The Revolution. Man Shawls!

On Monday, when it rained all day and was as cold as the evil and mean as your cruel little heart, there were reports we heard that men had been sighted on Kampala streets wearing shawls.
I don’t know where they got those shawls. It is my hope that they did not buy them for themselves, but rather, that they stole them from women they live or work with.
At last men have found the courage to break free from the oppressive societal brainwashing system that has kept us cold and freezing.
Too many times I have walked these mean streets, these damp, cold streets, freezing and  dying inside. Without an ass. The ass lies abandoned on a floor somewhere because, well, it has been frozen, as expected, off. Have you ever tried to walk without an ass? Not easy.
I don’t want to brag, or maybe I do, but this was actually MY idea. I started this gangsta shit…

Two words: Man-shawl

August 2007

Wait. Think about this first. Let’s think about this.

What are our alternatives? Jackets, sweaters and coats. They cover the chest and arms but they leave the head and hands wide open to the cold. That may be fine for duh stoopid guys, but those of us who do the work of educated men, we need our heads to think and we need our hands to type—we need them to not be frozen numb.

I’m telling you.

Why should women be the only ones who can adequately protect themselves from the cold? Let’s do this, you guys. Don’t see it as a problem, see it as a solution.

The only way it can be an issue is if only one guy does it. But if we all get together as one and we all do it, it will be like just another fashion trend, and no one guy will be singled out for persecution.

Come on. Who’s with me?

lolbes shawl modellolbes shawl model

The Other View

Darlkom recently blogged some delightful photos of Kampala Road at Dawn. You can see them here.

After she did that, I found myself with a bit of time to waste. So, presenting, things you don’t see in Kampala at Dawn because you are asleep.

1.

Godzilla.

2

A spaceship. The Starship Enterprise, no less

3.

Who watches the city at dawn?

4.

Women picking up guys. Sibyangu

Her:  So, do you come here often?
Him:  Yes I’m afraid so. I have a drinking problem.
Her: Well, it’s my first time here. I must say, so far I am beginning to like it.
Him: Oh. Well, I am not the waiter, in case that’s what you were thinking.
Her: Of course you’re not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t serve me.
Him: I am afraid it does. They are very strict about who gets behind the counter.
Her: I tip generously.
Him:  Should I call a waiter?
Her: Forget the waiter. Tell me, so, what’s your name, handsome?
Him: No, it’s not hansom, it’s Geoffrey.
Her: Is there a Mrs Geoffrey?
Him: No, women don’t take to me for some reason. I just can’t seem to ever get any attention from them. No matter what I do.

Things are getting desperate now. This dwanzi is not clicking. Time to spell it out.

Her: Geoffrey, would you like to have sex?
Yeah, but with who?

Movie night at Church

Pastor Mar’n Sempa is known not just in Uganda, but all over the world as one of the leading entertainers in the field of homophobia. Other homophobes are blatant and simple, but not Sempa—Sempa is an acrobat, a maestro, a man who wields his hatred as an abstract artist wields his brush. That is to say, often you will not understand the details of what is being portrayed, or why or how or even if at all, but you get the general point.

Now, you don’t get to the top by being complacent. You have to constantly find new ways to practice. Innovation is essential for survival in his profession, and that’s what Sempa is really good at.

This week he astounded us all by revealing a move that is as audacious and stunning as whatever the hell that shit was Picasso used to do.

Oh no he didn’t!

Oh yes, he did.

If this does not destroy homosexuality forever, I don’t know what will.

Verbatim Vs Verbatim In The Aftermath

In which our  hero is visited by our villain one afternoon.

  • Baz…
  • Yes, Lizzie.
  • Baz…
  • Yes?
  • Baz?
  • What do you want?
  • It’s 3:00pm. Put on a pair of fucking sunglasses. Hah hah! But you Ka-man, your ki-blog post about R.Kelly was so funny. I read it and I laughed so hard I shook all the ribs in my little torso.
  • ….
  • Well, say something. Don’t be rude. When someone compliments your work, you should reply in some way or the other. I recommend replying bashfully in my case. You know I am a very hard woman to impress, so if I say that I liked something you wrote you should be very humbled.
  • The thing that tied my tongue was not a lack of responses to comments about my work. It was the spectacle of you, a creature so young and small that you don’t even remember hotmail, let alone a world before gmail, suddenly spewing such dirty words.
  • What language? What dirty words? R.Kelly? Don’t be so judgemental. It’s the man who is obscene, Baz, not his name.
  • How do you even know who R.Kelly is? Did one of the Teletubbies go solo and feature on a song with him in a bid to capture the urban audience?
  • The teletubbies are not singers, Baz. That shows how little you know about leading world entertainers.
  • They make strange sounds that make no sense to me but nevertheless seem to thrill other people to no end. When I watch kids rise to heights of glee watching Teletubbies, I imagine that must be how people who hate rap feel when they see me listening to a Public Enemy tape.
  • What’s Public Enemy?
  • A rap group.
  • And what’s a tape?
  • A tape is what they put music on before CDs.
  • What’s …
  • Don’t tell me you want to ask what CDs are. You cannot possibly…
  • What’s CDs?
  • Okay. It’s what they put music on before iPods.
  • So you would download your music onto a CD and before that you would download it onto something called a tape?
  • No, Fetus. Oh my exasperated gosh. You know what? In fact, yes. That’s exactly what we used to do. Let’s leave it at that. We downloaded our music onto a tape from the internet of 1990. They had not invented colour screens for computers yet, so we surfed in black and white and we used a real mouse which had to be trained and fed because they had not yet invented a mechanical mouse. You would point at the place you wanted to click with your finger, then the mouse would enter the computer through a hole in the side and go to the part inside the machine to switch on whatever you wanted.
  • By the way, Baz, and tell me the truth…
  • First get off my lap. You don’t know me like that.
  • Like what aate you man?
  • Like someone I don’t despise.
  • You looooove me, Old Man, and the sooner you admit it the better for your blood pressure. Now, tell me the truth, did you also enrol for expensive training courses to learn how to use Windows? I hear in those days people were taken to the cleaners, just to learn Windows.
  • Me? Please. I never went for computer classes…
  • You just told me that you thought the mouse was a live animal. But I can understand why you would be so callow. You were young back then. Baz, I just came to say hi and to deliver a present.
  • I thought you just came by to mock and abuse me. I don’t want your silly present. What can you possibly give me but headaches and sharp stabbing jolts of pain in my neck?
  • I can give you this specially limewired-for-you MP3 of Summer Bunnies by R.Kelly.
  • You know I love you don’t you Lizzie?

Would you believe this?

Deleted above is the reason why days I why I work late into the night these days. I be doing very secret but very very very awesome things that I will stop short of describing here because, well, it’s for your own safety. The less you know.
So I was up at two-thirty am on Saturday morning when there was a knock on the door.
I’ll stop here to elaborate for my friends who are just joining us from Kololo. Here in Uganda people don’t have bells at gates that are rung to alert them of visitors. Here in the third world visitors stride right up to the door and, because there is no bell, they just utter these little punches on its surface.
And this is what happened. I wasn’t that surprised to see who it was.
It’s these associates of mine from America who think that when they come to Uganda they can just show up at my place without any warning and just expect me to have a sofa (though they prefer to call it a “couch”) for them to crash on.
I withdrew the most withering of all my glances from its holster and fired it at the figure in the doorway.
“Bob,” I said.
“Hi, Baz,” he grinned.
“Bob?” I repeated, still glancing.
“Yes, Baz?” he said, withering a bit.
“Bob, it’s almost three a.m.” I said.
“I know and…”
“Take off the fucking sunglasses.”
He explained that he had been performing a concert and that is why he was wearing shades that late in the night– to protect his eyes from the various hazards of stage performances. He apologized, but the thing with him is that his apologies don’t mean anything. I will never forget the time the cops found his stash of home-made porn, some of featuring suspiciously callow-seeming girls. After railing about the injustice, the raw, brutal, injustice of his unfair victimization by the authorities, Bob just switched to the use of a hard-drive instead of tape.
“So, what brings you to town?” I asked, by way of small talk as his bodyguards began to tidy up the sitting room, striving to find a sofa somewhere underneath all the scattered socks and books and stuff.
“Work,” he said. “You know how it is. They just call you one morning and tell you you have been assigned to some half-assed, podunk, hole-in-the-wall, rat-dick, flat-footed, fleabitten, rag-chewed, monkey shit, throwaway, dirtbag country – and no offence, Baz, I know it’s your home and stuff— and you have to fly there and work. I was so pissed off. For this I’m missing the grammys!”
“Were you up for a Grammy?” I asked.
“Nah. But I heard that Miley and Taylor were going to be there and they won’t return my calls. I need to talk to them and since their fathers got restraining orders…”
“Bob I don’t really need to know the details,” I cut him short.
“Anyway, that’s that. They sent me here on assignment. There weren’t any drugs though. Would you believe in this lame ass, duckwaddle, scumbucket country they can’t score you any good crack? I swear! There are homeless people in Chicago who have no problem getting crack, but here, I’m the richest person in a stadium of thousands and thousands and I was freaking sober! All I had in me was a few jolts of some weed and glue I got from some dude named Tamilly or Kamilly or something and I think he ripped me off and just gave me some fucking tea leaves. Anyway, so there I was in the middle of the show, totally bored and sober and I could see all these women in the front row who were like 32 years old who had done their hair up in pigtails and were carrying teddy bears and schoolbags and screaming at me saying, ‘Me am in S2!’ whatever that means and I figured, ‘Screw this! Really, who will stop me if I jus walk out?’”
“So here you are?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t go back to the hotel. The shows organizers want to kill me for bailing in the middle of the show,” His red rheumy eyes looked melted without the sunglasses. “So I came here if it’s okay, can I crash here?”
I got out my leger and wrote him an invoice. The money plus an autographed CD single of Summer Bunnies, cos that’s my JAM!