Part of my job here at Uganda’s leading newspaper is making fun of celebrities. I do other, more importan stuff, of course, like build the nation, but occasionally, I also say mean things about singers, actors and, my favourite, radio deejays with fake accents.
No, I have no compunction about it. They are the ones who started it by sucking.
Now, working, as I do, in the entertainment press, I also occasionally find myself sitting at my desk when our intrepid reporter, Peter Parker, shepherds a person with big hair and brightly-coloured tights to the desk next to me.
When this happens I can tell, even without looking, that a pop singer has entered the room.
I can hear Peter Parker giving her friendly instructions, telling her to have a seat, telling her she can type the lyrics to her song into this computer and being generally jovial.
The fact that he has not made introductions could mean that he knows that this is not one of the artists I would want to meet. Or this is probably not one of the artists who want to meet me.
In today’s case the artist was Cindy, of whom I recently wrote the following.
By the end of Cindy’s Swahili hit Nawewe, she is wrestling with the high power-notes, and they are winning. Towards the end of the video, she tilted her head back and emitted a sound between a growl and a roar that made us think, if she was trying for a Jennifer Hudson-type of thing, she didn’t make it. In fact, I am sure the producer had to cut the recording right after that sound was made and send the studio intern to the kiosk round the corner to get a sweet peps and a bottle of water for the poor girl.
On behalf of Cindy’s many fans out there, let me say we love you the way you are. We are concerned about your health, so don’t hurt yourself. Remember, there is a reason God gave us this autotune software.
Cindy was sitting next to me. Within striking distance.
No, I wasn’t scared. Shya.
I am totally faster than her.
But we sat there, ignoring each other, doing our business. No one said a word. Until…
“WHRAR! WHRAR! LOOK IT IS CINDY A CELEB IN TH OFFIS Y DON’T U INTRODUSE HER TO EVERYBODY YOU PETER PARKER YOU BRING FOR US A CELEB AND YOU DON’T INTRODUCEE!!! WHRARRR!! WHRRARR!!11”
One of my colleagues has a whrarring habit. When he notices brightly-coloured tights in the room he can’t help himself. His penis took over.
So Cindy had to demur and smile nicely and say how do you do to everybody, even though half of these fuddy-duddies wouldn’t even know who she was if those nude photos hadn’t appeared in the Red Pepper.
“WHRAARR!! EVEN BAZANYE WHY DONT U GREET HER SHE IZ A CELEB CINDY IZ NEXT 2 U JUST SITTING!!!”
This is the point where I lie to make the story more interesting.
The cordial smile dropped off her face and her features froze. She fixed her suspiciously red eyes on me and mouthed the words, “Who did you say this was?”
What response could give? I had no option. “It’s Bazanye. Recognize!” I said.