Happy Birthday Cormac

I woke up to the sound of the hoover, steadily humming away in my Living room. I slept in the spare room and watched AMC’s Walking dead in HD on a 120inch display screen. As the two most precious women in my life soundly slept in my Master bedroom, I untethered my mind to wonder off into the dark rooms of the abandoned old prison building that Rick Grimes and his outfit cleared out, goring putrid, reeking flesh and shattering deformed skulls of the zombies that roamed wide and apart. As the huge HD pictures danced before my eyes, I cautiously walked the old corridors of block C, taking prudence not to cross paths with the undead…The squalid respectability of the old prison house, its dank floors and the sordid walls made my skin crawl. The consistent purring of the projector fan finally hypnotized me into a trance-like sleep until that sound, the sound of the hoover in my sitting room got me up. Switching off my home cinema apparatus, I sauntered into my sitting room feeling like Merle Dixon in the Woodbury after a day’s chores of executing governor David Morrissey's directives. Soon as the eyes of the most important women in my life met mine, I could see the mystery slowly unfold in their faces like the mystery of the Halidon in the pages of a Robert Loodlum book…Their smiles daunted my spur-of-the moment ignorance as they spread wild across their beautiful faces. The sound of their voices as they sang me the old song jerked my soul off its hinges bringing me to my heart’s knees. For so many years I had heard and known this song but it was only until today that the sound of the song mashed in potent smiles and virtuous voices dug deep into my fabric and stirred up the most moving and all enveloping emotions within me. I could have died and resurrected and lived through thousand lifetimes in that moment. My mind instantly spurred into a whirl wind. I was moved because she remembered my birthday, she made it worthwhile to the detail, she touched me in places no one had ever touched and she brought out those forlorn tears that most men spent a life time without experiencing…I tasted those tears on my tongue before we started kissing. Beyond all reason and common sense, we were swooped off of our feet into flight. For a moment we were racing beyond 100km/hrs in this super car that we call kiss-tsubishi before my daughter Tisha bought us to a startling crash stop. Whimpering, grasping for breath and a little more of that exhilarating ride, we slithered off into the bedroom while my baby girl Tisha started work on eating my birthday cake. Clothes went airborne. From the corner of my eye I caught sight of a pillow grow wings and fly from the bed to the floor. As the colors of the rainbow started to form over the horizon of my already blurred vision, I started to speak in tongues filling silos with illogical claptrap. I gave up my life and asked Jesus to take the wheel…HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY EVER!

She-devil

She is the devil. The devil hooked on just romance. Our eyes met and I broke eye contact. It was in that steamy room crawling with patrons from the middle class walk of life. Beads of sweat unrestrainedly dripped from the face of my colleague Sil who was panting with exhilaration at the prospect of taking her to the floor. I was only a boy then, only having kissed a virgin once in the heart of the night during the turn of the century in 2000. I was weak, I had jelly in my joints and balls between my legs. Balls in my gut were what I only knew I would grow up into, only in the niche of time. The Devil is what I called her until she introduced herself to me as Zainah. If I turned back the petals of time and revisited that moment today, I would see her across the room and I would probably walk over to her with the Swagger of Ken Lukyamuzi and holla at her like, “Hey bitch, whats up?” But how can I? It’s 1999 and am sweating in my palms, racking my mind on what to say next to the devil, rather Zainah. That Bitch Zainah-i mean the devil bled with solemn grace. A flower still and yet to dance.
When the DJ then played Whitney Houston’s ‘ Where do broken hearts go’, I dug deep in my gut and came back with a proposition, “May we dance?” She never answered me. She never intended to. She giggled and walked away. Just as the bitter pill of rejection started to intertwine itself around my spineless lump of flesh, she turned around and motioned me to follow her with a naughty pointing finger. As we danced, she had her fingers running wild on the small of my back. She moaned and hummed along with Whitney for an instant that seemed to hypnotize me into the cold abyss of sexual desertion. She then whispered in my ear…”The flower” Taken a back, I jerked to a jolting stop in my dance and asked ”flower?” She answered, “yes, flower” licked her lips and added ”my flower is wet and warm. And it’s tight” I was lost for words. Years later, I’ve found myself mentally revisiting that moment in my waking moments and occasionally in sleep. One day in particular, travelling back to Kasese from Kampala. I had taken a window seat in Blangiti bus when my mind took another one of those trips to that moment again. We were heading towards Muhokya from Katunguru and the view of the brown savanna grasses of the Queen Elizabeth National park delicately accentuated with green shrubs indulged my fleeting memories. With my mind oscillating between the devil and the beautiful Kasese scenery, I could barely point out the devil’s heaving bosom apart from the park’s receding skyline over the lake George’s shoreline in the horizon. I momentarily caught myself dosing off as the bus’ diesel engine droned and cranked away. Aghast to sleep beyond the slay of a young raft- I saw the menace of my deepest joys, despite the dangling of my spirit, crying for the somber dreams I once had. But forever in the darkness with which I professed, these words so true as to be revered, the love which I hold dear still shines before my crying eyes. What must I do to see her again?

He Lives in Her

There's a void where you once were, and it's growing. I sit up late at night and count the kisses we once shared off my finger tips and I get so dizzy because I keep going around in circles. Only that one last kiss counts. My breath is heavy and labored and I could swear I can taste pain on the tip of my tongue. I ask my heart questions in hope that my mind can stay silent enough for me to hear my hearts’ response but then the silence gets even too loud and I can hear the loud swishing sound of blood running through my veins. Have you ever needed silence so much that you wonder why the world is so loud? My Daughter Tisha once asked me. Daddy, why do still waters run deep?” I remember mumbling a jumble of incoherent explanations that left me feeling like the quack doctor out of Jeremy’s Clinic making prescriptions to an illness whose prognosis he could barely comprehend. Do I know why pain is more profound at night? If you asked me that 23:00hrs on a Friday night at Amnesia in downtown Kampala, I might have a myriad of explanations to make- Imagination arises and subsides in a symphony of balance that is the dawning of our lives. However, on the dawn of a new ex, am dumbfounded. I couldn’t know any more than the proverbial good looking girl who took a bus out of Kigali and ended up on the mean, dusty,raunchy streets of Kampala between Kalerwe and Kamwokya. Isn’t that Kifumbira on the Google maps? Well, this Rwandese girl came to Kampala in search of green pastures and ended up in a slum. Every night, she went out and worked at this bar in Ntinda, the void in her grew bigger. Hard work and less rest did nothing to bridge the gap. Instead every new day gave way to the expansion of the void. Days on end, she stood at the taxi stage and watched automobiles come and go and she wondered if any of this life’s wealths would ever fill the void in her. She could never afford any of life’s finer things so she binged on alcohol and cigarettes and the emptiness on the day after was even worse than before. One day she meets me at the counter of the fast food restaurant at Kisementi and we took suspicious looks at each other before we exchanged numbers. As the seasons of the sun changed and new shades of green dawned on the lovely bougainvillea in my compound, I helped her get a job at Chicken Tonight in Wandegeya and her life seemed to change like the pages of my book as I write this piece. She rented her own little place along Sir Apollo Kagwa road but the emptiness still remained. The void haunted her each time the night treated her with its own peculiar shade of silence like a big pile of poo. We all know by now that silence brings with it the pleasures of a lost cause and the horrors of an empty life ahead. Like the flotsam and the jetsome of humanity tossing back and forth along speak road, she decided to fill the void between her legs with something. First, her fingers gave her so much pleasure until the feeling faded into just a simple tingle yet life's insanities mean little Fruitcakes. Then she bought a dildo and next she got a boyfriend. In the beginning one boyfriend was sufficient and then as was with the first finger experience, she got another boyfriend and another and another. The silence grew even louder every time she wasn’t alone. With time, she grew frail and got sick even more often and her performance at her job wasn’t good. She lost the job and so did she her boyfriends. For once again she was lone, again, on the road side watching people drive by, board and alight from taxis. Life had once again slowed down for her to take another look. She woke up the next day on a hospital bed with no one around her except a note in her clutch bag from the drunk driver who rammed into her at the roadside. She was so cold and alone and in her soul, it was snowing. I’ve come to find out that Life as we know it, isn’t precisely what it is. The lights don’t look so spectacular when you look at them from a prostrate position. Friends come and go and the void within can’t be filled by anything material. The Rwandese girl gave her life to Christ on her hospital bed and for an instant before the lights went deem, she realized that this is all she had been looking for all her life. It rains so heavily on the damp souls that are lost out there in the streets. Salvation comes at no cost. Christ lives on.

Ipsum Idiot

I get this bubble of rage. I go wild. I feel like imploding. I don’t know how to control myself. It happens too quickly and next thing I know is that am blind. Pitch blackness. Am groping wildly in the cold, gaping abyss of disorientation. I slam my right foot on the brake pedal and the 3Litre petrol engine shudders against the violent grip of the Brembo brake pads on discs causing the piece of supreme Japanese engineering to slightly veer to a halt. The dust slowly settles and I start to regain my sight. My heart rate is way over 10,000 beats per 5 seconds. This makes me feel like a humming bird. I flex my fists over and over again and without thinking….oh, how do you think when your brain has switched places with your balls? The trouble with balls is that they will pump adrenaline in all the wrong places in your body. Balls will give you wings but you will not take flight with balls wings…those wings will only have you wobble into hams way. With my balls up my head, I pull out my red and yellow rigger hand gloves as the fool in the old UAL silver Toyota Ipsum hurriedly jack-knifes into the space ahead of me and slobbers out of the car in a whirlwind of fury. I love fools. Fools see in black and white only. I had regained some of my sanity after noticing that the damage on my right fender could be fixed without much trouble. I step out of the car and I could see steam wafting out of the fool’s nostrils. My babe in the passenger seat starts to scream something but I couldn’t hear what she was trying to say. I slightly duck down and emerge with a strong right hook that meets the fool’s chin in mid air and spins him over 45 degrees sending him sprawling on the ground. That made me feel like Moses Golola after knocking out Titus Tugume. I felt like Mike Tyson in 1985 after knocking the crap out of Hector Mercedes. Heaving and hankering for more action, am disappointed that the fool promised a lot less than he could deliver. I wanted a lot more action to compensate for the trouble he caused. Unleashing an avalanche of more blows, kicks and spits would have been worth the Ugx. 250.000 loss the fool had caused me. I wanted to knock his jaws back and stuff his jelly-filled head up his ruggedy ass but here I was standing over the drooling mutt as he fizzed and sputtered like a small ugly fish out of water. What is it about the Toyota Ipsums that gets even the most cultured men thinking like taxi drivers and conductor’s? A survey completed by the Helping Hand foundation last year revealed that 80% of the accidents recorded statewide were involving Toyota Ipsums and Toyota Noahs and of this lot, 60% of the after accident investigations revealed that the Ipsum and Naoh drivers were in fault. The Northern by Pass in Kampala has become the beehive for untold carnage arising from the folly of Ipsum drivers. My heart goes out t all those innocent Ugandans that have lost lives, limbs and livelihoods from the Ipsum drivers idiocy. I spat my fury out on the chicken-crut-piece of garbage Ipsum driver under my feet and slammed the door of my Elephant ride and sped off. If you drive an Ipsum or Naoh, watch out for me. My left hook is your nemesis and until you learn some manners and display acceptable courtesies on public roads, I will knock you the fuck out!

Angel

I may side with the angels, but don't think for one second that I'm one of them. However, Brenda Cormac Akera is! In the first year after Campus, she worked in a small office by herself. Her office opened into a space where two young service technicians worked (in their 20's). It was May in 2010, the days were regularly hot so she was wearing a short skirt and some kind of top and she had a leather covered stool to sit on.
It was Monday morning, VERY quiet in the office, and I guess the boys forgot she was just around the corner because they started talking about how they pleasure their girlfriends. She wasn't consciously listening - She was doing paperwork - but I guess her subconscious was taking in the conversation. After an hour or so, when I arrived at her work place to pick her up for a lunch date. When she went to get up from the stool, there was this GOD-AWFUL SLURRRP! : Oh the stool was SOAKED, her dress was SOAKED, Myself and the two boys knew she must have been listening to the erotic insights and somehow that got her wet. I have never seen a girl so embarrassed in my life after that! Neither they nor I ever mentioned the incident again. I miss you Brenda!

Where we started

I was lost in the crowd. I was soaking in my own perspiration. I was groping in a shroud of dust. The adrenaline super-charged crowd was wild with mad disjointed chanting. I was deaf to all else. The burden of my own body weight on my spine had quadrupled. I was in panic but I was glad to be there. I was excited to be part of the crowd, part of the action. I was glad to be in the arena. I was part of the history that was being made. From my standing point, I could hear the announcer make the remarks that preceded the announcement of the winners. For an instant, he said something and the electric crowd went nuts! I was prodded forward by my friend Douglas and I plodded onward. I stumbled over the steps on my way up the podium. Once on top, I felt like a man emerging from a thicket. I felt like Kugonza Solomon Businge after that speech in UTC Kichwamba.

Finally I now knew where I was! I was back to where we started. I was back to the tiny, dusty town of Kasese. That small town that once beamed with life and activity. The mines in Kilembe attracted an influx of workers from all over the globe. Kilembe with its unique weather and ecstatic scenery was once my home when my late Dad ran the show for Shell Uganda in Western Uganda. The Queen Elizabeth National park was the backbone of Kasese’s beauty and global attraction. From anywhere in Kasese, you would never miss the mighty Rwenzoris that hovered over Kasese like the gigantic Kimera would over its little ones. We were the stars of the township. That was long before the Kasese Cobalt Company was closed down. Long before the growing population had encroached on Park land creating the now shanty residential area called Kidodo. We were the boys that got the youth in our little township screaming encore at the end of our shows. We were the boys that made history at Umoja Pub in Kilembe every Xmas holiday. Kalisya Nelson was the dude that always got the ladies sucking lollies on stage….Baluku Conrad was the elaborate eye candy and them ladies always brought him flowers and choco’s on stage. Katya Robert was the reincarnation of Iddi Amin at our shows’ entrance points. He took care of our financials. Tumusiime Mumin and Kudra, Emma Usher and Brian MJ, Dora Litia and Annete Kiitha….The crowds were still screaming loud and waving hankies and scarfs in the air when my boys and girls finally joined me on stage. We got the standing ovation as multi colored confetti rained down on us. We were back were we started. We had travelled back in time and we had finally gotten the recognition we almost missed. We were honored and rewarded for our hard work, achievements and contribution towards the good our little community of youth in Kasese during our days. Each one of us now stands on their own walk of fame star underneath our feet. Yes, we made it. Yes we did!

Thingamabobs

And so Jacob wrestled an angel all night long. Look at the so called strong men of today, Obama, ISIS, Boko Haram, Mugabe,Floyd Mayweather….they fight women, the senile, patients and incapacitated men just to fill their own egos with the illusion of greatness. I look at the so called game changers today and weep at their folly and ailment from delusions of grandeur. They are so small, so insignificant, inadequate and pathetic. I listened to Mirundi on a talk show the other day and he sounded like an old, bitter grandmother raving and ranting about the opposition and the Buganda Kingdom. Jacob however, displays to us the true demonstration of a real strong man. The Bible says, at the crack of dawn when the angel failed to pin him down, the angel said “Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed. Who in this country could give us a similar replica of Jacob’s matchup with the angel? Besigye? Lukwago? Listen up, Beisgye just like many more of our generation have done more talking than actual positive/constructive implementation. He put up a fight against the ruling regime two times in a row to no avail. Is that worth calling a legacy as the media has so often put it? So must we christen Besigye as a hero now? To what end? Is a man who has caused so much financial loss to the many unsuspecting hard working Ugandans in downtown Kampala through his uncouth riots worth calling a hero? I read the other day that Bruce Jenner is up for the Arthur Ashe award of courage this year which brings me to the inkling that have we human beings upgraded to alien realms of existence to the extent that courage as we know it is no longer what it really is now? Oh Come on, Is the president and his regime any different? Did they beat Besigye fairly and squarely in the polls? Of course I do believe they did but come on, is my belief a dogma? Imagine the proverbial catholic being told that the universe isn’t quite exactly as disclosed in the book of Genesis. That in fact, aliens do exist, that several other galaxies other than our own exist. Why would some people feel obligated to fight for God in the name of religion? Why would you feel so offended if some other person of a divergent faith said a few things contrary to your own dogmatic conviction? Is that strength? Is that what we now know as strength? Someone said that Lukwago is one of the most prolific and resolute mayors the city has had so far! I look at him and wonder why his cowardice and antagonism isn’t seen by anyone else. I snigger at how he curmudgeonly hangs at Beisgye side at every one of those now run down demonstrations they engage in. Does Lukwago have his own personal views about politics and the city short of Besigye’s? I must be overly conceited to have all these views on all these people and so broad a subject like politics or faith of which am no specialist or consultant. Am just a young man who happens to be seeking a better understanding of the current state of affairs in our land. Do we have strong men in Uganda? I do believe so. But what is a strong man riddled with fear? So many of us have misconceived strength in quasi-brave acts performed by men out of cowardice. I guess Jacob looks down on our generation and scratches his beard in profound exasperation. The days are colder in the rainy seasons but the hearts of men inside are even colder than our coldest days. Mean, sick, calculating, overzealous, god-forsaken, weak, foul mouthed and puppet-oriented men roam the most high places of administration in this country. When you hear them speak, they sound like Goliath yet deep within, they are little, scared and spineless gay thingamabobs!

Silent Cries

I overheard her say,”oba I love him, oba not?” She looked sad and happy at the same time. She was with her girlfriends. She had one of the most beautiful lips a woman her age could ever have but behind the beauty of the lips lay a smile that concealed a whole world of pain behind its beautiful façade. I couldn’t imagine how much this girl had lived through so far. Her soul was the pale skyline that she stretched across the horizon. I was taken aback by her happy-sad look. “sometimes” she said and smiled while adding ”oba I be there and I ask myself if I made the right choices or not” One of the other girls with her said, ”me, as long as the dude does me well under the sheets and gives me mula, ebyo of right or wrong tebimataringa” I remember back in 1999 when we went on a geography trip as a student and we stumbled on a mischievous tourist on one of those nature walks in Kibale national park. The breeze was slow and crispy underneath the lush green canopy of lianas creeping among the branches of the centennial trees that cast their withered silhouettes on our moving bodies. The dying leaves on the forest floor crackled underneath our feet. Christie. Christie was her name. She said, “ Dan, have you ever looked at yourself in the eyes of an angel?” With her opulently gorgeous smile, she shuffled her feet and said, “am an angel, if you can run after me and catch me you will see yourself in my eyes” then she sped off along the narrow forest path. So half of me rode to the mountains and the other half soared high in the winds to a place where the angels had fallen, the soil gagged and choked on their wings. The look on these two girls’ faces both drew pictures on my heart-Suave, delicate strokes from their little painter’s brushers on the canvas of my heart . Oh Christie, when we had to board our school truck and return to St Leo’s college, my life was left hollow and ashes filled the gorge of my within. The enchanting perfume of the forest floor and the bleak, cold breath of hers still haunts me...That left me wondering for years later, Will this pain ever pass?

Three Tit bits

She was my best friend’s girl friend. She never complained that he spent too much time at the office, that he worked more than 12 hours a day. She never pushed him for more time. The orbits of their lives had been completely separate. Their vision of the universe was totally different. It was the death of Kajumba Grace Amooti that altered their paths. She had kept them colliding all these years. With his loss, their obits began to intercept, at Amnesia, Garden City, Total-Kavule, Kalerwe market and Watoto Central. Still they maintained their integrity. She never pushed Cindy Tamale on him and he never pushed his work or his kinky fantasies on her. And yet as strange as it seemed, he found a little pain with his sex to be exciting. He fell asleep in these thoughts. His dreams were about Vanessa's prime piece of cunt and her round booty bouncing off his unforgivingly hard dick. Vanessa on the other hand had turbulent dreams. The fear of bad times flooded all over her. She felt the pain of being dragged by her hair. Of having plates broken over her head. The cord sting over her back and the echos of the distasteful word “bitch” escape from between clenched teeth….


I pulled over to the side and switched off the headlights. It was past 9pm and the street was quite dark. I knew it was now or never. I had to kiss her. And she was waiting! Why couldn’t she make the first move, I thought to myself. She smiled at me and told me that she had a nice time. I just nodded, my throat was dry. She lifted her huge bunch of shopping bags and placed it on her lap. I said nothing. I was sweating profusely by now. She placed her hand on the door knob and was about to jerk it open. I blurted out…“Can I kiss you?” I felt so weak and scared after I said that. Visions of pepper spray kept coming back in my mind. But then, she just smiled and said “Sure”. She really was a girl of few words. A few moments later, I panicked. I didn’t know what was going on, I just couldn’t find her lips in the middle of all those shopping bags. I tried again, no luck....

They said they would change his life. They promised to make his dreams come true. As the days grew grey and piled to amount to months, the months fleetingly accumulated into years and the boy grew in strength and knowledge. His eyes opened and his voice grew deep and he saw wolves and sheep and learnt to tell them apart. They lied. They never did what they said they would. They lied in his face, they lied through their teeth. They broke every single promise they made. They betrayed his trust and they violated his conscience. They savored his hopes and spat on his dreams. They raped his wishes and denied his soul righteousness. They preyed on his brooding enthusiasm to foster their own selfish will. Mid way his life, he was left running on an empty tank. He was totally drained. Images of his wasted life danced before his mind’s eyes like the elusive images on a 1920’s projector at a village square. Like screen shots of dull images taken during a thunderstorm, fragments of each of the botched and squandered opportunities of his inglorious life flashed across his memory in back and forth motion making him dizzy. They siphoned the life out of him, they worked and tormented him like a slave owner. And when he had no more to offer, they vomited him out of the system. Like Jonah out of the fish’s belly he was left at the edge of his life’s finish line. He was left there to dry and pass on like many others before him. He was bitter. The was strewn with rage. He knew who they were and he told me. He told me their name. he said they are the Government. Government was what they called them. Government is their name. They are the government! 

Sexy Woman of God

A crack, a Shriek and a bolt of lightning wrenched her out of her sleep. The rain started to pound the ground instantly. She could smell the raw invigorating smell of thirsty soil as the hungry drops of rain water blended into the ground. She had gone to bed earlier today after being unusually tired from the morning errands in Owino market. For close to half an hour, she just stayed in bed listening to the sound of the rain as it pelted down on her window sill. The sound turned her on. She closed her eyes to relish each and every single detail of that image that had stayed in her mind since the Fort portal escapade. Another bolt of lightning and a deafening crack of thunder forced a frantic rush of adrenalin down to her coochie. She grasped as she gently moved her hand down to the center of her universe. She was already moist and the feeling of her middle finger on that spot brought a smile on her face. She closed her eyes and saw Muhumuza gently stroking her genitals with his fat, hard piece of human sausage. That boy was hitting her spot with his sledge hammer like a freak. She started to scream and could barely hear her own voice against the rising crescendo of the rain drops on her roof. She was deaf to the sound of the thunder. She only saw streaks of lighting through her closed eyes. Her fingers operated independently from the rest of her body. It was getting warmer and wetter down there where her fingers worked magic on her flower buds. In her mind, that boy Muhumuza was now pounding her pelvic bone like a piston at 6000 revolutions per minute. She started to squirt. First the warmth of her own fluids re-energized her fingers like an energy drink. Then the feeling that started from somewhere in her head started to stream downwards. It came down on her like an avalanche down a steep, mountain slope. The feeling came along with almighty shudders that translated into spasms as her flower started gushing massive jets of that clear, warm and sticky juice. It was then that the real magic started. Muhumuza started to scream wildly. He was screaming her name, “Kembabazi, oh my God….Kembabazi, am cumming!” She closed her eyes tight as her fingers got to that point of no return. Her fingers were now touching that sacred spot where men fail and live the rest of their days like empty, broken, crusty shells. Her fingers found the depth that some men could never find in two life times. She had finally found her bearing and poise in a world juxtaposed with thingummies. She was doing it and it meant everything to the world. She realized that her hair was being pulled out violently. Her left hand was relentless against her own hair. She didn't care at all. The pain grew as her hair was yanked out but quickly coalesced into the massive avalanche that was deliberately taking all over her body. In a thousand ways, she could hear a choir of Museveni, Ssejusa, Besigye and Amama Mbabazi remixing Uganda's national anthem. The orgasm came came as Lukyamuzi and Lukwago dropped a rap after the second stanza. Muhumuza came as Jenifer Musisi was now twerking her German Juice while the crowd that comprised of parliamentarians screamed encore. They came together. The rain had reduced to just a minuscule drizzle. The ridiculous choir of the state's curmudgeons had vanished. She grasped for air and opened her eyes. Only now did she realize it was already mid day. She went for that afternoon lecture with a spring in her step. She held her head up high. The bitch in her had finally made peace with the lady in her.She was a sexy woman and she now knew it. She was a nasty bitch under the sheets and a sexy lady in that animal print dress! No one could now tell her otherwise! She was a sexy woman of God!

In the Niche of Time

“It’s not yet time for that” she said. “Everything happens at the perfect time, at the ultimate time designated by the creator” She added as she drew closer to her son. Vincent had always been a mummy’s boy. His father had died about a decade ago. In his hospital bed, his senile father had laid a mantle on him. The burden of the mantle laid upon him had spurred his spontaneous overnight growth from boy to man. It had been 15 years since that solemn night when Vincent had had this conversation with his mother and today as he sat by the counter at V-pub in Kampala, his mind played back the events of that night.” Now is the time”, he said to himself. “Now is the time the creator has designated”, he thought as he toyed with his car keys between his fingers. The years had been hard, solid and taxing. The hard life he had endured had groomed him and hardened him, he had been bruised a million times but he had healed. He had been torn apart and grinded down to nuts and bolts but he had regrouped, he had rebuilt himself from pieces. Like a phoenix, he had risen from the ashes to greater heights. He was smarter now and that alone had changed the stakes for him. His hard work and sleepless nights had paid off. He was no longer the little, timid, low-esteem fellow he was. He was now the cool, mellow, fellow who made things happen with just a snap of his fingers. He was now larger than life. He made paradigms shift. He was no longer the one man army he was. He was now the head of a movement. A strong, relentless force. He took a sip of his bell larger from the horn-rimmed glass and smiled as Rachael approached from his left smiling her usual enchanting rabbit smile.”Look at you”, Rachael was saying between a pair of smiling lips” Vincent giggled and swooped her off her feet. A hundred heads turned and a thousand eyes looked on….

In Cold Blood

Its nearly ten o’clock in Kampala and the sun is as hot as at Mid day. Brenda squints as she steps out of her one roomed rental pad in Wandegeya. She reaches into her handbag in search of her fake Ray-ban sun glasses. It takes her nearly 10 minutes to get the sunglasses out of her African craft hand bag. She brushes a stray strand of her human hair braids off her face and dons the pair of Chinese Ray-bans. She looks stunning to the by standers. Kabogoza had been watching her since she stepped out of the rental block that Brenda had called home for about three months now. For two months now, Kabogoza had religiously followed through his routine. Secretly, he had started loving his routine after he intrinsically started falling in love with Brenda. Several times, he battled the feeling and succeeded in shoving it to the backyard of his mind where lots of thoughts and memories were dumped to rot and evaporate into the forgotten vacuum of time. Kabogoza sat right next to Brenda in the taxi that was destined for Namanve. He never said a word to her. Brenda never noticed him as she always did. She had a lot on her mind and the chicken-crut hulk of a guy seated next to her was nowhere near her class or type of men. At Kireka, the taxi lounged a bit soliciting for three passengers. Brenda, was chatting with Omondi on the phone. She occasionally giggled and even once took a selfie and whatsapped it to her chat-mate. She was taken aback when the taxi conductor announced they had reached Namanve. She paid Ugx. 1.500 and alighted. Kabogoza waited about five minutes before he alighted too. It was going to be a long day for him. He was willing to wait as long as he had waited for each of those 60 days before. This had been a very expensive undertaking for him thus far. He had used all his savings so far and for a couple of weeks, he went without meals to save up just enough dime to pay for the taxi fare and sometimes boda boda fare to whatever destination Brenda took that day. Today was going to be another one of those long, disturbing days...but he was hopeful he would do it today. He would fulfill his life's most high purpose. He believed without a shadow-of-a-doubt knowledge that doing this one brave act would elevate him into saint-status in the after life.
It was about 9:00pm when Brenda stepped out of the heavily guarded premises of her employer. She flagged a boda boda who instantly stopped and motioned her to jump aboard. Kabogoza smiled behind the rider’s helmet and asked Brenda to hold on tight. He took the turn on his left and headed towards the Kampala, Industrial park. Brenda attempted to scream and make known her protest but Kabogoza was riding fast and soon the darkness of the sequestrated park engulfed Brenda’s shrieks. Kabogoza was now racing down a dirt road that led to small clearing called nowhere in the middle of a place named freaky. Suddenly, Kabogoza brought the motor cycle to a halt. The violent thrust of inertia brought both himself and Brenda flying over the handle bars. They landed on the ground with a thud. He tasted blood on his lips and the adrenalin rush had a similar intoxicating effect on him as would three straight shots of tequila on the rocks. With the vile intent of a killer high on a cup of human blood, Kabogoza reached for his fly and yanked out his 9-inch semi-erect manhood while Brenda pleaded for mercy. He half spun and bitch-slapped her across the face with a force that might have cracked a car glass, then he ripped her clothes off and tossed her legs apart. She was in deep pain and she was already too weak to rise a finger or even scream. Like a drunkard who hears the muffled sound of music from the outside of a discotheque, Brenda heard incomprehensible sounds around her. She was detached from herself. She was already dying. A heavy lump deliberately pressed her down, infringing her breath, crushing her lithe, petite body against the solid ground. Kabogoza continued with his assault on Brenda’s almost lifeless body until he found release, until he felt he had drained all his sick lump of semen into her honey pot. He had binged on her without the slightest the restraint. He felt like the devil in 1945-on the eve of the holocaust. From a distance, he heard the hooting sound of the passing train. Brenda heard that too but she was already past the point of no return. Kabogoza knew it was time for departure. He knelt down over her obscenely sprawled body, snapped back her neck and with just a single breath, she was gone. He spat on her face and jammed his booted heel into her face, knocking her nose and part of her once beautiful full lips back into her skull. The dying sounds of the hooting train provided her soul the solace it needed to brave a decent entry into the unknown world of the dead. Kabogoza brought the Senke motocyle back to life with a single kick and raced towards the train tracks. He got there just in time. He screamed,” Welaba nsi” as his body made impact with the invincible steel of the speeding train. Within less than a minute, his body was splintered into a thousand pieces of black and red mangled flesh. Over the horizon, a pair of owls flew and hooted. The stillness of the night carried the sound of their hoots and flapping wings over the emptiness of the night. The ghoulish light of the receeding moon drew brazen sketches of their flight pattern against the dreary sky. In the morning, the local news paper ran an article.”PSYCHOPATH RAPES AND MURDERS GIRL, TAKES HIS LIFE AFTERWARDS”

Two Chickens

He was going to do it. He had to. Every fiber of his body screamed for him to stop, for him to stop, turn around and run. Run fast. Run far away and kick his heels in the dirt, cuss himself and his horny partner out and smoke a joint of that illicit substance together. He chose to close his ears to this demand. He had to do it.
On the other hand….
Grace had done this before. This was going to be her second attempt at it. She remembered from the first attempt how the other guy was clumsy. He had lacked the confidence of a juvenile. The only window in that cheap hotel room had been welded shut and the cracked glass painted-a poor hand paint job! The dilapidated fan in one of the sequestrated corners of the scantily furnished room wheezed and cranked blowing jets of hot air. This heightened her discomfort. Sweat beads rolled down her face and her breath was arduous. She shut her eyes and rubbed her eyebrows to put down the lid on that memory. Today was a different day and she was resolute on doing it. Too much was at stake today. This had to be done.

They all sat face-to face, two guys and a single girl in a closed single room. Panic had stricken. The sleazy little deed had gone bad. Very bad. She just sat there with Fire in her eyes, Anarchy wafting in her heart and Her mind smoldering in turmoil! A dull cracking sound was heard. Fear had taken over and it was contagious. The other guy crawled back under the bed where he had waited before until Brenda’s clothes had started falling on the floor next to the bed. He crawled right back under the bed taking her flimsy pair of silk knickers with him. They smelled of sex, pussy and pubic. The other guy opened and closed his mouth a couple of times in attempt to say something but each time, no word was uttered. The thud on the other side grew louder. The chicken-guy seated at the edge of the bed was now hyperventilating. She hated herself; she hated each of these two cowards-these two sleazy, no brain, spineless chickens. With a single massive vibration and a loud cracking sound, the door came down and Brenda stood face to face with her Nemesis. Her Father flanked by her mother and a police officer with a pair of hand cuffs on his left hip and a light fire arm in his right hip. “This is it”, she thought….. The two chickens in the room would be incarcerated and their rich parents would pay the ransom to guarantee their release and the relinquishment of the charges against them. Her father said she was 16 but she knew she had made 20 today. Today was her birthday and her statement at the precinct read she was 16 and was defiled by two chickens!

Saccharine

They met ten years later. It was on a cloudy Saturday afternoon at the Garden city in Kampala and she was with her two daughters while he was with his son and nephew. The circumstances of their meeting were the most ridiculous. It was eleven hours later when she woke up in that hotel room. Tracy stared into the mirror, she didn’t recognize who she had become. A young lady looked back at her, the aura of innocence and happiness all but lost. She cautiously spun on her heels and tiptoed back to the bed. Rodney Kihembo was still sleeping soundly. The spectacle around the room was one that spelled extreme chaos. Tracy remembered nothing of the eleven hours ago. Eleven hours seemed like many moons ago. She racked her mind to evoke any possible recollections to suggest any clues of what had transpired here in this hotel room and elsewhere with her and this man in bed to no avail. The old grandmother clock on the wall read 23:00hrs. The candle light on the bedside stool cast an eerie light on Rodney’s face to project an abstract shadow of his distorted face on the King-sized bed’s headboard. “What a Caricature”, Tracy thought. She was about to craftily sneak back in bed when it suddenly hit her. Her fingers rushed to her groin and an electric torrent ran through her whole body. Panic took over. She hastily cast a gaze around the room and seeing nothing, she knelt down on the maroon carpeted floor. Her pair of blank eyes stared under the bed with her mouth agape! She saw nothing she so desperately wanted to see. Between clenched teeth, she whispered, “Jesus help me”. She needed to see used condoms. Lord, if only she could see at least one used condom-. She sat on the edge of the bed and allowed her mind to wander off while she slowly stumbled into the bathroom. In there, she stood in front of the mirror and noticed her bloodshot eyes and the darkened bags that gave her the façade of a septuagenarian. “Jesus”, she cried as her eyes caught sight of some residue virginal fluids oozing out of her recently shaved vigina. She needed no more evidence as proof that as much as she couldn’t recollect the events of the past several hours, Rodney had certainly made love to her. She lifted her gaze from her vigina to her face in the mirror and she no longer saw herself. She saw a patient. An Aids patient.
Meanwhile on the bed, Rodney was having a nightmare. In his dream, he was fucking a horny, voluptuous, big-bosom slut he had paid Ugx. 30,000 for a quick romp in a cheap, low-life downtown motel when the condom broke. In his dream, he got the sensation that the condom had burst and a quick survey with his right hand confirmed his suspicions. Only the condom ring remained at the base of his penis. The slut caught a whiff of the moment’s unsealing events and asked, “onzise oba nzekuse?” Rodney asked her, “Olimufu?” She grinned-a mean devilish grin and answered, “Nze nafadda nyo-ndi ku ARV’s” Rodney saw death on her face. He opened his mouth to scream and what came out was a mislaid, haunted-ghostly howl that seemed to echo back from deep within his soul where the HIV he had contracted from this prostitute was already starting to cause an irremediable blotch of eternal death to his being.
Tracy heard the scream first. Then she saw Rodney disheveled, running towards her with a condom still hanging from his penis. She smiled. This was the best thing she had seen in her whole life! She fell down on her knees and cried, “Thank you lord” She fell in love with him….

Steak Out

Steak out. Steak out permanently remains engraved in my memory. Elvis introduced me to Steak out in June 2009. Super Tuesday was my most favorite theme night. A bottle of bell went for only Ugx. 2000 and the music was hot like a tight you know what! Back then, Ugx. 10,000 bought five bottles of Uganda's premium lager-Bell! After my début at steak out, I was inducted into the hall of fame three years later after I met the dynamic boys and gyals at NFT. Those guys partied hard like the crazy Kenyans in 1995. After the induction, we visited Steak out every Tuesday without fail and I remember on Roy Kaka’s birthday which was celebrated at Steak out, Marsha was the awesome debutante! Every Super Tuesday was likened to one of those Caribbean carnivals. Gyals and boys from all walks of life swarmed into Steak out and the roadside car park stretched from the G4S offices to African Images on Lumumba Avenue and Soliz House on Nkrumah road. Every nightly experience at this place was priceless! Then I left NFT and I grew richer and I heard that Steak out changed management. We still remained tightly knitted with the boys and gyals at NFT but we never visited steak out again. We went to other places, we spent lots of money at Amnesia on Fridays and V-pub on Saturdays and occasionally at the Rugby grounds and we heard Steak out had been reopened as the Zodiac Lounge. I visited the Zodiac lounge and painful pangs of nostalgia ripped my heart out of its rib cage. The extreme makeover that the new management brought to the place was too bourgeois and in a way a turn off. I made my decision that day, I will never go back to Steak out!

Vanity in the Sky

He was the first to board the plane and he waited for what seemed like 5 minutes before the next passenger joined him in the VIP section. She took off her jacket and turned around to hang it on the coat hook next to the window, in the process presenting him with a shapely butt. Under the jacket she wore a white blouse through which the outline of her bra was visible. She turned around again and sat opposite him. As she did so, her skirt rode up even higher to provide a largely unencumbered view of long bare legs, at the top of which he noticed a dark triangle before she crossed one leg over the other. Her curly hair reached to her shoulders, and fell either side of a pretty face that was lightly made up. "Je m'appelle Anita."
Ssentongo was just a village champion from Base camp in Kasese. He was the only son to his parents who ran a small retail shop in Shauriyako. If you have been to Kasese before then you know Bakoko’s Shauriyako franchise. Ssentongo had gone to Mother care primary school in Kasese and having passed with flying colors, he had won a bursary to study at St Leo’s College and this pleasure trip to Dubai seven years later was another one of those incentives from Hima Cement. And here he was today aboard this K2 flight from Entebbe to Dubai. Ssentongo made a funny face at the beautiful lady seated opposite him and answered, “Je m’appelle what?” “Anita she answered” Ssentongo smiled and whispered, Je m’appelle Ssentongo”. She smiled back and said, “am French” Ssentongo retorted “Am a Muganda”
When the huge Boeing 707 took to the air, outside, the landscape over Entebbe consisted of tea plantations which stretched into the blue haze of the hills in the distance. Ssentongo found himself instead stealing increasingly long glances at the pair of legs which stretched beside his own, enticingly topped with a narrow band of black fabric.
After a few minutes she looked at him. "My legs please you?" she asked pleasantly."Of course. They're very elegant ... very seductive." She smiled. She stood up, went over the door, reached to take hold of one of the orange pleated curtains and drew it across; then the other. Because of the sun? Or did she have other intentions? She sat down to face him again, took hold of the hem of her miniskirt on either side between her thumbs and index fingers and pulled it up to the top of her thighs.….

The women who took my Fore Skin

She said to me, “take a turn to your right and follow the corridor to your left. The last room to your right is where I will find you. Take off your clothes and lie on the bed” The room was crisp clean with grey binds on its only window that opened into a quadrangle with two ill tendered flower gardens with drying roses, rhododendrons and some raspberry shrubs. Besides the array of LED lights hanging low from a silver colored chandelier and a few medical chats on the walls, the rest of the room was plain gleaming white. I gingerly took off my clothes save for my underwear and lay prostrate on the bed. “Hey Bernie” a female voice cracked through the serene aura of the room.” Take your underwear off too” My voice trembled as I retorted “okay ma’am” “You may play some music off your phone if you please or you may read some of those magazines on the bed side stool” she chorused as she receded through the corridor to that other office at the head of the corridor.
I held my underwear in my hands after I had taken it off. I was tempted to sniff it. I didn’t. I just lay right there on the bed facing the ceiling and spun imaginary webs between the trusses of the chandelier. The cold breeze from the quadrangle wafting in through the open window was starting to sting at my body. My Manhood reacted by coiling back, the result was the familiar of a 17 year old’s dick. The sight caused me to flinch. I picked up an old magazine with a beautiful young black female probably in her early twenties on its cover page. She was poised on the edge of a doctor’s office desk with a stethoscope hanging around her neck. I followed her neck to that point where her v-necked gown grew into a bulge that was carefully concealed by what looked like a black bra. Her pink glossed lips where slightly parted and a discreet sneer seemed to linger on her face. I was smiling back at the lady on the magazine cover when I became aware of a slow bulging sensation in my loins. The door suddenly burst open and three young girls, all in contemporary nurses’ wear came face to face with my erect manhood. “Oh gosh, he’s horny” one of the girl’s exclaimed. The other girl who was carrying a stainless steel tray with an assortment of surgical tools sucked in some air and swallowed hard. The third girl just stared at me dumbfounded with a horny look in her face. She looked like the type who would have loved to get down on her knees and suck me. I hastily, slapped the open magazine on my loins in a hopeless effort to conceal the image of what the three girls had binged on for more or less a fraction of 15 seconds. As I opened my mouth to blubber an apology, another lady well within her late thirties slithered into the room and enchantedly sung to the three girls, “Ladies shall we?” Yes ma’am”, responded the girl that was holding the stainless steel tray as she motioned to me to get the magazine off my private parts. I sheepishly did as instructed whilst shifting the magazine to cover my face. The magazine smelled of coconuts, grass hoppers and a rabbit. I was trying to figure out how one magazine could possess all three different flavors when the first injection was administered to the base of my manhood. I felt like I was being stung by 300 bees at the same time. Dazed by the pain, my semi-flaccid manhood recoiled to the size of a 17 year old’s and the girl with the look of one who would have sucked me grasped and giggled. A second and a third injection were administered around the pedestal my manhood in succession but this time, I felt no pain. I closed my eyes and recited the alphabet. “A B C…” I heard surgeon ask for a scalpel and some other instruments I didn’t care to memorize. “D E F G…” and I felt a warm, oozy fluid stream down my thighs…
About 30 minutes later, the girl with the stainless steel tray said to me “Congratulations, your circumcision was successful…”

The Weatherman bleeds

It never rained. It didn’t drizzle either. The Weatherman on MNTV said it would be rainy and cloudy for most of the day. The cloud cover was scanty. The sun was hot. His heart was ablaze and his eyes were fiery. Jimmy Okoth knew days like these were inevitable. He had seen worse days in his life before but there was something peculiar about today. The heat of the day and the impregnable dust of Namanve both had an unfamiliar touch of vagueness that heightened his unease. He thought about the weatherman again- that stocky smart-aleck dude with a bolding head and the swagger of a college drop out. That weatherman who lied about the weather everyday and never lost his job. “What a profession!” he thought. In his line of business, a single lie was enough to cost you a body part. Joe Kirundi had lost two fingers on each of his hands 12 months ago over lying about the price of a 45. Caliber slug in Juba during the Vinca Project. The trouble with lies is that when you tell them, you still have to sell them. Jimmy pulled his Techno J7 out of his pocket and typed a text to the Godfather, “Its time. Am headed out” An instant reply was received, “ make it clean” and the Godfather watched Jimmy drive off behind a cloud of white mint-scented smoke from his contraband cigarette. “The weather man will not lie again”, he spoke to himself and he spun on his heels pass on express instructions to Jimmy through the table phone. He spoke in cipher.
On the other hand, Cyrus Kamundu never loved his job. Being the Weatherman on TV was his fourteenth job since Makerere University. He went to school with Kalisya Nelson at the school of Psychology. While there, he met Komak Dan Bernie, Twine Vincent and most of all Gloria Kobugabe. That was a long time ago but these bonds had survived the trial of time and life had gone on to prove to him that destiny had chosen this path for him. He knew that Gloria was home with the kids and he had to pass by the supermarket to pick up some supplies before he made it home.
While the weatherman drove his Nissan Cube to the Cacia’s mall parking lot, Jimmy Okoth was already waiting for him. He was coiled back in the trunk of a black Mitsubishi Challenger SUV. He knew what was in for him if he completed this task which had been categorized for him as high priority. He was fully aware of the what consequences he could face if this one assignment went to the dogs but he also knew sacrifices had to be made in exchange for freedom. Freedom and wealth. He had made his sacrifice many years ago and today was the Weather man’s turn. He had calculated the risk and consequences so often in the past few days and had planned the best way out that he was now confident he would execute this mission without breaking a sweat. The butt of the stolen AK 47 riffle had been poking into the side of his belly and only now did he realize it hurt. He shifted just enough to transfer the pressure of the butt to another spot on his belly as a drop of perspiration slumped on the old unpolished barrel of the riffle. “ The weatherman must be exterminated” the reminded himself. He never wanted to know why. He never asked his elusive Mafioso boss why-that wasn’t any of his affairs so he had always not concerned himself with the pursuit for matters beyond his pay grade. The weatherman reverse parked his Jalopy in a free parking slot and stepped out, right foot first and head after. Jimmy, released the safety latch of the Old rifle, aimed for the Weatherman’s head and squeezed the trigger. The weatherman heard the shot a split second before his body slumped and hit the bitumen floor, a pool of blood oozing out of his shattered skull. The bystanders in the parking lot ducked in total shock and Jimmy Okoth drove off in the Black SUV knocking off the yellow and black painted access barricades.
Back in Namanve, Joe Kirundi waited for Jimmy Okoth’s arrival at the roof of a 20feet ISO container. He heard the lean sound of the 3.5 Litre engine before he saw the SUV emerge from a cloud of dust. His instructions were clear, a single shot to the heart was what was required to put the old dog to sleep. Jimmy pulled the trigger and the recoil force of the magnum caliber pump action hand gun jerked his right shoulder back so hard he thought it was dislocated. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, the radio in Jimmy Okoth’s car was tuned in to 97.2FM and a Garth brooks song played. The dance was a 1989 classic song, this song won the Academy of Country Music Award for Song of the Year and it was playing on the stereo…songs play even when life ceases…

Memoirs of a Nympho

The radio was playing Maurice Kirya’s The Blue Dress Song. Halima was smoking mint blended with a soupcon of apple and a smidgen orange flavors off the stainless steel magnum shisha pot at the Legends. She took a deep gulp of the debonair, mellow smoke and let it out in segmented puffs. Komak watched her exhale suave wisps of grey smoke into the atmosphere and wondered what was more dangerous-smoking shisha or inhaling smoke that Halima elegantly blew out. Maurice Kirya was now singing the chorus to The Blue Dress Song
…So that's where I come in
She said she has a man at home
But she doesn't feel at home
In the house they call her home
Halima offered him a smoke but Komak politely declined. She took another draw at the hose grommet and smiled. As she exhaled another one of those grey clouds of scented smoke, she said, “ You see Komak” she hesitated before riposting “your name is Komak, right? Did I pronounce it right?” Komak responded to the affirmative with a gentle nod to his head as the premium brewed lager travelled down his throat giving him a warm sensation down his loins.
He took yet another sip off his fifth bottle of bell lager this evening as Halima continued to say “Some say love it is a river. And that it drowns the little goats as they drink. And some say love…” she coughed a couple of times and continued, “...it’s like a razor. And that it leaves your soul to bleed. And some say love, it is a hunger. An endless aching need…” She touched her left ear with her right hand and motioned to Komak. “ tell me, what do you think love is?” Komak reached for his bottle of bell but stopped midway and smiled at Halima, “I say, love is a Pain. A pain Halima. A pain that hurts so good” He leaned back and seemed to study Halima who momentarily took a pensive persona. “Huh” Halima hissed and seemed to have recuperated from a transient trance. She pointed back to Komak with her Shisha hose grommet while saying “I say love, it is a flower…” Dan smiled and hummed along with Maurice Kirya…
…The lovely lady is getting tipsy
She's telling me things that no man should know
But I'm a gentleman so I listen more
Alright anyway...
Halima feeling tipsy Indeed let the shisha hose grommet drop to the ground as she scuffled up on her feet. She took two wobbly steps and flopped on the seat right next to Komak. She was only a few inches from Komak and their knees touched. “It’s a pain huh?” She solicited as she ran a boisterous finger over his nose. She drew closer “ you sure it hurts so good Komak?” Komak, started to say, “Look here Halima, I don’t….” Halima had already wrapped her lips over his. This sudden kiss was magic. He felt like a ladybird flying high above a garden of roses and berries on a sweet, lazy, sunny, Sunday afternoon. The sweet wet scent of flavors between Halima’s craving lips gave the ladybird in his mind the magical flight wings. As the ladybird flew over the euphoric flower garden, he could see Halima in another light. She was the perfect beauty lost in a world of ultra beauty and sheer sexiness. He could tell her apart from the abundant beauty by her signature gait and epic smile. The DJ switched to another song with a couple of scratches on his tan table as Halima elevated herself and sat on Komak’s lap. She whispered between kisses, “ reach down your fly and slide it in” Komak’s eye lids flew open “What? Slide it what?” Halima changed her tone of voice “I said fuck me Pedro” Now completely disoriented, Komak queried, “what? Who is Pedro?” Halima held Komak’s face between both her hands and commanded, “Shut up bitch and fuck me” “Umm, ah…but, you see…it’s…” Komak stuttered. Still dazed, he heard another chic whisper in his right ear, “ are you scared Komak?” Shit he hissed! It was Sharon-Halima’s friend. Where did this bitch come from? He wondered. Halima and Sharon now worked in tandem. No one at Legends seemed to pay them any attention or rather that’s what it seemed like for the moment. The five bottles of bell had somehow blurred his judgment and all sense of raison d'être. Without any trouble, Sharon had whipped his erect manhood out of his pants and Halima was already steering his penis into her already soaked to the skin coochie. With imbalanced shares of fear and anxiety, he screamed, “Wait Bitches!!” But it was too late. Halima was already bouncing off his dick ecstatically. Sharon was kissing his neck and he loved the feeling but he also saw three police men approaching over Halima’s shoulders….

Mad men in Polls

I am hopeful that the madness in my homeland will end soon. I have faith that all these old men that have turned this country into scrap yard will soon end up In the graveyard. I believe that Uganda will be better place when we finally take over. I have confidence in myself and the youth of this country. I don’t doubt the fact that Change is coming to my homeland. Am devoted to being part of that change. We shall not fight a bush war. No. We shall fight another kind of war. Forget a proxy war to liberate our motherland, we fight another kind of war. We are not rebellious. They are! We are loyal citizens to our state. We want what’s best for our motherland. Though we are choked and we can barely speak, we can scream. We will shriek. We shall fizz and sputter like fish out of water until they let us free from the choke hold. We shall be killed. Yes we shall die but we shall not die silently. We shall not go down without a fight. They might win the battle but we will win the war. We will not stop. Not give up. This thing will not end today. It will go beyond today, tomorrow and the other day. We will get tired. We will be exhausted but we won’t stop. We will push ourselves to the point of self destruction. We will give up everything for this cause. Because we love our motherland. We will be oppressed. We will be overrun. We will be treated like animals. Our dignity will be taken. But our spirit will never be broken. We have nothing. They have promised us everything and given us nothing. Our spirits is all we have. That’s all we are. That’s what we will give. We will wage a war that shall be remembered long after we are gone. We may never reap the fruits of our labor but our children will. Our daughters and sons will. They will flourish and they will know democracy and they will embrace change and prosperity. They will live peaceful, healthy lives and they will hold our national flag so high and sing our national Anthem so proudly because we sacrificed. Because we gave all we had. Because we weren’t greedy. Because we never sold our nation for selfish gains. Because we never gave up. We stand today at the dawn of a revolution. Be shall not say we are not afraid. No we won’t. Fear lurks in the shadows but we don’t let this fear take over. No. Courage is the fuel that keeps us going. Courage over fear. Courage reinforced with better visions of tomorrow. Here we stand at the threshold of democracy. We hear cries all over but we see happy faces tomorrow and we hear laughters too. We see babies being born in better hospitals and having a better futures. We see mothers not dying because of poor medical facilities. They say we are crazy but no. That’s not true. We are passionate. We see what they don’t see. They are blinded by their corrupt ways and myopic leadership . We see Uganda tomorrow. We see a better Uganda and because of that, we move on! We fight. We Vote. We decide. We Vote. We win. Come all ye youth, all ye countrymen who still have a heart for the motherland, arise and vote! Now is the time for change. Now is the time to be a part of history. Come Vote. Your vote is your voice. Lets Vote. Uganda needs you. Uganda is dying and you have the power to resuscitate the motherland. Vote. Vote all ye countrymen. VOTE!!!

Kichwamba

He was just a small man. A small man with the heart of a warrior and the spirit of a champion. He wasn’t as heavily built as Moses Gollola. He was more or less the same physical stature as Mugish Muntu. He lived in this little village in Fort portal called Harubaho. He was an ordinary boy living the life of an average village boy but the call to greatness came to him early in life. His father was just another ordinary village man who tilled the land and earned an extra buck from vending milk out of his five long horned cattle. His mother was the loyal house wife who had begotten six children to this world, Mujuni Ronald Atwooki being the youngest. But just like David from the Bible, Ronald Atwooki was the most industrious of all the six kids and sadly, he was also the most despised. He spent all his long days during holidays farming and grazing his father’s cattle and goats beyond the monstrous rock in a place called Haibaale. On this unforgettable day when the school term started, Ronald Atwooki loaded his little belongings onto his father’s bicycle- an old Road master that had been in the family since he was born. With his brother-Steven Apuuli, they took turns at riding whilst braving the fierce hills and slopes that delineate Tooro’s pristine landscape. It took them close to three hours to reach Kichawmba Polytechnic college snugly located on the foothills of the ranges that rolled and merged to sketch out as part of the insuperable fortress that Sir Gerald Portal called the Mountains of the moon. The ranges hovered high and above Fort portal town like a might sentry. Sometimes on a good moon lit night when the white misty clouds cleared, Ronald Atwooki could see the snow capped peaks of the mountains of the moon from Harubaaho. It’s said that Fort portal is the most beautiful and naturally endowed town in East Africa. From the mighty towering ranges that bordered the town from the north to the beautiful meandering river Mpanga and the beautiful rolling hills to the impeccable, gentle and peaceful people of Tooro with a legacy swathed in a rich history and special culture that dated hundreds of years ago. Ronald Atwooki, bade his brother good bye and carried his metallic case into the dormitory that had turned into his second home for the last 16 months. It was a buzzy day and evening came quick. Several students reported back to school and soon studies started normally.
On this one fateful night, the boys in his dormitory had gone to bed early. The light switch to the dormitory’s only light bulb was located near Ronald Atwooki’s bed so without formal induction, it had become his role to switch off the light every night and every morning. Before he went to bed, he knelt down beside his bed and said a prayer. He prayed for his mother and father, friends and family and lastly asked God to bless him throughout his endeavors. He reminded God of his dream. He wanted to become an Electrical engineer with the Local government in Kabarole district. By the time he said Amen, he was already in the hands of Morpheus. Suddenly, he Ronald Atwooki was wakened out of his sleep by wild screams of petrified students and the sound of gun shots that tore through the cold, dark night like a bolt of thunder. He fumbled with the light switch before a bullet hit the glass window and ricocheted a few inches above his head. Instinct forced him to slump prostrate on the floor. A thousand pieces of the shattered glass lay sprayed on the ground where he lay. Ronald Atwooki crawled towards his friend’s bed and was horrified by what he found. A bullet had perforated through Mujuni Wilson’s head leaving his skull shattered, blood and brains spluttered over his bed and sheets. While Gun shots unremittingly rained over the campus, Mujuni had found his purpose in this chaos. He was helping the wounded and scared students out of harm’s way and moving them to the Dormitory’s captain’s cubicle. He had crawled back and forth about a dozen times and his entire body was bleeding from cuts when he heard a man scream from the entrance of the dormitory “set this rat hole on fire” These words were spoken in Swahili with a thick Congolese accent. As he played dead of the floor, he saw a boy who wasn’t any less younger than him toss a jerry can of petrol over a bed and lit it. The fire grew as instaneously as the match made contact with the fuel and the boy who had lit the fire smiled to himself and released a barrage of rounds into the growing fire. Ronald Atwooki crawled back to cubicle and hastily started to guide the boys out of the burning building. Three he counted and retuned into the fierce flames to retrieve the other two. Towards the exit, the wooden trusses had started to collapse. The last boy-Alex Twesige a freshman was trapped. Ronald Atwooki couldn’t save him. He tried hard, risking his own life in the process. Half of the roof had already collapsed and in less than a minute the rest of the roof was caving in. Ronald Atwooki made this effort….the roof came down. He was jerked back by powerful hands, tossing him about half a meter in space. He landed with his face on a hot piece of burning mattress. He had been saved by Joshua Masereka who hadn’t himself been lucky enough. They heard Masereka’s cry just as the walls collapsed, closing him in a furnace. The three boys under Ronald Atwooki’s instruction started running. Running towards the hills. A few yards towards the kitchen block, bullets were fired in succession. It was a double tap. Ronald Atwooki stumbled and fell down. “Keep going”, he screamed to the boys. “Head for the hills” he cried. Two more bullets were fired and he saw the two boys falling, headlong into the green grasses. Ronald Atwooki turned around and took one last look at the campus and what he saw wrenched his heart. Fire, blood and fear. Pain, death and life hanged in a balance….He said a prayer….And he knew he wasn’t going to die today. The ADF rebels had won. He was going to be a captive and this was just the beginning…..

Blacker than Museveni

Am African. Am black. Blacker than Museveni, Amama and Mugisha Muntu all put together. Am as black as Erias Lukwago. As black as Col Kiiza Besigye. Am African but I don’t believe in a United African State. I want no such thing as the United States of Africa. Far be it! Uganda is a beautiful country. Kenya is Beautiful too but Zimbabwe isn’t. Neither is Somalia or Libya. What do you get when you mix beauty and ugliness? Forget it. Lets digress from this matter for a minute. Imagine Africa Unites and we have to be ruled by a single president and we end up with Robert Mugabe as president for life? God forbid that Paul Kagame or Riek Marshal becomes the president-Wouldn’t Africa be doomed to hell? Ok, let’s just say that Mr. Museveni becomes the president of the United States of Africa! Imagine me laughing my teeth out as I imagine this! Wouldn’t Africa be such a mess? How would you love to have the sexually immoral Jacob Zuma heading Africa or the errant Nkurunziza Pierre heading Africa and changing the constitution every three days. DISCLAIMER, please note that am changing language. Some might find my language offensive. If you do find me offensive, your sense of humor belongs in DRC. End of DISCLAIMER: Am a fucking African who doesn’t give a fuck about a United African state. Let’s just say that life is a bitch depending on how you dress her. Some countries are beautiful and some are plain dark ugly. So many presidents in Africa are fucked up and the countries they rule plain low-shit chicken-crut fucked up. My black ass doesn’t make me more African than the little midgets in the Kabale or the tall bare-ass walking Karimajongs in North east Uganda. What defines us as Africans today is Corruption, High HIV prevalence rates and Sick presidents ruling for life. This can be said for most African states-not all. Some states as Tanzania know democracy and peaceful presidential transitions. Some faggot countries like Somalia only know war. Nigeria reeks with all the worst vices out of the vilest man’s nightmare while on the contrast, South Africa races for the position of the most developed and powerful economy in Africa. On the other hand, do we not all know that South Africa grapples with the highest HIV prevalence rates? Imagine the naturally gifted Uganda being joined with the full-of-shit South Africa. Wouldn’t we all go to the dogs? Forget that shit, as a matter of fact, we are not prepared for a United African State. We are several effing years away from that. So why should I bother myself with stuff that’s off the hook for me? My Ex who now dates a midget says am emotional about some things sometimes but I say am mad about many of the dogged so called leaders(or rather effigies) of African states who when shit hits the fan and spills, the little dogs tuck their tails in between two feeble legs and scram. My daughter calls small dogs doglets. Ps. Does Mugabe Robert wear a facemask? They say Bashir wears a pair of leggings beneath this trousers! Cry if your president doent know your national soccer team.
On second thought, am pro a United African state. Let me part ways with the nay-Sayers and sit among the optimists. A united African state would be a haven for all of us Africans. But wait, where would the naughty Ugandan Opposition be? Would there be a place for Mubarak Munyagwa? Would Lukwago still fight Musisi? Or would Museveni, Amama and Besigye all live in state house? Or would they all plot to overthrow the Unite States of Africa government under Robert Mugabe? Would it be legal to demonstrate and wear miniskirts? Would the weak Uganda Shilling be our legal tender or the worthless South Sudan dollar(do they have their own dollar in S. Sudan?) Damn, this would be a messed up shitty African state!
I suppose we are better off as small African states! One thing unites us though…hmm, on second thought, two things. Hell no, many things….corruption, HIV, black asses, dead presidents ruling in life and death. Many tings unite us, war, polygamy, witchcraft, poverty, jealousy, lawlessness, and the list goes on from Cape town to Tunis and back to the Atlantic down below up to Atlantis. Its true we live in a bloodclot mess every day. You wake up in the morning and a man wearing a blouse was murdered in a bomboclot disco! And the sucker bags release a statement on facebook and claim to have handed the suspect and CCTV footage to Police! Fuck this shit, am taking a space craft to Mars!

Cry Not-Says Love

“Are you screaming at me Ismail?” Zainab asked, hands akimbo. “Shut up” Ismail snarled back. She was mortified. She Stomped out of the room. “Don’t you walk away from me woman” Ismail screamed. Zainab turned around and a plastic mug of cold water crashed on Ismail’s face. The edge of the plastic mug connected with the bridge of his nose sending three hundred spasms of pain to the rest of his nose. The water spattered on the floor around him and the front of his soaked clothes clung to his body like a swim suit. By this single act of violence Ismail got to know firsthand that Zainab wasn’t happy about how he had spoken to her. With a smile on her face, we examined the extent of the damage she had caused and she felt satisfied. This warmed the cockles of her heart. With her pinkie and pointing fingers outstretched over her other folded back fingers, she reached out and drew an imaginary tick in the space between them and said, “ Clean up honey” Ismail was left dumbfounded. He just stood there and watched Zainab as though she was an alien who had just stepped out of her spaceship to spank him only to board and take to flight. She made him feel like a cold rat in the morning. She had made her point and walked away. He had learnt that talking louder than her would never get him heard or understood. About three minutes after he assumed she had left the floor, he cussed, “Bitch” and started cleaning up the room. From the far corner of the house he heard her ask, “Dude what did you just say?” Crestfallen that he had been heard, he answered, “I said itch. My body itches. Must be something in the water you just splashed at me” “Don’t fool with me dude, that calls for an apology” She surfaced at the door way as he finished cleaning the last pool of water on the floor. ‘Am sorry love, he said. A little smile danced on her lips before spreading across her face. She flashed her signature dimpled smile and giggled like a cute Cheshire cat on heat. She lifted her dress up to her dome of glory and watched Ismail’s wet pants bulge. “What’s that in your pants Chunchu?” Ismail knew what it meant each time she called him Chunchu.
Ismail entered the bedroom a moment after she did, and shut the door softly behind him. She guided him closer to the bed, then turned to embrace him, running her hands up his chest and resting them on his shoulders. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close to him, their hips touching. Then, the kiss. Soft and gentle, tender and sweet, sensual and arousing. Perfect. Hungry for contact, he rubbed himself against her as the kiss increased in intensity.
Zainab could feel his arousal through his dark slacks, the sensation of his movement adding to her desire. The kiss became soft again as she felt his hands slide to her hips, resting there briefly before wandering slowly up her back to her shoulders. His lips left her mouth and found their way to her neck, kissing and nibbling as he reached around to the zipper on her dress. He slowly dragged the zipper down, his fingertips tickling and tantalizing as he went. With a simple movement he slipped the material off her shoulders and allowed the dress to fall to the floor.
Then the door burst open…”Mommy am hungry” Zainab and Ismail both turned around made eye contact with baby Amaal. Seeing her momma naked with her clothes pooled around her, baby Amaal started to cry…

The Fight in the War

This war has existed since the time Adam experienced his first orgasm in Eden. We have been at war. Some many comrades have fallen either by the sword, Russian bullets or Chinese counterfeit goods. Life has always been contraband. Democracy is like a bootleg product consumed in trepidation and concealment. Many have been flogged, maimed or massacred for openly consuming democracy. Freedom of speech is considered as sedition. As the war rages on, many sleep or feign ignorance to what’s going on. Like cattle in a stampede, many men run wildly and fight each other without reason or justification. I went for a field trip the other day and we came across a woman whose husband and two sons were slain by his kinsmen following a land dispute and I thought that was quite a despicable act until I watched on the evening TV news that another woman in Mutukula murdered the husband so she could remain with a sum of money a little less than a million shillings. My stomach somersaulted. All these horrendous acts of violence against our own flesh and blood for a handful of passing worldly possessions was contemptible. As I thought about it more deeply, I imagined all those souls starving to death in Somalia and Ethiopia and remembered that even here in Kampala, street children starve to death. I thought that only in Burundi do opposition politicians get killed in cold blood until I remembered all those lost souls that fell by the hands of thugs, rapists and some stray soldiers of the cross and the peace sign. I came face to face with the burden of pain and inhuman acts of violence that we humans have over the years inflicted on fellow humans and I walked away. The weight of that burden was too much for me to stomach. My dog Gucci gingerly walked to where I was seated. He wagged his tail as he walked. He rubbed his face on my leg and the look in his eyes took me on a journey thousands of miles across the globe to China where you neighbor stole your dog and cooked him for lunch and offered you a meal. “Lets walk away Gucci”, I said to him as I attached a leash to his collar and walked towards MBI. There is a army rising. A strong army of men and women who have given up the struggle to live and die silently. An army of men and women who have been through the worst and have had enough. This army rises by the day. Dark clouds loom low. Evil days approach and I shudder at the carnage that our kind will endure before this era passes. I pray that the lord will salvage just enough of our kind to rebuild, procreate and refill the earth after we foolish humans almost wipe ourselves off the face of the earth. Is there more folly on earth than Riek Machar fighting to overthrow Salva Kiir Mayardit with thousands of people dying as collateral? Do I sound so politically motivated? No, I don’t. Gucci doesn’t think so too. We have trouble on our hands. We can feel it, we can see it. We hear it groan and rumble as it approaches and we choose to just wait and watch. “This is what it means to live in a doomed generation”, I tell my dog Gucci. He squirms and yawns-showing disinterest in my pessimistic insinuations but his mood tells me he understands and feels better he hasn’t seared any progeny to this day. I love my Daughter Tisha and my Fiancée Diana and I would give my life for them to stay alive and out of trouble. My predicament is we’re all born Ugandan-Gucci is a German Sheppard by breed but he’s more Ugandan than Elly Wamala or Afrigo band. I love the dusty, pot-holed streets of this city, I miss the commotion in Wandegeya each time I travel away. I feel the plight of the officers who are scarified to save ministers and premiers…My country is action packed! But am still a proud citizen and I pay my taxes religiously. I don’t question the taxes levied on me. I abide by the laws and I try to ignore many things. I have made a considerable contribution to the welfare of this country. What I wish for my baby is what I wish for all other Ugandan babies-Life, healthcare, good education and a bright future. Are we still the pearl of Africa or we have switched places with the horn of Africa? Ezekiel in Chapter 37:1-14 told of the dry bones….Uganda, bow your heads, Lets pray, “God save Uganda” Amen!

The Village in Them

Fear a boy from a village. These boys get to Kampala and run mad. They act like Golola each time media cameras are in view. Stay away from Kampala boys, they are ill-bred ignoramus butts who take loans to buy second hand cars to impress cunt-slinging, big-butt-empty headed girls. Make no friendship with short men that drive big cars but still pay residential rent. Such short men are arrogant, insecure and more often than nary have low esteem. Do not bear company with those long legged, arrogant Banyankole/Bahima men, they will corrupt your good morals. They never achieve anything by merit. Corruption, sectarianism and tribalism is what defines them. Stay away from them. Acholi girls are violent. They will beat the shit out of you if they ever catch you hugging another girl who isn’t them. They will fight your momma, your ex or your pastor as long as they get the conviction that they have to! Acholi men are romantic and they fuck thoroughly too. They are proud and short-tempted though. They are mean, secretive bastards too. Them boys from West Nile are darker than inside of a high school kitchen and so are their girls. They believe in force and violence and will apply such principles of anarchy and brute force anywhere, anytime. A Muganda man is loving and caring but super dishonest. They will lie to you on your wedding day on the pulpit and in the presence of your Reverend and your family before he fucks your aunt at the back of the same church. He will love money and other women more than you. A very good Muganda husband will most likely be the ugly, large-nosed, uneducated one. The Baganda girls are smooth operators who will kneel before along Kampala road and scream your name so loud when you make love. These bitches never shut the fuck up! They will be as dishonest as a Munyankole man during the polls under the current government and as shrewd as Jennifer Musisi in any money related dealing. We are plagued with Rwandese girls. These will kill you for a TV, Techno Smart phone or bulging wallet full of business cards. The Mutooro man will love you and show you heaven and purgatory but you won’t be the only one he will give this treat. He will take your mother to heaven without a condom and come back for your aunt and your friends and in-laws too. He will operate from your marital bed to carry out all these acts of valor(sic). The Mutooro girl will sing with the purity and beauty of angels on Judgment day and twerk like Miley Cyrus just for your pants to go down before you make it make it rain on her. She will squirt like a fountain and cry like a virgin but she will smile and kiss you good bye and marry your Uncle on your birthday. The Munyooro will make you take vows in church and in the presence of the whole Bunyoro Kitara Kingdom but she will bewitch you as an insurance policy. He will bewitch her too and they will live their lives in and out of the shrine. The Musoga will fuck you up for life! The Mugishu will love you, nature you and then eat you on your 29th anniversary. The Mukiga will not fight you. The Mukiga will deform you. The Mukiga will beat you while you sleep on your honeymoon. You will know the definition of oppression and domestic violence from the Mukiga. The Muhima will teach you to love and appreciate dirt and laziness. You will endure a wet bed and extra large butt and coochie from the Muhima. You will love cows and the smell of dung and cow gee all your life. The Mukonzo will make you migrate from Kampala to the nearest fishing village. You will farm Cassava and fish for all your days. You’ll need no lotion or deodorant. Fish and Cassava will do. The Itesots will nag you out of your skin. They will copy and try and act like the Baganda but they will always end up bringing atapa into every single aspect of your life.The man will drink ajono and abuse you and your children every night while the woman will run away to Kamapala and trade in coochie. . They will burden you with their extended families until kingdom come…This satire is driving me nuts, allow me to digress.
I hate these silly girls who go out every night and perform so poorly at work that they change jobs very now and again. I hate girls who wear weaves with obscene colours, those low life cunts that will fuck a hajji with four wives for smart phone. I hate those chics who wear borrowed mini-dresses and go to Liquid silk and drink Mirinda Fruity only to ask for bailey’s when you offer them a drink. I hate ugly chics who have an ugly attitude. I loathe these boys who use supplements, go the gym and wear blouses. I hate boys who fight and kill each other in bars for an old, bow-legged, bleached skin, piranha of a woman. I disrespect old men who wear Malachi shoes, Vipi underwear and still date young girls. Those fools who pop Viagra and chew mirondo full time and they can hardly keep a fuck going for 10 straight minutes. I hate those stinking Hajji’s who buy Ipsums and Spacio’s for small girls only to make them their side kicks. I hate Pastors who fuck the sheep they pastor. They fuck children in Sunday school and their mothers in Mother’s union and choir. I Loathe these money lenders and brokers who wear trousers up their necks or those pregnant mothers who wear jeans and leggings. I love those girls who are decent and work hard every day and love one man at a time. I love girls who pay their own bills and drive their own cars. I love girls who love God and respect themselves and others. I love married couples who are faithful to each other. I respect HIV positive people who take their medicines and behave responsibly. I adore the Muslims who respect the teachings of the Quran and live by them. I identify with Christians who walk in the path of righteousness and profess Jesus as their lord and personal savior. I love peaceful neighbors, I love all tribes in Uganda who know their history and adhere to their cultures. I love Uganda. Shit I love myself. I love me. If you don’t believe me, fuck you. You are a dickhead.

Lost Cause

My great grandfather lost a limb and half his sanity in the war that liberated this country from Colonialism. He was one of those true black men to the core, dedicated and permanently enslaved by the quest for liberation of this Blackman’s country for the black man. Years after his dreams came to pass, he lived in Gulu in a modest country villa in Laroo-in the current day location of Gulu University. He spent many of his hours before he succumbed to Parkinson’s seated in his wheel chair under the only mango tree in the vast compound reading series after series of books from Robert Ludlum and Dan Brown. The last book he read before he passed on was Dan Brown’s The lost symbol. He was a man who had great potential in his youth and spent most of his prime exploiting this great potential in and out of jail. He said to my Father’s dad, “ we have lived like human being and sometimes like dogs so that you the young ones may take control of the affairs of this great state and live happily in the years preceding the turn of the millennium” The same quote that kept life in the veins of the freedom fighters during their day has over the years been passed on through our family for three generations now.
If my Great Grandfather came back to Uganda today, he would be appalled at how far we have receded from the master dream. Many of us today live illegally in this country. If you have an opinion and you are not afraid to express it openly, life for you is contraband. Democracy is a bootleg product that must be consumed in secrecy for you. Rights are concessions that the head of state and his aides will give to whoever they please at their own discretion. Back in the days of my father, you never needed to get permission to meet with three of your colleagues in the village square to discuss issues that affected the community. Today you need to beg the Police for permission to gather with concerned citizens to discuss issues affecting our errant community. The next time I visit his grave, I will give him the state of the nation update and I might hear him lament in his grave. He might say something in line with… “ I am a slave. A slave to the state, a corrupt, broken down state with no regard to the lives and welfare of its people. I am no more than a tool in a workshop for this regime. A tool they choose to use and discard whichever way they choose. I am nothing but just a door mat to them. They step and drag their feet all over me. They have bled my land clean of its wealth. We have been left poor. My people starve and others rot behind bars. All our tears, our sweat and blood laid to waste. They have made our worst nightmare come true. They have raped our land and they now organize elections to justify their crimes. May our blood soaked earth bubble with the rage of all our pains and consume all of them”
We have been overrun and we shall not sit back and do nothing. Go get you’re your national IDs all you Ugandans and let’s make a difference come February 2016. Let’s all vote and raise our voices to the skies. Let’s make it known that enough is enough and we shall be the change that we have so long needed. We shall form our own government, a government with the interests of its people at heart. Now is the time, now we rise. We have come too late to lose this time. We triumph now and we do this together!

Forever without Yesterday

The past can never be completely erased. It lingers-like the scent of burning wood after a downpour. The past perseveres alongside the present-just as a shadow beside you as you walk. The past is intertwined to the present like the threads in a tapestry-intricately interwoven to form a beautiful spectacle. Both the past and the present progress together to the future. Every girl has a past. More often than never, their past is ugly.

All girls have done stuff in the past that they are sorry about. But it’s those experiences that groomed them and natured them into the beautiful angles they are today. So, if you meet a good angelic girl and decide to settle down with her and progress together into the future, be sure some species of humans will try to dig deep into the ugly things your girl has lived through. They will try to bring those ugly things to light and get you to dump her. If you are a weak chicken man, you will do the expected-dump her. But if you are a strong man made of flesh and blood but reinforced with a bold sense of purpose and insight in life , you will do the unexpected-stay with your girl.

 

All guys have a past too. Without a past-whether good or bad, you are like a cloud that momentarily passes over the sun causing a gloom and then vanishes away. I am who I am today because of all those good and bad things I’ve done to get here. I am a great fuck in bed today-thanks to all the girls I played with along the way. Today my fiancée screams her voice out every night when we make love because of all those styles, moves and techniques I learned over the years by experimenting with the many losers I dated. I don’t do what I used to do anymore. That’s what makes me the distinct man I am today. From this vantage point, I can clearly see where I and Diana will stand 20 years from today. We have all fucked up. That’s okay. We don’t fuck up today because we fucked up yesterday.
Look here boys, if you have that girl that makes you do any of those Michael Jackson thriller Strokes, forget about her past. Keep a deaf ear to what they tell you about her. Concentrate on her and love her harder until it starts to hurt. When it hurts enough, you will no longer feel the hurt and you will learn that no sacrifices are void of pain.

 

My Father loved my mother so hard that all the neighbors in that little mountain town of Kilembe thought he was insane. You see, when a love is so strong, the people around you that have never experienced a love so strong will declare you weak, insane or bewitched. While my dad loved my mum like a idiot, my mom loved him back so much more that even after my Dad passed on, my mother never ever dated another man. It’s been about 28 years now and she still loves him! All three of us kids have known no other man in my mom’s life other than our late father. And for that, we were raised up with the finer things in life-love, dedication and the never-failing presence of our super mother. Men, what better things would you want in life other than what my mom did for us and our Father? When you vow in before God and men that you will stick together till death do you part, this vow stays until you both leave this world. My mother made sacrifices for this vow beyond the stars and void that lurks in deep space.

 

Listen all you fuckers, if you have a woman, fuck the world, fuck everything else. Love her! Dump all those little side bitches and love your woman! Love her like she’s all you got-after all, what do you have in life that’s more precious than a woman who has pledged her allegiance to you for life? A woman who puts up with all your bullshit and still says I love you even when you grow a potbelly and run broke is priceless. A woman who gives you a child and bears all the labor pains, the discomforts and deformations that come with childbirth is a goddess. A woman who risks her life to conceive your child well knowing she may die in the process is a star that lights our entire galaxy.

 

A woman who stands your folly and tolerates your immature ejaculations and snores at night is a gift from God. Listen all you bloody suckers, love your woman. Love her. Live for her. Do things for her. She’s the best you have. The best you’ll ever get. Beyond her, there’s nothing. She’s the pinnacle. She’s the climax of everything nice in this life, in this solar system. Beyond her, there’s no life. Life starts and ends with her. That’s it. Nothing less, nothing more.