The Pursuit of Happiness

I am masquerading at Garden City that I hear “in the field gathering information”. Lol.

I am drinking a cappuccino, interestingly enough. An odd choice on such a hot occasion, but I was falling slowly and surely asleep and I needed to banish the encroaching temptation to just jump back into the car and drive back to Kyaliwajjala where I have a bed.

When the waitress was preparing it, I was joined at my table by AutoPaul, a friend who is on his way to London. He sat down and we discussed whether I really wanted to ask him to bring back a Nokia 5530, or Baby Zu or Sinayo. That is the stripped-down nothing-but-the-basics version of the famous Zuena, or Nokia 5800 and it just went on sale in the United Kingdom. It’s  more attractive than it’s ancestor in two ways. One is that it is cheaper by far. A paltry 500,000 shillings. Incidentally, that is the same amount of money I paid for my very first mobile telephone back in the days. Ivan was still a tadpole back then but me I was already connected. You may be cooler now, but I was cooler first.

GA628
This is Eric, the iPhone of those days

The second thing that makes the Baby Zu to the Zuena as a whole Rihanna to a mere Beyonce is the fact that it includes technology that traps Wifi waves from the ether and gathers them into its memory card, so I don’t need to carry my faithful and much-loved but, let’s face it, heavy as fuck laptop with me to Chomas or to Good African every time I need to download a new podcast or mixtape. I can just  whip out my phone when I find myself in an area where these wifi waves reside and command it to find the podcasts or the zshare mixtapes.

That is Baby Zu in two colours
That is Baby Zu in two colours

I can even get it to call up blogs, twitter, facebook and IM in a way that is superior to the methods my current phone uses and thus can I stay in touch using Yahoo Messenger with friends in outside countries. Like Cheri, for example (There has never been a more boldfaced hint in the history of wordpress, Chan.)

Thie proggie is slightly problematic, though, for those who didn’t bother to click the link, I don’t want to go for it until I have lusted after it with an energy that is practically perverse. As it is, right now I’m just checking her out across the room and thinking she’s kind of fly.

One of the rules of Thingism, the life philosophy that seeks fulfilment through the accumulation of material goods, is that you can’t just want it: you have to bleed for it. That is the only way you will know satisfaction from having it. If you have never heard of Thingism (or the Pursuit of Shit) here it is in a nutshell:

Thingism (Or Shitism):

Are you unhappy? Unfulfilled? Do you feel like your life is a meaningless waste?

Do you feel overwhelmed by the futility of it all?

Then you need to go out and get some shit (Material things).

Get new shit. Get fancy shit. Get expensive shit.

Get trendy shit. Get highly-advertised, designer-labelled shit.

That is what you need to give your life the illusion of meaning and purpose.

The more shit you get the more shit you crave in a never-ending-cycle of greed and lust!

You will never feel lonely again, once you start running after shit.

Get you some shit.

Because getting Shit. It’s the meaning of life.

You want to object and bring up the old retort about the old man who spent his life gathering riches but never found what he was really looking for and died miserable and alone. That is because what he wanted was love. Instead of buying love, he went out to buy Bentleys. Misguided hoarding is not Thingism.

For example, if what you really want is a reason to value yourself as a human being, and you go out to buy House of Dereon garments in the hope that this will give you what you inwardly desire, you are wasting your money and time.

Because there is NO REASON to value yourself as a human being in the first place. We are all worthless. Every single one of us is a pointless piece of crap crawling from fear to shame to regret, and the only reason we don’t just stop moving once and for all and just die on the spot is that, in addition to those, we also have greed and envy and vanity, the only things that motivate us to get out of bed in the first place.

And to gain true satisfaction, these are the urges you should feed. To feel true fulfilment, you need to feed your greed, and your lust and your vanity. You won’t get happiness, but happiness is like life itself. Life is the absence, nay, the postponement of death.  To live is to delay your demise for just another day.  And happiness, similarly, is merely a state of temporary distraction from the natural state of hopelessness that is the lot of every man, woman and child.

man, what was in that cappuccino?

Parts Of The Newspaper That Didn’t Suck

In this week’s Sunday Vision:
Resident sexist pig (male) writes on women who hit bars in large cliques:
Many ladies cannot hold their own, so they drag their friends along for the ride. They may not even stand these friends, but it wipes away any sense of vulnerability that may be lurking at the back of their minds. Ever seen a lady by herself at the bar? Does she scream “I am woman, hear me roar”? No? There you go. The confidence usually builds as the number of ladies swells and then when they hit their peak, they are invincible.
See, from invisible to invincible in seconds.
The New Vision website team have no fucking idea how to break paragraphs so please forgive them.
You must have asked yourself many times: “How do I move from being an average guy who these women just ignore to being one of those really sexy dudes who make them quiver and swoon?”
Ernest Bazanye (for it is I) has the answer
The next day we scoured through the area for cheaper eating joints. The days for fancy words like ‘restaurant’ were gone. It was now down to ‘eating joints’ or bufunda. We got a dilapidated one hidden somewhere best described as “for the sake of your reputation, don’t tell a soul you were here. Have a nice meal”.
Erique Mununuzi remembers his campus days.
I’m also shocked. I also thought he was still in S4.
And finally, my recipe for exploding pudding

In this week’s Sunday Vision:

Resident sexist pig (male) writes on women who hit bars in large cliques:

Many ladies cannot hold their own, so they drag their friends along for the ride. They may not even stand these friends, but it wipes away any sense of vulnerability that may be lurking at the back of their minds. Ever seen a lady by herself at the bar? Does she scream “I am woman, hear me roar”? No? There you go. The confidence usually builds as the number of ladies swells and then when they hit their peak, they are invincible.

See, from invisible to invincible in seconds.

(The New Vision website team have no fucking idea how to break paragraphs so please forgive them.)

Also in SV

You must have asked yourself many times: “How do I move from being an average guy who these women just ignore to being one of those really sexy dudes who make them quiver and swoon?”

Ernest Bazanye (for it is I) has the answer.

In the magazine, Erique Mununuzi remembers his campus days.

The next day we scoured through the area for cheaper eating joints. The days for fancy words like ‘restaurant’ were gone. It was now down to ‘eating joints’ or bufunda. We got a dilapidated one hidden somewhere best described as “for the sake of your reputation, don’t tell a soul you were here. Have a nice meal”.

I’m also shocked. I also thought he was still in S4.

And finally, my recipe for exploding pudding, also billed as Bad Idea

(P.S. Lulu, you see how creative I am today? You see? I told you.)

Gunsinze, gunsinze

By now I am sure you have all heard the news: Sunday Vision is the Buganga Government’s big fat bitch.
After a lot of trash-talking, bluff-calling, saber-rattling, under-the-breath cursing and, (because this is the Mengo Establishment we are talking about I believe it is safe to assume),  a lot of witchcraft, the State-owned newspaper capitulated and ran a front-page apology.
It went: “Okay, Dammit, Okay! You win! We’re sorry. Okay? Happy Now? Sheesh!”
Some Bkg for those in Kenya and other places where they are not as well informed as us normal people: A couple of weeks ago the Sunday Vision (a state-owned paper) ran a story claiming that the Kabaka (or “king”) of Buganda (a tribe in the centre of Uganda (a country.) ) had obtained a loan using the title deed of Bulange, his main palace, (where his government’s offices are found) as security.
The king, so went the story, hasn’t paid off the loan yet, and the title deed to the seat of the kingdom still rests in the hands of this minister.
The Buganda Kingdom Government (also known simply as Mengo, a Swahili term that refers to the gaps found in the teeth of the ministers) demanded a retraction. The Sunday Vision people said they will offer one only over their dead bodies.
“Fucking retract that shit now!” demanded Mengo, in a strongly worded memo drafted by their lawyers.
“We shall retruct nothing! Kiss our ass!” responded the Sunday Vision who, first of all insisted that the story was true and, secondly, are very prone to misspellings and violations of grammar rules.
But after more huffing and more puffing and after threats were leveled against Sunday Vision staff and newsvendors, and a boycott of all New Vision products was called, Sunday Vision said, “Well, if you put it THAT way…” and apologized.
Now, we don’t know whether this was because the bottom line was at risk, or if it was because, honestly and truly, the title deed was never used for a loan, but what I do know is that we journalists don’t care that much about facts these days.
I say that to say this.
I recently got a call from Name Withheld. Name Withheld is a guy who writes rap songs with lyrics that don’t rhyme. I have pointed out this shortcoming a few times in my articles, to his chagrin.
But he has a chest from here to across the road; he spends a lot of time lifting weights in gyms, so when he called me and told me to stop writing about him, my first thought was that I cannot let anyone intimidate me into compromising my journalistic integrity. I cannot bow to threats. Well, he didn’t actually threaten me. He just asked me to stop making jokes about his music, that’s all. But as a journalist I cannot let the subject of my story determine what I write! I was about to draft yet another cheap shot at him then this happened.
Now that we have established that I bat for the team that is quick to back down, I have had to can it. Now, let me get a call from Lady Bizzle…
.
I

By now I am sure you have all heard the news: Sunday Vision is the Buganga Government’s big fat bitch.

After a lot of trash-talking, bluff-calling, saber-rattling, under-the-breath cursing and, (because this is the Mengo Establishment we are talking about I believe it is safe to assume),  a lot of witchcraft, the State-owned newspaper capitulated and ran a front-page apology.

It went:

“Okay, Dammit, Okay! You win! We’re sorry. Okay? Happy Now? Sheesh!”

Some Bkg for those in Kenya and other places where they are not as well informed as us normal people: A couple of weeks ago the Sunday Vision (a state-owned paper) ran a story claiming that the Kabaka (or “king”) of Buganda (a tribe in the centre of Uganda (a country.) ) had obtained a loan using the title deed of Bulange, his main palace, (where his government’s offices are found) as security.

The king, so went the story, hasn’t paid off the loan yet, and the title deed to the seat of the kingdom still rests in the hands of this minister.

The Buganda Kingdom Government (also known simply as Mengo, a Swahili term that refers to the gaps found in the teeth of the ministers) demanded a retraction. The Sunday Vision people said they will offer one only over their dead bodies.

“Fucking retract that shit now!” demanded Mengo, in a strongly worded memo drafted by their lawyers.

“We shall retruct nothing! Kiss our ass!” responded the Sunday Vision who, first of all insisted that the story was true and, secondly, are very prone to misspellings and violations of grammar rules.

But after more huffing and more puffing and after threats were leveled against Sunday Vision staff and newsvendors, and a boycott of all New Vision products was called, Sunday Vision said, “Well, if you put it THAT way…” and apologized.

Now, we don’t know whether this was because the bottom line was at risk, or if it was because, honestly and truly, the title deed was never used for a loan, but what I do know is that we journalists don’t care that much about facts these days.

I say that to say this.

I recently got a call from Name Withheld. Name Withheld is a guy who writes rap songs with lyrics that don’t rhyme. I have pointed out this shortcoming a few times in my articles, to his chagrin.

But he has a chest from here to across the road; he spends a lot of time lifting weights in gyms, so when he called me and told me to stop writing about him, my first thought was that I cannot let anyone intimidate me into compromising my journalistic integrity. I cannot bow to threats. Well, he didn’t actually threaten me. He just asked me to stop making jokes about his music, that’s all. But as a journalist I cannot let the subject of my story determine what I write! I was about to draft yet another cheap shot at him then this happened.

Now that we have established that I bat for the team that is quick to back down, I have had to can it. Now, let me get a call from Lady Bizzle…

You coulda been anywhere in the world, but you’re here with me

And now for something completely different. We have with us a special guest. A very special guest. The most special of guests in the history of visiting. The Queen of Blogistan herself. Ladies and Gentlemen, your favourite blogger and mine… Take it away Sherry Darling!

DJ, gimme beats

My house is flooded. So I will be lodging here for today. Don’t worry, I have permission from the landlord and landlady.

Thank you BS and Carsozy who tagged me. And oh, Carsozy, your blog won’t take my comments. Your spam bank must be full of my comments. Check. Was mainly saying, No. 6 (on your list) Rocks.

First off I wanna thank the organizers for awarding the Honest Scrap gong to me. All the nominees are great enough and everyone is a winner (But I went home with the gong). I’m so pleased with myself. I wanna thank my God with whom all has been possible. My parents, family and friends, thank you very much for being there for me and finally but not least importantly, I wanna thank blogistan. Without u, I would not have made it to the shortlist of the Honest Scrap awards.

(Carsozy, I hope I have bragged enough. I can go all day on demand.)

So, for the honesty, here we go.

  • I’m having trouble contending with my age. In June I strike another year off my numbered days but I feel very inadequate. So much I haven’t done that I had planned for this milestone. Tsk. I would gladly rewind age.
  • I used to think that beer, lager, ale, cider (apparently, they are different) tasted like fish urine until I punched a beer with lemonade. The best punch EYVAH!!!! Try it, u will thank me. ¼ lemonade to ¾ beer etc. But please don’t punch Guinness with coke. Ruins the whole thing.
  • I just realized how possessive I was over my parents. Imagine. On my pa’s birthday I called him up at 2.30pm my time (5.30pm) his time to wish him an happy one, but, there was some noise in the background. I asked where he was and he said NANDOS!!! Instantly, I went into panic mode. “What is my father, a man in the middle of his 5th decade doing at Nandos? That place is for holiday makers. Is my father looking for teens?”

Then he handed the phone to my mum. Phew. What they do together don’t worry me. Even if they were both hunting, as long as they are doing it together…

  • I have been called a lesbinimps before and to date some people still think I was one in my past life. Now I have nothing against lesbinimps but I have never been one. Just because I shared a bed with my kukuyu in boarding school and are/were very close don’t mean we were swapping saliva (Damn u Red Pepper). No. We only kissed lightly on the lips and had a few pecks on the cheeks, eyes and foreheads. Nothing more. That is how we greet in our circles. A hug and a light kiss. None of that tongue action or throat games. We are just too close for comfort. Mr Mukiibi should deal with it. So, to answer u, Apr9, Emi, Normzo and sleek…no. Nothing went down. And lol to Sleek about that keys thing. I heard twas forks that did the trick.
  • I own only 2 skirts in my life. See, I am blessed with a pair of toothpicks that can’t pull off the whole skirt look. And besides the stick thin size, they are as if crooked. Like kibaliga. So heRRi no!

If u ignore the airport hangar I call a forehead u will be able to focus on the stilts. I wonder how I stand on those “legs”.

cheriskirt2

Brenda (BS) my legs and Mrs Patel’s butt have put on weight.

The last time I wore a skirt was some time last summer when I was dared to wear one by my friend Jimmy. I got his wager. This time I woke up in the morning to find nothing for me to wear and I hate ironing when I’m in a rush. So I got the next best thing. A skirt I bought impulsively on ebay. It’d been hanging neat for like a year. I had nothing to do so I threw it on.

My colleagues made fun of me the whole day. Mbu I looked like man in drag. I honestly found it hard to trek around the office with my skirt. But I liked the feel of wind beating on my “legs” so I mos def will be buying skirts.

  • I am a coward. If that is an appropriate term. Those that know me know that I am a gangster and Mafia rolled into one. But that is just a front I have. Deep down I am a wimp. I can’t look at any distressing pictures of read a sad or sorrowful story without breaking down. Sometime back I read a story about a teenage boy who hanged himself in his mother’s house because he was fed up of being bullied for having a disability and ginger coloured (Darker blonde) hair. I broke down on the train and a complete stranger offered me a whole pack of tissues. I was embarrassed even. So from that day, I just turn the page.

And with that, ladies and gen’lemen, I leave u in peace. Now I will be a good guest and not spoil this chance that I have over at Mr Bazanye’s. I have not finished the “soft drinks” offered.

But before I leave, this one is for Erique, wherever he is. Even chicks may find this “useful.”

chan1

I’m sorry, but that is all I can come up with now. This blogcks is clearly not kidding.

I tag those who haven’t been tagged yet: Landlord Baz, Three, King, B2B, Mudamuli, Esq and Cute face (Di).

Around of a plause ladies and gentlemen. I will categorise this as “How to beat the blogcks.”

Who shot the Sherriff?

Has anyone else noticed the jarring disconnect between New Vision stories and New Vision story headlines? Is it just me or does it sometimes seem as if the two are in different realms, the story in one parallel universe where one thing is meant and said, and the headline in another, where another completely different meaning is uttered?

Take for example the recent story headlined “Barack Obama Survives Assasination”. Now, I may be a fastidious pissant with tighty-whiteys that hunch up into knots of disconcertment whenever I see the word “everyday” used instead of “every day”, and I understand that in this situation one needs not to attack the grammatical windmill full tilt, but rather, and rather obviously, one needs to loosen up. Loosening up is the wiser option when one’s underwear is in knots.

But when I read “Obama Survives Assasination”, I am sorry, but I begin to think Obama was assassinated and then survived. 

I will assume, though, that what they meant was that the fellow survived an assassination attempt, not an actual assassination—because people don’t survive those, not even Obama, though the whole world thinks he is Superman.

From the story, however, (here http://newvision.co.ug/D/8/12/677333 ) it sounds more like there was no actual attempt, either. At most there was a plan to lay a plot to lead to an attempt that may, if successful, have resulted in an assassination. An assassination which would only be successful if the victim did not survive.

Well, any frowns that were inspired by the death and resurrection of Obama were reversed by another later front page story: “Catholic Church to Probe Gay Priests” it said.

No, that one is not on the internet. You have to take my word for it. 

Ah Donwannabeyanithin Otherthan Mey

Rock star Gavin Degraw was in Uganda recently on a charity mission. He was here to help distribute mosquito nets. Insert reaction.

Tumwi speaks on   and Reuters reports.

You may have said, “What a nice man Rock Star Gavin Degraw is.” Or, if you know who Gavin Degraw is, you might have said, “OmgomgomgGavindegrawomg!!!!1111one!!”

Some people would have felt a twitching in the back left corner of their cheek. A slight sense of discomfort. And then wondered why this sort of thing would make them feel uneasy.

This may be what Tumwi referred to in her post on the subject. I know Tumwi well enough to never take it for granted that I fully understand what she is thinking, so please, I am not speaking to Tumwi here. I mostly speaking to myself, actually, because I also felt that unease when I saw American celebrities do this type of thing in Africa.

We do know that there is a huge problem. Malaria, refugee camps and poverty are words that spring out of the Reuters story and buzz around your poor head like, well, a swarm of mosquitoes. We do know that something needs to be done. Certainly, by someone. But who and what? Him and This? A popstar And a People Magazine photo op?

It cheapens it somehow, don’t you think? It mocks the massive suffering of thousands of human beings when it is converted into a gold star on the shirt of a practitioner of the most trivial, most superficial, most hollow artform of the modern age—pop music.

And you could be offended by that—the idea that refugees are being used to boost a pop star’s ego.

Of course that kind of depends on who Gavin Degraw is. If he is a self-centred egomaniac whose publicist tricked him into doing this, and he was shocked to find out that he was not going to be living in a Marriot suite in Nakivale, and he swears when he gets back into the States he is going to throttle that publicist, then some outrage might be justified.

But I have heard the songs Gavin Degraw has written, however, and I am inclined to think otherwise. I think Gavin Degraw is a person like everyone else, who on hearing that there were people in need of help, was glad to do whatever he could. He is a regular guy who had the time, money and opportunity to lend a hand, and so he did what any of us would do.

So I can’t be mad at Degraw. Or the UNHCR. The rationale behind their act is unimpeachable. 4,000 kids in this camp are treated for malaria every month. And in refugee camps malaria is different. It doesn’t just mean a couple of days off work. People die from it. If only they had enough nets in the camps. Can you imagine? A net costs like ten dollars. Do you know how many Americans just blow ten dollars every day on junk? They just live their lives, buying cokes and big macs, watching MTV and adoring pop stars and never giving a thought to the kids in Nakivale mu nsili.

Now, if we could turn their attention from the pop stars to the camps for just a bit, they would know that for just ten bucks… wait. What if we ask Gavin to come to the camps. He could… he could RAISE AWARENESS.

It’s like a cunning trick to dupe American teenagers out of their cash.

But if it works, then why not do it? 

Is that feeling still there? Yes it is. Because what happens after the star goes to the camps is not a sudden awareness of the profound suffering of the people there followed by a corresponding commitment to do something, even if it is just posting ten bucks to Nothing But Nets.  What follows is a sickening spectacle.

Salma Hayek visited a maternity project in Sierra Leone, where she found a lady who could not breastfeed her own child. Hayek asked if she could take over, given the fact that she, Hayek, was still lactating herself.

The point of the programme was to make Hayek’s fans aware of the plight of Sierra Leone mothers. Instead the news hullabaloo that resulted spoke of Hayek’s boob, Hayek’s motherliness, Hayek’s grandparents in Mexico who also breastfed other people’s babies, the gall of Hayek to just take someone else’s baby just like that. And in all that noise I couldn’t even find a mention of the baby’s name, let alone the mother’s. 

Now, once again, I chose to believe Hayek did it for the same reason I believe DeGraw did it—the same reason you and I would—to help. But I can understand if when scenes of your people’s suffering are turned into a footnote in a celebrity trivia story it bothers you. 

Is that it? Is that the feeling? It’s  the tabloids, the silliness of the whole concept of the entertainer as a hero, the whole notion of celebrity. Blame TMZ and Perez Hilton, but hey, Degraw brought nets, so big ups to him, right?

But there is something else. 

Degraw is the one who brought the nets. A bunch of Americans connived with Degraw to seduce his fans to part with ten dollars each and the nets arrived.

Degraw fans in Uganda were not consulted. Utterly ignored. It’s as if they didn’t even know we existed. Could it be that we feel slighted? Or that we feel guilty that 4,000 kids got malaria last month when we were blowing our ten dollar bills at Effendy’s drinking Alvaros while listening to I Don’t Wanna Be over the speakers, and we didn’t even know.  There is something wrong with this system. It’s our own country right here. We should not need American pop stars to help our awareness of the refugees in our own country rise; we should know about it already. Sympathy, education, patriotism, reading the news should be enough to get us informed. 

Maybe we are offended that Nothing But Nets didn’t call us, or maybe we are guilty that we sat here waiting to be called. But there is something there that doesn’t feel good. 

I don’t know what conclusions to draw here. I’ll just echo Tumwi. Something doesn’t feel right.

My President is Black

The president of Kenya broke millions of hearts around Africa this week when he announced that he is off the market and unavailable. “I am married,” he said. “To one wife.” And he pointed her out. The red-eyed harpy with the manic wig and the glass jar containing half-eaten testicles in her hand.  

A commenter on  thinkersroom.com reports that Mwai Kibaki’s relationship status has changed from “Complicated” to “Lord, Help Me!”

Maybe Kibaki shouldn't have put a ring on it
Maybe Kibaki shouldn't have put a ring on it

 

The president of Guinea Bissau died. Shot to death, interestingly enough. Analysts agreed that it is a very dashing and glamourous way to go, and that assassinations may be coming back into fashion. Coups are back in a big way! In the past five years  CAR< Chad, DRC, Equatorial Guinea, Mauritania,  Togo, Cote D Ivore and Guinea Bissau itself have done much to rekindling the trend of African governments being forcibly taken over by the military.

 

Farewell. I am off to meet the ancestors
Farewell. I am off to meet the ancestors

 

The President of Sudan is officially a wanted man. An outlaw. The ICC have issued a warrant for his arrest. Time magazine, part of the Evil Western Imperialist Media Conspiracy, published this

Last month, National Security and Intelligence Chief Salah Gosh said that anyone in Sudan who tries to execute the warrant will have “his hands, head and parts” cut off. As for the international community, he warned, “We were Islamic extremists, then became moderate and civilized, believing in peace and life for everyone. However, we will revert back to how we were if necessary. There is nothing any easier than that.”

You haha.

 

That’s all I had folks. Now you know why this sort of thing is Ugandan Insomniac’s job, not mine.

How To Get off Facebook. Using Baby Joe a.k.a Joseph Kiberu a.k.a a famous musician

Facebook is like a psycho ex who can’t let go. Not only will she keep everything that reminds her of you right where you left it, mbu just in case you ever come back, but I have discovered that she is liable to barge in on you when you least expect it and just start swanning loudly and embarrassingly around the place, acting as if nothing ever changed between you two, as if she has completely erased the memory of the break-up, carrying on as if you two are still together, introducing herself to everyone as your girlfriend, showing photos, telling stories of you together.

 

I deactivated my Facebook account a couple of weeks ago because it was taking up too much of my time. Guess what just happened? It just upped and reactivated itself.

 

Over the weekend I just started receiving notifications in the mail, telling me who has updated their photos and who has gone from “in an open relationship” to “single” as if that is not to be expected.

 

It’s not that I am not interested in the lives of my friends and loved ones; I really am, and I really do care. I care too much. That was a reason I left Facebook. Because once I start reading these things I find it hard to stop and that is jeopardizing my future as a famous and wealthy writer. I mean, Rita, you are my peeps to death, but I CAN’T GO BACK!

 

I was brave in the face of this. I had the courage not to plunge right back into that old addiction. I also had the very little airtime, so that helped. Instead of checking up on all my friends, I stepped away from Facebook, strode into Google and demanded everything he could tell me about “leaving Facebook”.

 

Which is when I learnt that the process is a lot more pernicious than I had originally thought.

 

You see, I believed that they just store your information in a dormant state, to gather dust in a filing cabinet down in the basement or something, where it does no actual harm. Instead I was to learn that cases of spontaneous reanimation are not uncommon. I am not the only one who suddenly found my account had popped up out of the grave unsummoned. I heard of people who have spent months and even years trying to actually leave Facebook.

 

There is even a group on Facebook dedicated to advice on leaving Facebook.

 

Well, I just figured out how you can do it. You need a Duff Nuttz.

 

There is this fool called Joseph Kiberu. He is also known as Joey Kibs and, in addition to that, trades under the name of Baby Joe.

He is a musician who lies on his Facebook page that he is massively popular in Uganda, on MTV Base and in the world.

 

He has pictures of himself posing next to fancy cars, himself wearing sunglasses while morose white women cling to his shoulder, himself smoking cigars and in other ways himself trying to be Master P.

 

Joseph Kiberu recently plagiarized a Sunday Vision article. He just cut it from the Vision site, and pasted it into his note and claimed he had written it himself. Anyone who objected had their comments deleted, anyone who insisted on objecting after deletion was de-friended.

 

I was quite incensed. Not just at the plagiarism (it was Angela Kintu he plagiarised, not me, after all.) or the bull-headed insistence of trying to cling to the claim that it was his work, but mostly at the stupidity with which he was going about this. I mean, moron please. It’s like stealing trousers that don’t even fit you.

(  http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?uid=42565274964&topic=6183 ) That’s the link.

So what I did was I set up an extra account, under the names of Duff Nuttz, posing as a Rocko Atiss myself. And to illustrate my page, I used Baby Joe’s photos. Him with his car, him with his hoochies, him with his cigars. And in all of them I claimed that it was Duff Nuttz posing with his car, hoochie and cigar.

After populating my page (using a lot of bloggers incidentally as unwitting pawns) with friends, I hollered at Baby Joe to alert him of what was going on. I sent him a message along the lines of “I’ve got your pictures, bitch!”

Baby Joe Kiberu then reported Duff Nuttz to Facebook and because Duff was in violation of their terms of service, they terminated his account. It’s gone. Duff Nuttz has been removed from the site.

 And so there you go. If you want to leave Facebook, that’s how. Just steal photos, claim them as your own, and then send Joey Kibs (spelt with one ‘b’ remember that) an annoying message and the company will do the rest.

You’re sick of hearing about Obama, aren’t you?

I know some – I won’t name them. You know them—some cynical, hoity-toity, intarekcho too-cool-for-school bloggers who will snub their nose at the mere idea of blogging about Barack Obama. Unless it is to say that he is overhyped and overblown and that they cannot discern how his ascendance will influence the price of whatever domestic-use commodity they feel inclined to cite, they will shun the very mention of his name. 

Obama, puh-leese!” they will snort. “What’s the big deal.” With a full stop to indicate, as usual, that it is not a question, but is a statement.

Well, I am sorry. I am not on that bandwagon. I love me some Obama. I look at the man on screen and turn darker as the envy burns higher and higher. I wish my country had one of those, too.

Yes, he is a politician who is being treated like a rock star, but that is not a shortcoming on his part. It is not a fault that he is a supernova of sex appeal, a man so blazing hot that when the smitten interns start tumbling out of the closet by the dozen around 2012, each clinging to a stained item of clothing, there will be no impeachments at all. Just more envy.

The question we need to discuss is this: How will he affect our lives in Africa?

I have some ideas.

Don’t close Guantanamo bay. Leave it open.  With only two inmates. Lil Wayne and R.Kelly.

I'm embarassed just looking at him
I'm embarassed just looking at him

I am sure we all agree that we need to get Lil Wayne ejected from society and removed to a place where he can no longer do harm. Some misquided people may complain, but history will absolve us.

 

Eyes that will undress everything. Even your dog. Even in just a photo.
Eyes that will undress everything. Even your dog. Even in just a photo.

 

 

And if R.Kelly can be interred in a place where there are no TV cameras, meaning he cannot stare at our daughters with his slimy porny eyes album after album after album, Africa and the entire world will be even more grateful to President Obama.