Teach A Man to Cook A Fish

There’s a way we tend to think that the Patriarchy is our friend. Homeboy, It isn’t. It is mean and disloyal and pretends to offer privilege but under scrutiny, this privilege turns out to be a backhand pimpslap.

For one example, let’s look at cooking.

Men being equally human to women, have equal alimentary canals and equally require food, preferably cooked and delicious.

Patriarchy decided that we should not cook and left us to rely, even though we have the same capacity to deploy hands and gas and fridges, on someone else to cook for us.

When we were children this made more sense, but look at us now, grown adults who still don’t want to feed our own selves?

We are compelled to use our hands to tweet bile at the women who don’t come to our kitchen’s to do onions and tomatoes on our behalf.

Patriarchy is a pimp. It is going to play you whether you are the hoe or the trick (trick, or mark, is the term for customer. Apologies for the fact that I just reduced your moral status by making you one of those people who now know pimp terminology. It is too late now. Also, the pimp’s main hoe is called the bottom bitch. This applies even in cases of male prostitution. Let me stop now).

Gentlemen, or if you are not a gentleman, dude, not being able to cook for yourself makes you a child, not a man. Not being willing to cook for yourself makes you a spoilt and silly child. 

Get an onion, a tomato, a knife and an egg, then take charge of your own life.

Eat my son

In fact, don’t just make eggs. Make some malakwang, empombo, some Peking duck and a Caesar salad and invite friends and loved ones to the table. There is honour in feeding others.

Me? I’m out of gas, so invite me over as well. I’ll bring Cecilia.

Traffic Jams. I Can’t Drive With The Rest of You

Me who you see here, me I also have a car. Me who you see with my grey head perpetually ensconced in a Safeboda helmet, I also have my own car somewhere. I just don’t want to ride her.

My relationship with my Spacioza Wandira Carzibwe is like that of an ageing husband in a troubled marriage– I have not touched her in months. (#Sadsexjoke for those amused by such. I gat you.)

This is legit the only photo I have of Spae

Spae is useful when I need to make a long trip out of town: when I have to escape this festering slimeheap of wrecked hopes and broken dreams you arrogantly call a city and seek out the tranquility of the village or, if I have the monneeyyzz, Entebbe, but when it comes to moving around Kampala, my car is as useful as coffee grounds to a bad rolex seeker– you know– if he tries to use it he will just make everything worse and everyone involved will regret it.

This is because of a thing called the traffic jam.

A car is supposed to help you get from point A to point B, but if you elect to make the trip by car in Kampala you will find yourself immobilized by traffic at approximately point B minus x kilometers, with nothing to do but buy sunglasses and tissue paper for a couple of hours and wish you had just taken a jaj.

Traffic jams in Kampala, as an erudite and observant satirist (me) once said in his weekly column on Nilepost,

…in Kampala… Traffic is the same as parking, except that it happens in the middle of the road.

 

Traffic in Kampala is so frustrating, it makes me compromise my staunch, stubborn, otherwise unstinting loyalty to the National Resistance Movement and wish that the era of peace and development was never ushered in in the first place, because it ushered in an era of everyone developing the money to buy cars and put them on the road in front of me. 

Look at mbaatas

This stuff makes me almost wish Walk To Work had succeeded, just so Spae and I could pass.

But alas, the NRM is like herpes, here to stay. Me I allowed.

Research into the mathematics and science of the issue tells me that traffic jams are not caused just by volume exceeding capacity, they are not just caused by having too many cars. It is often the result of idiots doing stupid stuff on the road that has a backward ripple effect which causes a traffic jam.

Like all of our other problems in Kampala, it all starts with one moron. 

So maybe we should revert further back than just the pre-Liberation era, aka Obote days, when even Kampala Road itself was murram. I think the economy should entirely implode, the fuel trade should crash, imports of vehicles should end, Kiira Motors should transition into making solar powered laptop chargers instead, and the rest of us should go back to riding donkeys or, maybe, our cows.

I see no reason not to ride a cow instead of walking. After all, it can bear the weight, it’s going the same way you are going, it doesn’t need servicing, fuel is easily available for free and just imagine the look on a car thief’s face when the vehicle he comes to steal looks back at him and asks, “Moo?”

The opposite of traffic jam

Now, this the part that is going to completely sell you on the idea of reversing modernisation and plunging back to dark ages: have you ever seen rideable herbivores move in huge herds? Buffalos, elephants, wild horses, antelopes? No matter how many there are, those things still move fast; they never jam. This is because even the most stupid cow is smarter than a stupid driver. 

Jogging in Kyanja/Kisaasi Area: Why Don’t You Go Faster?

A common feature of the wildlife and landscape of Kyanja are the self-mis-proclaimed joggers, mid-thirties or early-forties corporati, fat and pudgy, clad in sweatpants and  sleeveless tops, very very expensive sneakers,  and an earpod sticking out of each lobe, shuffling up the pavement with such miserable energy that any quick count of kilojoules expended would determine conclusively that more exercise would be achieved if they just sat down and laughed at themselves.

If you are one of these and sensed the hateration in that paragraph, allow me to, first of all, say, “Hi neigbour! What’s good in the hood?”, and then offer this advice, as a neighbour, brother, and concerned citizen of our shared nation.

 You don’t deal with fatness by eating skinny toads. 

bend-1296747_640

If you are going to eat a toad, our ancestors advised, cham one as fat as you are. Meaning, go full tilt, go kabisa, go all out when you go for it. Don’t let these half-measures waste your time. This lazy shuffling with the barely mobile baby steps is not jogging. It’s skinny toads.

If you need help, and you do, I am very willing to assist. With your permission, next time I see you doing that pointless, lazy ambling, I can frighten and chase you. 

If you need help running, I will attempt to steal your phone. I will run at you with a weapon and shout, “Leta simu, gwe fala. Thug life!” thus prompting you to actually run because you are afraid of what I will do when I get your phone.

What I will do is not just take it and sell it like these amateurs. What I will do is to log onto your twitter and type things like “Not all men!!!” “Museveni iz teh best thing that evr happend 2 Uganda!” “I am jst about 2 taste my first rolex!!” and, of course, circulate dick pics of goat penises to all your followers via DM.

I am offering this as a public service to help motivate you to actually run.

running-watch-1246430_640

I often reassert that being fat is your prerogative. It is a good thing to have a good size — you have earned your rolls and your belly and you deserve respect for them. I, myself, aspire to be fat again, and once I stop being a broke loser I intend to inflate my torso to magnificent proportions so that all that see me see the bawse I will have become. 

The only reason for a grown-up to not be fat is if it is affecting your health adversely. That’s my word.

But if you don’t want to accept this, and must jog and become slim, like some Bondo-shooting tween squealing to mumble rap at Kenji’s then I will have to chase you.

Not because I want to help you slim down.

I just want you out of the way. I can’t lazily amble up my pavements with all you ageing hippos in the way.

 

Return of the Gangsta

 

Like Godfather of Harlem coming back and wandering around the hood, trying to get used to the new sights, the changes he sees from his one and a half eyes.

That was not nice. I should not have made that comment about Mr Whittaker’s eye.

I take it back.

Speaking of being back, let me clean up the place a bit. Modernise it, get a new theme, customise it and get ready to live here again.

Kanzigye, as we say.

Secret Origins: Muganzi The Magnificent

Muganzi Vincent B. Food Tech (Mature Entry) delivers his speech at the opening of campaigns for Makerere University Guild Presidency. He is expected to expound on his slogan “A Candidate With a Difference”.

Cough. Hem. Mic check, mic check. Hem. Good afternoon fellow students.

You have gathered here to hear the assembled candidates give their speeches asking you to support their bids for guild president. They are going to offer promises and slogans and smoke and shadows.

That’s them.

I’m not them.

I am a candidate with a difference. I am not interested in becoming your guild president. I stand before you today to announce my candidature for the post of Makerere University Guild Tyrant.

I do not seek to be elected representative of the people’s power. I seek to be supreme overlord of all you pawns.

The cape and British accent should have been your first hint.

There are various reasons why, instead of voting for these charlatans around me, you should instead surrender to me and call me your lord and master.

The first is that, well, you are Makerere university students. Time has shown over and over again that MUK students’ body simply does not have the intellectual discipline or the moral wherewithal to manage your own political affairs in a smooth and sane fashion. You are always rioting and cheating in your exams and getting unplanned pregnancies. You create nothing but reckless mayhem. That is why you need me. If you turn to page 12 of your brochures, where it gives a list of my aliases, you will see that I am Muganzi The Magnificent, Master Of Mayhem.

Serve me, Makerere, let me be your evil overlord and I shall lead you from reckless mayhem to proper, professionally-managed, efficient mayhem.

Cos that’s my thing.

That is not, however, the only reason I call upon you to cower at my feet in submission. There is another reason which shall be demonstrated by my assistant Igor.

Igor? Igor? Igor was supposed to be here standing next to this large object currently covered under a tarpaulin. Well, I can unveil it myself.

Behold: The DOOMSDAY DESTRUCTO-RAY MACHINE! Surrender or be turned to dust!

(Postscript. You won’t believe how old this post is.)

I Have A Theory

Mrs Ruth Kavuma Nvumetta is a Ugandan member of parliament. She represents the islands of Kalangala.
She was recently seen participating in the continent-wide reality TV show Big Brother Africa, prompting much distress. Big Brother Africa is known as a place for pointless social misfits to compete, if you can call it that, in idleness. They sit around in what is called the Big Brother House just scratching in their pants and rearranging their bits and hoping that, from this, they will gain some celebrity. The whole business is embarrassing and silly, because this isn’t dumbed down television: dumbed down TV needs to bend over and extend a telescope to see Big Brother.

This is no place for an honourable elected member of the third arm of government. How did she end up in there?

I have a theory.

I imagine her aide was rustling through her mail one day in her island MP office and came upon one letter. “They want you to visit the house next week, Hon.”

“We’re not that close, Aide.”

“No, when I say ‘Hon’ I mean short for Honourable. Not short for Honey.”

“They mailed me to invite me back to the house of parliament in Kampala?”

“No, this one is in South Africa.”

Oh, okay. So let’s fly to Johannesburg to visit the SA parliament.

Shwweeeee (That’s the sound of plane-flight)

And she found out too late.

Africa calling

Abid dropped science with his status message recently. His FB update told us that there wre more mobile phones than toilets in sub-Saharan Africa, according to statistics he had just encountered.

I’m sure his mind was blown, as was yours just now.

But you do get over the initial shock and horror that come from realising the implications of this information. OMG. How uneven development has been in Africa —the rich get all the mobile phones they need, but the poor can’t even get a toilet!

Soon you remember that this is facebook which, contrary to Timothy Kalyegira’s expectations, is a playground and not a forum for intellectual discussions of pertinent social issues.

And statistics are great playthings. Pliable and squishy and bendy and twisty; you can shape them into anything. It wasn’t long before Abid’s commenters were talking about the advantage of having more phones than toilets. One of them being that there is less chance of dropping your cell in the loo.

I am a member of the narrow-minded, conceited self-centered, privileged ivory-tower economy-elite minority class and have forgotten entirely what my poop looks like because I haven’t been to anything that couldn’t flush it out of sight and smell seconds after it was ejected in a decade.

But I believe there could be one thing I share in common with all users of mobile phones in sub-Saharan Africa. All several million of us… well, half the several million of us. We get tired when the other half complains that we didn’t take their calls.

You guys, they are mobile phones. That means we can’t pick them up every single time they ring. They are mobile, which means they move into places where one cannot take calls. Places like in transit while driving, in church, in office meetings, in bedrooms at night while their owners are asleep etc.

But I can no longer say I could not take a call because I was in the loo.

That’s statistically unlikely.

I’m Afraid We’re Gonna Have To Ask You To Leave, Sir…

No more facebook for Pastor Martin Sempa, or as I like to call him, The Most Electrifying Man In Sports Entertainment.

Why I call him that? Well, he is not exactly who he says he is, and if I call him that, then he is not exactly who I say he is either. I rely on trivial little toys like this to amuse myself.

It was the ultimate defriend-ment. It’s bad enough when one put-upon ex-buddy locks you out of their account after what you said about their date’s hairstyle in that tagged picture, but for Pastor Doctor Sempa, it was the entire social networking website that has chucked him. We logged on to read the startling news last week that the doctor’s account had been snuffed out. He would no longer be permitted to poke, like, post, comment or lol at anything.

This news it turns out may not have been be entirely accurate. I just did a search and Martin Sempa’s FB is still very much in situ, albeit with only one friend. Yes, only one. The wonders of mathematics. I am dicing and fencing with the idea of sending a friend request right now. I want to know what is going on, but not badly enough to be dude’s friend…

If he was or if he ever is kicked off FB it would probably be something to do with violating the company’s terms of service. When one joins, one is asked to abide by certain rules, including those that demand one refrain from hate speech and incitement.

Pastor Mar’n is best known as a moral crusader. Wait. That’s like saying that an earthquake is best known for ruining Ludo games by making the dice move by themselves. Pastor Martin is a vigorous and driven and very focused opponent of whatever he claims homosexuality is—he is so focused that the bio part, where Zukerburg invites users to “tell us a little about yourself”, he says, “Hates The Homos!”

I am not going to discuss whether being gay is right or wrong. We are all entitled to a fit or two of righteous indignation when we encounter those whose sins are different from ours. My interest in Pastor Sempa comes from the fact that when you autotune his voice and loop it over a techno beat the result is funky fresh.

But if he is entertaining at first, he quickly gets old, and becomes pathetic and then disturbing and then you feel violated from just having heard him. Pinky and The Brain is much better — It’s also evil and cartoonish, but it’s much more palatable.

When Busingye told us about the alleged banishment of the shepherd he didn’t particularly think he would miss the old man, but he was wondering what this meant for free speech in general. Busingye is that kind of man. He worries about what things mean for free speech. In general.

Hate speech is not permitted on facebook, naturally. As a privately-owned party it can decide what it will permit and deny, and you can’t bring your human rights wololo to a private party, but given the size of this thing…

Facebook is huuuuge. And it’s all over the internet. Every website you visit — the news, youtube, prawns (you know I can’t write that word in full for fear of attracting sprawms) blogs – they always have the little ‘F’ logo floating around somewhere. Even my yahoo mail is linked to FB, and though my gmail and twitter are not, I already have apps that force them to coexist with it in one consolidated stream.

I fear that in the end it’s going to look like this wild experiment in information anarchy that we call the internet has finally met its nemesis. Because FB is so pervasive, is so all over the net, it could virtually BE the net. And if there is a guy who controls FB, then that guy will essentially control the net too.

It’s scary. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have Rantin Martin than that.

Verbatim vs Verbatim. A few words

Our Hero, as usual, minding his own sepikies, is accosted by the little girl from next door. The following ensues.

  • Hi Baz.
  • Hello Lizzie, it’s been a whi… What the &#@$!!!ing *&^*%$!!!alacious *&^%&#*!!!eplical ^%#@$%!!!ck!
  • Baz, seriously, the language. There are three-year-olds present.
  • Lizzie, allow me to say two things.
  • As long as they can be typed without asterisks.
  • The first is this: Lizzie Puh-leese. How do you, of all people, get to tell me or anyone else to mind their language? The reason we started calling you Screaming Lizzie in the first place is because of those furious tantrums you liked to throw at the maid. Since you learnt how to talk they have taken on a whole new dimension. You don’t shirk away, do you, from exhorting her to do very gruesome things with and to her most private portions…
  • I have an excuse. She provokes me.
  • You routinely cite orifices that are only otherwise mentioned in Biology Ph.D theses.
  • It’s her fault. She’s so stubborn that profanity is the only way to get through to her.
  • The other day you told her to @#$% her $%#^ in the @#$@#$@!%!
  • Yes, but…
  • …while $^%&ing her !#%^&
  • I know but…
  • … with a &*(%#@!
  • You said you had two things to mention Baz. Maybe we should get to the second.
  • Oh, yes. The second thing is actually the first thing, in that it is the one that caused me to erupt into such fiery exclamations earlier. It is the sight of you, jarring at the best of times, now made suddenly more terrible—Lizzie, what have you done with your face? Did you pluck your eyebrows?
  • Yes, I did pluck my eyebrows! You like?
  • Lizzie, you are three years old. You cannot be plucking your eyebrows. It’s wrong.
  • It’s not wrong. It’s hot. Stop being lame.
  • I’m not being lame. I’m being mortified. It’s freakish.
  • It’s not freakish, it’s glamourous. Get with the programme.
  • That’s not the programme. That is a virus corrupting the whole Operating System! You look like an amphibian!
  • I don’t look like an amphibian, I look like a star. I’m gorgeous.
  • You are not gorgeous, you are THREE YEARS OLD!
  • Baz, you and those things of being stuck in the olden days of 2004.
  • What’s with kids these days? Why are you all in such a hurry to be video hoes? The other day I saw a ka-tadpole at Garden City trying to walk in high heels. Of course they were too big for her, reason being that there is no shop that manufactures high heeled shoes for people three feet tall.
  • There is nothing wrong with a little glamour once in a while, Baz. Nothing wrong with a little sparkle…
  • Not unless  you are, and you are, barely post-natal. You are supposed to be toddling around barefoot with a running nose and flies in your bututwa. Instead you are plucking your eyebrows. You  know what? I blame Lady Gaga. This is the influence of Lady Gaga.
  • Lady Gaga is fabulous.
  • That guy is leading a whole generation astray.
  • Hah! I knew it. This whole rant was just an excuse to take a cheap shot at Lady Gaga. Lady Gaga is not a man, you hater!
  • He is a man. A dude. A fella. And the day I learn how to vandalise wikepedia pages, I’ll prove it.
  • Why don’t you aim your cheap shots at Rihanna or Beyonce? Why pick on the white girl? It’s racism!
  • He cut off his penis for fame and fortune! That’s worse than when black African people bleach and forge foreign accents!
  • Okay, Baz. I have never said this before, I know, but you have a point.  The truth is that I didn’t have my eyebrows plucked. That idiot maid let me sit too close to the stove when she was cooking and they got singed off. These two strands are all I have left.
  • I smugly accept this victory and magnanimously offer sympathy
  • And as for Lady Gaga…
  • Yes?
  • Fuck him.