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.

The truth, the whole truth etc.

One of the prime values of the professional news media is something called impartiality. It is held that an objective and disinterested approach to the news  is the best way to prevent bias. But sometimes objectivity and impartiality just get in the way and you find that you, as a journalist, cannot tell the whole truth of a story while being impartial at the same time.
For example, here is an impartial BBC news report.
The Somali Islamist group al-Shabab has said it was behind twin blasts which hit the Ugandan capital Kampala on Sunday, killing 74 people.
In a statement in Mogadishu, spokesman for the group Sheikh Ali Mohamud Rage threatened more attacks.
Police said the bombings targeted football fans watching the World Cup final.
You see how much is lacking from this report? If only the writers had been allowed to tell the whole, uncensored truth, then it would have been more accurate. As follows.
A spokesman for Al-Shabab, a bunch of cowardly scumbags  who, by attacking the defenseless and the innocent,  mock the profession of soldiering and blaspheme the name of the God they purport to serve, has opened his obscene maw and shamelessly uttered a confession, admitting that they were  behind twin blasts which hit the Ugandan capital Kampala on Sunday, senselessly murdering 74 or our brothers and sisters.

The statement was delivered from the safety of faraway Mogadishu, by a spineless hyena named Ali Mohamud Rage. We shall not demean the honourable title of “sheikh” by placing it in front of the name of such a disgusting rogue.
Police said the bombings targeted football fans watching the World Cup final.

Enter Title Here

Okay, web 2.0 new media Ugandan blogger comment on the events that have stunned our city, Kampala.

As you know, we woke up  this morning to news that two bombs went off at different points in our city and have killed 64 people by last count. Several more are injured. We don’t know who, so right now everyone is on mobile phones, on facebook, on Gmail looking for a sign that everyone else is okay.

Because of the location of the attacks, for once, it’s us, The Web 2.0 generation, that is affected, so we are watching our twitter and facebook feeds with trepidation, like any second now…

It’s too early to say who is responsible or why, and even though it is whispered abroad that it was a pair of suicide bombings staged by Al-Shahab, the Somali terrorist organization. We should know by now that the truth doesn’t get here that soon and that any conclusions now would be premature.

If you’re good check in and let us know. If you know who is not, tell us.

Why Beyonce Has Never Performed In Uganda

We have seen Akon, Wycleff, Shaggy, Joe, UB40 – international pop stars such as these flying all the way down to this Uganda to perform for us. Thank you beer and airtime companies. But the people we have been most interested in seeing are yet to appear.

We haven’t seen any hot international female RnB stars coming to Uganda to perform. Why is this? Why doesn’t Beyonce come to Uganda?

Our investigative team tracked the Destiny’s Child frontwoman down on facebook and held this interview.

  • Hello, Beyonce. We are very glad you could make the time to talk to us. Beyonce, why don’t  you come to perform in Uganda?
  • Where’s Uganda? Is it in Utah?
  • No, it’s in Africa.
  • Where’s Africa?
  • That’s where all the black people come from.
  • So it’s in Brooklyn?
  • No, there is a continent called Africa, after Europe and Asia and before Australia. It’s called Africa. Umm… Where Madonna got her  kid, David.
  • I thought David was from Brooklyn.
  • No, he’s from Malawi. In Africa. Look, have you watched that movie, Coming To America, starring Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall?
  • Who is Arsenio Hall?
  • The other guy in the movie.. Look have you watched it or not?
  • Yeah, I’ve watched it.
  • Now Eddie Murphy was a prince called Akeem, from a kingdom called Zamunda in another land, wasn’t he?
  • Yes, I remember. And he came to Queens to find a bride.
  • Yes. Well, Eddie Murphy’s land was in Africa.
  • Hah hah! Don’t be silly. That land wasn’t real. It was made up for the movie. There is no such place as Zamunda. Duh.

That is why Beyonce has never come to Uganda.

BHH recap. In advance

Suddenly there was a loud boom. IPS building exploded. This could only mean one thing:
Sleek and Wild had decided to show up by walking in slow motion instead of by riding a boda. Whenever they walk in slow motion, buildings have to be exploding behind them.
We all opened our specially-branded BHH umbrellas to protect us from the falling cinders and turned to the other direction from which a chorus of shrill and eager but off-key children’s voices rose. About two dozen tots clad in bitenge were forming a line from a limo on Kampala Road. “Yoo Ah Werokam! Yoo Ah Werokam!” they squealed in unison as Heaven, wearing the largest sunglasses in Kampala and a pair of Lady Gaga shoes, stepped out and proceeded to wave and smile and demur as if she was surprised at all the attention.
The paparazzi were flashing wildly away. Normzo got up and shot each one of them in the neck with his ever-present bow and arrows. “Snarl,” he said. He said it like that. “Snarl.” He actually pronounced the word.
Solomon King, most commonly referred to as Yes, THE Solomon King,  arrived in a horse-drawn chariot, causing equal amounts of delight and suspicion because YT Solomon King has been know to use robotic devices to  gull the easily misled.
Many of us nursed doubts that those were real horses, and some ventured closer to examine them.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Antipop, standing by the ass of one. “They are not horses, they are…”
That was the last we heard of Antipop, as YT Solomon King vapourised her with his laser vision. “She knew too much,” he explained, then ordered a Black Ice.
Nev and Rev had an argument about whether ABBA was an all girl quartet or an all boy quartet, and Jny23 excused himself to go and retrieve some casual sex from Nando’s. He came back looking guilty. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. Which is worse than just telling us what the hell happened.
Streetsider grinned in a dark, brooding, gritty way. He was on emergency furlough from  his latest assignment with Uganda’s top secret elite armed forces special services unit, the MAVI Seals. That’s why he had arrived in full combat fatigues. He even had the funny black thingies under his eyes. “I done seen some things no man shouldn’ta never seen,” he muttered into the middle distance and then sniffed a bit more coke.
It was close to nine when the woman without a link arrived. “Is it she?” asked Lady Sinister the Tipsyalcophobic. “Yes, it is she.” I said, because I never lie to Lady Sinister, though I would proceed to lie to every one else and tell them it was Victoria.
“Oh, my gosh. She has all the legs in the world!” LS mused.
Dee, Carlo, Tumwi, B2B and Chanel were not there and we didn’t know why. We looked at Streets who was now shooting heroin into his jugular and he simply said, “That’s classified.”
Ivan, who was wearing a cape for some reason, leapt onto the table, dislodging Mudamuli and and intoned like a graduate from public speaking class. “How many of you are registered voters?” Half of the people around the tables looked away bashfully. Ivan was indignant. “Do you know that it is your civic duty to vote? You are morally obliged to do so!”
“YES!!!” Shouted Petesmama. But it was not because she was agreeing with Ivan. It was because someone had scored.

“Okay. Voters Cards are here for 20k each. You can get two for 30,” Ivan concluded.

Celebrity Endorsement Time

It’s been a very long time since we did this. It used to be a grand tradition of this, the world’s longest-running Ugandan blog which keeps changing names. (If you look up you will notice that it is now called something slightly different from what it was called two seconds prior. If this is not the case, refer to the tagline. I lie a lot. )
Nevertheless, this gay banter must not impede our progress towards our nsonga. The crux of the matter that brought us to this auspicious post, wherein we revive the tradition of the Celebrity Endorsement!
  • Hello. I’m Drake. A rap star.
  • I thought you were a newsreader.
  • Why does EVERY SINGLE UGANDAN I ever meet try that joke?
  • I think Ugandans will keep trying to crack the joke until someone caves in from the pressure and emits a weak half-laugh.
  • Um. Heh heh.
  • There you go. Now, Drake, you are a rap star? If this is the case, how come I have never heard of you?
  • It’s cos you listen to people like Skyzoo and Sha Stimuli and Jean Grae and others who I left underground when I ascended to the mainstream via a label deal hook up from Lil Wayne.
  • That’s IT!
  • What’s it?
  • The reason I have never heard of you. You occur in the vicinity of Lil Wayne, aka The Abomination of Ages. My brain just, by reflex, refuses to admit any information from that benighted region of the general music datasphere. I can’t even tell if Nikki Minaj is hot or not. My brain just refuses to process anything to do with anything to do with Lil Wayne.
  • Weezy is…
  • Aka The Abomination  of Ages.
  • Weezy…
  • Aka The Vile One.
  • We are not here to talk about my boss or his insistence on tongue-kissing the employees. We are here to introduce a new blog.
  • I have misgivings about this. I don’t think the author would appreciate an endorsement from you, of all people.
  • You picked me at random, dude. No one’s to blame. Can I do this?
  • Yeah, I guess, we have no choice. Go ahead.
  • Tispyalcophobic.wordpress.com is a strange and amusing and utterly fascinating woman who will one day be a supervillain if we are not careful.  She will crush us all under a yoke of tyranny. I know this. I have seen it in her eyes. Here is an excerpt.
  • From a post about things learnt at Christian Beach Camp:

There are a lot of maggots in the zoo beach sand. They’ll make for your toe nails.
If you swim in a bikini at a Christian camp, nobody will stop you, but everybody’s eyes will be screaming *JEZEBEL!
All  boys are to be looked at as penisless, fangless brothers and having crushes marks you with the potential to become a whore on the inside.

I don’t mean to be a pain, but…

Waiter. Waiter.
Waiter, waddle on over here. Your duckfoot condition isn’t too bad. I need to discuss something with you. Now. Glad you could make it. I feared for a moment that the left one would give way and you would trip.

Now, Waiter, the issue is this juice. Here. Sip it. Yes. I said take a sip of my juice. Don’t look so confused.

Sip. Oxford says “drink (something) by taking small mouthfuls” but if you prefer Webster, that says “A small draught taken with the lips; a slight taste”. Both point you in the same direction. Imbibe a quantity of the contents of this glass. There you go.

Now do you notice something? I know I should speak only for myself, because I don’t know you that well, but I think it is reasonable to assume that neither one of us has ever licked the bottom of the drains leading out of UWEC.
And yet after sipping that juice, don’t you feel confident that you know what such an experience would feel like?

Waiter, I asked for juice. How you managed instead to construe that as a request for something that is so accurately redolent of zoo effluence I don’t know, but clearly, this deed needs to be undone. What shall we do to resolve the problem you have caused? Don’t look hopeful—me drinking this swill is not an option in play.

This is what you should do.
Ideally I should like you to take this glass, smash it against the floor and then use one of the jagged pieces to slit your wrists, but we have already seen how good you are at following instructions. I asked you to bring me juice, and you brought me a glass of sweat. Clearly you can’t be trusted to do what you are told. So let me just offer a general suggestion, hopefully if the target is large enough you will hit something.

Let’s try you going in there and returning with something vaguely palatable that has some quantity of fructose involved. That is your task. Please apply yourself. I know it’s hard for a person with such difficult feet to walk and think at the same time, but let’s try.