nothing but the utmost respect for you as a person, a grown up and an adult. You are an intelligent and sophisticated woman and if anyone was ever to put a gun to my head and force me to surrender the awesomeness of being a guy and told me that I had to chose which woman to become, you would be on the list of women I would be.
Except, of course, a few years older.
It's Stephanie. From Full House. Remember? Catch up, kids. Catch up.
So this dude walks into room. His brow is dark and heavy, his hands are balled and his footsteps heavy and curt and mean.
What is wrong? People naturally ask.
“I’m fucking despondent.”
I forgot to mention in my detailed description above that dude’s shirt is covered in damp patches.
And that it is raining heavily outside.
“Oh, you poor thing,” coos other person in the room. She makes a coochie-coo face and, in voice that corresponds with that face, continues, “Come here, let me give you a hug.”
“Stay the fuck away from me!” Dude spits.
Now, that is the problem. That everybody thinks this outburst, which wasn’t even that much of an outburst, given that it didn’t burst out as such—the words emanated more in the form of a sharp hiss than an outburst— everybody thinks this sharp hiss-out was somehow insensitive and cruel. After all, she was just trying to help. She was being understanding, one person says. People can be so wrong and not know it.
She was not being understanding. She was being misunderstanding. Of course she meant no harm, but please, stay the fuck away from him. Can’t you understand?
Let me spell it out. When a guy has been rained on, he doesn’t want to feel better. He doesn’t want to be cheered up. He wants to see things blow up and burn. He wants to see misery that mirrors his own. He wants to watch a school of lambs discovering that there is no Santa Claus. He wants to see a genocide in a teddy bear factory. He wants to watch the bit after Batman dashed off into the dark at the end of the movie and learn that he ran into the street without looking and was hit by a large lorry. He is ready to hear that Mao has defected to the NRM. He wants to listen the early work of DMX at loud volume. He wants to indulge his sour feelings. Not to feel better.
Mr E. Bazanye 