Heterosexuals have no balls

Jamaican ragamuffin-dancehall star Beenie Man is scheduled to perform in Kampala this weekend. The man who brought you such hits as Who Am I, King of The Dancehall and Feel It Boy is here at the behest of a local beverage company and is going to provide entertainment as they crown (excuse me) an ongoing promotions drive (excuse me again).

For the benefit of my friends, such as Kenyans and Rwandans, whose national residences locate them at a disadvantage when it comes to clicking my puns, one of the two major soda companies in Uganda, and probably the one that invited Beenie Man, is called Crown Beverages and the promotions project was about giving away free cars. Now that I have explained it, you too, can lol along.

No, seriously, lol. I didn’t type all that just so you can give me that blank look.

Well, kale. Be like that. I won’t even explain what “kale” means, then.

(By the way, I forgot to translate the term “quenzing” the other day. I am waiting for Miss Cheri to reply to my email. She is the one who teaches me kiyaye language. I will post her definition here as soon as I get it.)

Beenie Man is here to perform at the Chamuka Keys Contest finale—which we expect to be a success, unlike his recent New Zealand booking, that is. The Gals Dem Suga, as he calls himself frequently, was slated to perform at a bash in NZ but was unfortunately dropped from the bill after LGBT groups (That’s homosexual rights pressure groups, by the way) noticed that he was a Jamaican dancehall artiste. They have a tendency towards scathingly homophobic lyrics—often calling for the lynching of homosexual men. “Bun down chichiman” is one of the many ways they are known to phrase this sentiment.

Beenie is not the first Jamaican dancehall star to be picketed out of a gig for his history of avowed homophobia before, by the way. The Gay rights dudes have got … and … before.

• If you sing homophobically, you won’t sing in New Zealand, in short. Not if they can help it.
• LGBT Groups: No!
• But wait a minute. Are you saying you guys have to censor and approve every singer who performs in the country? Are you saying that only the people who support gay rights should be allowed to express themselves? Don’t you think that kind of contradicts the ideals of freedom and tolerance that you should be in full support of as civil rights advocates? Homophobes have as much of a right to express themselves as you guys do, after all.
• LGBT Groups: NO!
• Look, let’s be mature about this. He’s not Obama. He’s just Beenie Man. Really, so what if he doesn’t like…
• LGBT Groups: NO!
• Come on, do you think that just because Beenie Man isn’t going to perform at that gig that there will be no homophobia there? I can guarantee you that a lot of the dudes in the audience are going to be homophobic anyway. I mean homophobia is still pretty common…
• LGBT Groups: NO!
• And it’s a big festival with different musicians. Have you vetted the others to see what their stand on gay rights is? How do you know wakina Dizzy Rascal or Bjork don’t be like, “Fuck these faggot ass bitches!” in their trailers when their toast is burnt or their Mochas are lukewarm?
• LGBT Groups: NO! That guy dissed us and so we are not going to allow him to make money in New Zealand. NO!
• So Beenie has no choice but to cross NZ off his flight plan and come to dusty/muddy third world Kampala instead.

Meanwhile, R. Kelly urinates on heterosexuals and what do we do? We just give him more money and continue to dance and sing and enjoy his songs.

Who — who am I? Whe- where am I?

Something strange is going on here in blogistan. I am not accusing anyone of anything; I am not going to sit here and say that Pedro “Sleek N Wild” Sekidde is perpetrating a heinous act of internet identity theft of the sort we are warned about every time we watch Oprah; I am sure Sleek N Wild is a gentleman, a Christian and a student of honour and nobility.

Well, I say that now.

But over the past couple of weeks I have noticed that on a few other blogs up in this region comments have appeared ostensibly created by me, Mr Ernest Bazanye, and signed in such a way as to indicate that I, Mr Ernest Bazanye, indeed wrote them, when, in truth, this is not the case. I wrote no such thing! It is signed as Baz, one of my many Internet aliases, but is not actually by self! Perfidy! Treachery! Shit!

In fact, when one runs ones cursor (that’s the little arrow that floats over the screen when you  move the mouse ((that’s the little rodent that lives at the bottom of the cupboard)) ) when one runs ones cursor over the word “Baz” that sits impudently over these false comments, one will notice that the url attached to the name is not mine, bazanye.wordpress.com, but is actually that of Pietr “Sleek N Wild” Twinomugisha’s own website, http://www.sleekandwild.com.

You can imagine the state of utter and complete flummox I abruptly collapsed into. It seemed as if nothing could rouse me. Fortunately there was a Snickers bar nearby. Lord knows what would have happened if there wasn’t.

My first assumption of course was that Cephas “Sleek N Wild” Gulumaire was playing a clever trick, a practical joke, a jape to confuse you and amuse himself. He was posing as me for the kicks.

That would be your first assumption, too, wouldn’t it? I think it would.

So, I did exactly what you expect me to do in turn.

The  natural, obvious thing. I sped over to Sleekandwild.com and posted a pungent glop of odure in the comments section and signed it Sleek, while logging in my url, bazanye.wordpress.com in place.

“Hah. You thought what.” I said. It was not a question.

However, something curious is happening. My impersonation is not yielding the expected results. It seems that Peedi “Sleek N Wild” Crack has no idea what is going on and is confused by my actions.

Hmmm. I may have misread the situation, I think I misread the situation. It appears I underwent a lapse of literacy as regards the situation.

So, what should I do next? Should I continue posing as Sleek? Just for the hell of it? I mean, it’s fun.

I’m in love with Mary Jane. She’s my main thang.

I woke up this morning with a slight itch in the lower left quadrant of my otherwise immaculately-structured ear. (Yes, my ear has quardrants.) As the day wore on this itch was to grow into something more pernicious, eventually manifesting itself in its fullness as a craving to hear Mary J Blige.

Now, I, like most men of my social caliber, am not entirely averse to Mary J. We appreciate that she is a very good singer of very good songs, but we do not normally find ourselves abruptly overcome by desire to hear her sing.

Clearly my status needs recalibration because, right now, as we speak, I am positively fiending for Mary J tunes.

There is only one thing to do, one place to go.

Scene: The Internet. Exterior. Our Hero stands before doorman named Google.

• What can I do for you today, Mr Ernest Bazanye?
• First of all, I want to thank you for addressing me as Mister. You, Google, are the only one who ever calls me that. Everyone else is just like, Baz, or Ernest, or “Mere Ernest” or “Gwe kigayi tonquenzing kilabe”. I appreciate the respect. I just wanted you to know that.
• Your search – Gwe kigayi tonquenzing kilabe – did not match any documents.

I have found about five songs so far. Using a very complex, esoteric, intricate and ninjitsu process known as “downloading” that I would explain to you, but unless you have a PhD in Internets you won’t even grasp the basics, I collected Be Happy, Goin’ Down, and a few special live performances which I shall listen to and be sated. You, meanwhile, may continue to enjoy your Rejo and Weezo.

Woo wooo wooo yeah yeah!

Meanwhile, guess who I found blogging. Lydia Namubiru!

2 Pictures = 2,000 words.

Bongo-bound

To those who have had the recent misfortune of hearing my incessant crowing about a flight to “outside countries”, I must confess now that the only outside country I was journeying to was Tanzania. Not impressive, I know, for we all consider Tanzania a step down in terms of urban sophistication from Wakirundannimilo Subcounty, Kooki.

The trip itself was horrible, fraught with perils and trials and treacherous hazards including my having to eat a rolex in Port Bell while I waited for a large an chaotic flock of nuns to get their papers in order. Port Bell, the entire place, that is, stinks of rotting leaves. And there is a constant hint of decomposing human in the air.

I shall not go on about the airport food and how exhorbitantly it is priced. I already mentioned that on facebook and for that was labeled a whoremonger.

I said “20k for buffet? This food had better taste like some sex.” Of course I was just suggesting my PG way that for that price, the food should give me an extraordinary amount of pleasure. Unfortunately my facebook buddies never miss a chance to run my self esteem into the ground so they spent the next twenty comments asking me what 20k worth of sex is supposed to taste like and suggesting that I was an experienced customer and therefore should know.

Tut tut.

I shall not belabour the part about how I was stranded at the airport because the organisation that invited me to Tz didn’t pick me up, and how I spent all my money on theiveing taxi drivers and a nice but not nice enough hotel.
I eventually made it to Coral Beach, and decided that, well, Tz is not that bad.

For those of you who have Flash Players (which should be most of you, though I can’t speak for all staff of The Monitor, and that jibe is aimed squarely at Phoenixlulu) fire up your computers and behold the splendour that is Coral Beach Hotel.

Yeah. I was in there somewhere, in one of the luxurious rooms, surfing wireless all night for free and thinking, “I should be mad about not being picked up and all, but this is nayiss.”

Excuse my Ugandan accent, but it gets stronger when I am around other African accents. The lower half of Africa, I noticed from my interactions with my fellow workshop participants, pronounce nearly every vowel as “eh”. It is very distracting. Even the Tanzanian dudes do it.

Tanzanians are a mystery in many ways. How they manage to change presidents without guns is a matter of constant bewilderment to most of the rest of Africa, but this, too, will stymie you.

 

Yes, but what the hell does it do? Is Foma engine grease or toothpaste?