Urban Legend Kampala

This is a trailer. This is a taste. This is the little thing before the big thing. This is the whispery whistle before the full blast of the fart of one of the funkiest bowels of bloggery. This is the teaser for Urban Legend Kampala, the next step in the evolution of blogging.

First spot.

SleekandWild: a man who is so badass that he is actually two people and both of them are fraught with danger and concealed weaponry that massacres every single Monday.

Erique: the man who does the electric boogaloo next to real live electricity sockets, using live boogers extracted from his own nose and science, even after months of study, has yet to find out how one man can get so much phlegm out of one nose…

Streetsider: a man who says Motozela and makes it sound like a filthy word because he is so full of darkness that he can make any word sound filthy, a man who therefore eats Mountain Dew bottletops and shits out shuriken…

And finally, Myself, Mr Ernest Bazanye, a man who wears a full body boot so that when I kick an ass my entire being is involved in the process…

… have all come together to present some shit that will make your eyes quiver.

Because you know us. You have seen our work. You know what we are capable of.

And now we done gone and did it.

Bazanye.com is live

And finally, I am able, with no compunction, hesitation, second-guessing or remorse to finally tell you whasgono.

I’m not going to stop blogging at this dump here, but I am moving into other areas. Starting Teusday I shall be working for http://bazanye.com and http://urbanlegendkampala.com. The first link is live. The second is on the way. Ugandans are the ones delivering and you know how they are with keeping time.

Hope you will pass by, check out, like things, leave comments, link back, forward addresses, and we take and together we build this nation of ours.

Please, follow me. Let’s go. This way.

Chandler and Fraiser and the Agents of Fate’s Reckoning

You may perhaps have noticed over the past few so and so weeks a marked lack of activity on this blog. I mean, the fool comes here, changes the theme, notes the dark threat from commenter Pinky, (She said “get yo ass off the couch Baz n write somethin dimwit”) shivers, but then still somehow manages to leave without an update.

To steal a word I read the other day that I have been dying to use, you might be wondering, “Whasgono?”

I like that word a lot and shall deploy it again very soon.

Some of you haters out there might even be sneering at your screens saying, “You see? He thought he would never run out of crap. Well, there you go! Finally the crap is finished. The bowel, so to speak, is empty!”

To such people I say, don’t be so hasty. I know what I’m doing.

Actually, I know exactly whasgono.

The full story is that I am preparing to leave for a better place.

For the longest time, blogging has been a game, a toy, a hobby, but then, that has to end. I am about to become a businessman, people. I am about to start to take this crap

And sell it.

Let me explain. I was visited by The Agents of Fate’s Reckoning  one late night and they, (The AoFR) imbued in me the seed of an idea.

They said, “Baz, whasgono? Gwe, first visualize this object here, at the edge of your dream as morning approaches.”

The object was a small, thin, blue booklet with the words “The Adventures Of Chandler And Fraiser” written on it, a little cartoon, and a low price tag.

I realized when I awoke (typically about two hours after I get out of bed. Coffee hits the bloodstream, metabolism metabolises, the caffeine meets the blood, the caffeine says to the blood, “Whasgono?” and the blood accepts it in and finally the consciousness is stirred back into being) I realized when I awoke that this is what I needed to do: Write cheap little booklets about the adventures of Chandler and Fraiser.

Chandler and Fraiser are my two sons. Well, not really. I don’t have kids, (I swear it!) They feature occasionally in the column I write for the Sunday Vision. (Hit the link please. I want you to read that).

I have been working on a couple of booklets and trying to get them printed and put into shops in the hope that you will not mind picking one up one afternoon and reading through when you need a bit of a laugh (for it is intended that said booklets will be funny) and that when you do so, I shall earn enough money to for once have grown-ups airtime on my damn phone.

A Rap About A Cap.

I’m going to rap.

Yo. Ugh. Ugh. Check me out now. Ugh. Yeah. Yeah. Ugh. I lost track/ Of my brand new cap/ It was all black/ But cos my cheddar stack/ I went and bought another one back. Word.

See, I had cap that I had recently purchased and then almost just as recently lost. A day after I had bought it I was having tea with my lawyer (and simultaneously having tea with a very lovely friend of mine, but I say “tea with my lawyer” because it just sounds more impressive, and I do want to impress you. Deep seated issues, see. Fear of abandonment rooted in a traumatic childhood experience involving an owl, a roll of cellotape and my one-eyed teddy bear called Jicho Maponye.)

After tea I went home and found that I had left the cap at the café. When I returned to the café to ask for it the next day,  the waitress was adamant when she said no such object had crossed her sight and that those were entirely mine of simanyi where is my cap. She smiled nicely so I believed her. I am not assuming that she is planning to rock my new cap when she hits her kivulu this weekend.

But my head was now bare, so I thought quite seriously of just going back to the shop and buying a new one. I know. Who does that? Impulse shopping is one thing. Impulse re-shopping is a whole new recipe.

But I was feeling like a rapper. That is to say I was in the state of mind that allows one to be reckless with money so I seriously considered just going back to buy a new one.

Peer pressure was added to the equation and an innocuous “considering” quickly transformed into a fully-fledged “decision”. I was going to buy a new cap. What about. Do I sit here all day to earn feathers and leaves or do I make money?

Now that we have explained the rap, let us go on to discuss things you need to know when you go to Nakumatt Oasis Mall.

1. Go by boda. Don’t worry. Nobody will mind.

2. They check your pockets as you go in and sometimes it’s a dude who does the checking so get your telephones out of your front pocket. Do I need to explain this?

a) Okay. I assume you have two telephones. If you don’t, go to Nakumatt and buy another one. You need one for facebook zero and one for endobbo.

b) Now, the man waves his wand around and when it detects a phone, it beeps.

c) You remove the phone from the area (in this case, front pocket) and he waves wand over area again to ensure that there is nothing left.

Nakumatt guy might… well, um… this happened to a person I knew, not me. Not me… might put his hands there as well as waving the wand… Bad Touch. BAD TOUCH! I don’t want to talk about it any more.

3. If you are going to Mr Price don’t go there in a shirt you bought from Mr Price. It’s kind of weird. Yes. I was going to Mr Price, and I have a shirt I bought there and you do what? Sue me. I’ve got a lawyer.

4. If you are not part of the Java’s Boycott, don’t go to Java’s. If you want to sit down and write the next chapter of The Further Adventures of Chandler and Fraiser because you are planning to have two, not one booklet out and this advert was brought to you by The Audacity Of Self-Publicity ™, don’t go to Java’s. People say whenever you go to Mr Price you bump into people, but if you go to Java’s you bump into people more. Everyone goes there. It’s like the Old Park.

On Sunday I saw Francis Babu there. I must harp on about this. He is not as small as he looks on TV; he is a tall and extravangantly massive man and today, to add insult to expanse, he was wearing a white agbada that was flowing and flapping and billowing over almost half the place. He looked like a cloud: like condensation had taken place in the atmosphere of Java’s. I thought the man was going to rain on us. This message goes out to Mrs Captain Francis Babu. Please burn that agbada. It’s going to be hard to find enough fire, but you have to at least try.