The Bully in me

I am that big boy you see and wonder whether I know what pain feels like. Am that big, cocky guy with the attitude of Mbabazi, the Swagger of JK Lukyamuzi , the Will of YK Museveni, the Enthusiasm and undying spirit of K Besigye and the courage of Kyalya Maureen. I am more than what you see. You see me and wonder whether I sometimes wane away into sorrowful niches and cry for my lost and deceased dreams in the depth of the night. You start to think I do but only for an instant before you hear me speak. Then you change your mind and you start to think am descended from Zeus. Am the dude your girl talks to for hours on the phone. I am the reason she sneaks out of bed at night while you snore to sms me palatial good night messages. She only orgasms with you when she trains her thoughts on me. My Voice, my tongue, my moves are what she fantasies when she plays with herself in your bathroom while she takes a shower before she comes to bed with you and feigns tiredness before she falls into the hands of Morpheus. Oh, now you are flinching? Am not friends with Titan Atlas anymore? So am not the demi-god you thought I was? Damn right you must be a twisted, two-sided sort of genius. Yes, am Museveni back in 1976. Yes, am Museveni in ’76 in the bush with my pointing finger curled on the trigger of the deadly AK 47 rifle-ready to shoot. No, am more than that. Am K. Besigye with the wrath and pent up pain of 36 million Ugandans living under the oppression of a single regime since the days of Iddi Amin. I am Amama, I am Munyagwa. Not just that, I am Jennifer Musisi-the golden woman pulled out of the pages of the Mustard Seed book with a butt of a goddness. Goddamit, am worse. Am a monster. Am Kayihura-Nothing like Bukenya at all or even the little midget comedian called Kapere from the Amarula Family. Am far worse and dreaded tenfold more than the fiend Frankenstein created. Am the beast you see in backdrop of your nastiest nightmare. Am that poltergeist you see in the dark spaces of your room when you lay on that bed at night restless and sleepless. King Kong frets when images of my being flash frantically across his memory’s eye. You pee in your pants and scream Gavumenti etuyambe. I don’t demand fear, in instigate fear. Am non-conformist, I stand up against the wall magnum defiant and the wretched rebars in the foundation beg for me to visit that big 80 year old Jambula tree in your father’s back yard. Close your eyes little man and stifle the intensity of my presence. That’s free advice those slim, ass-black people from across our borders would pay sums for! Crawl back into that little cocoon you have curved for yourself and chide yourself to sleep. While you sleep, the cock in the background crows and the little girls sing. Their voices so serene and angelic-they carry love, rejuvenation and life across the wide, sprawling wind washed tundra that you roam alone and anxious each time you slither into your cocoon and hush. The little girls are not the seven daughters of Pleiades that Zeus turned into stars. Its only sheer, queer coincidence that you see just the six of them. It’s not magic that the seventh is invisible. Invisible doesn’t mean invincible, your darkened subconscience rumors. But your mind still lingers on the seventh daughter. Might she be in a state of restlessness, lack of concentration and loquacity to gossip addiction? Nah, you dummy, you are wrong. You are disoriented. Wake the fuck up, it’s almost midnight and your girl is on the phone with him again. She’s drawing pictures on his chest with her tongue and dotting your linen with her moistness. She’s singing hymns with his names in the chorus. Wake up sleeping dog, that’s the only way you can escape the nightmare. Miles away, in the glowing beauty of the rising sun at dawn, I wish her a beautiful fulfilling day and I slip out of my bed. I stand by my 7X3” stand alone mirror and talk to myself. I smile and wish you were here to see me. I am all you have. I am your most awful nightmare, I am your preeminent fantasy. I am like the wind, you feel me, you can find me but you can’t contain me wholly. I am like Besigye- Kayihura’s worst migraine. I am your Mugabe, your Donald Trump. I am her Magufuli, her Obama. Here is a bit of advice from Hesiod: And if longing seizes you for sailing the stormy seas,when the Pleiades flee mighty Orion and plunge into the misty deep and all the gusty winds are raging, then do not keep your ship on the wine-dark sea but, as I bid you, remember to work the land.