Reasons for Nothing

Two weeny spoons of that gooey stuff is all we needed. We needed it to consummate the relationship but then we also realized that we needed to nature the intimacy. So we decided to open up a little bit more so she let me in a little deeper. A soupcon of love with a sharing of compassion touched me so deep a few tears escaped my tear glands. She saw the consideration and treated it with urgency and concern. She let me in a little more and I felt I had reached the blue skies. Up there, I floated among the clouds and played second fiddle with the cumulus clouds and the nimbus clouds. I thought about the saying, “being over cloud nine” and I tried counting the clouds I was resting on. I counted past nine and got bored. Bells rung and music played infinitely and rain drops slithered through damp air and vanished before my eyes. She sang songs that no human ear had ever heard before. Songs that angels sang in Genesis as God created the world. Her voice was delicate and visceral that air and molecules therein carefully danced around the sound of her voice as it escaped her corporeal lips. Only angels could decipher the lyrics of the songs she sang. She sang like a goddess. She hypnotized me. The clouds danced with us and the rain drops that watered our souls swayed and quivered as we floated past the moon and the stars. The stars felt jealous and they bled wine-glass-sized droplets of the purest champagne. The moon smiled and tossed red roses at us. The sun that had long taken refuge behind the other planets in the solar system sent us flying kisses that settled on our skins and glistened like star dust. She looked into my eyes and I felt naked. I felt like Adam and Eve in Eden after they had eaten the forbidden fruit. I closed my eyes as if to swathe my nakedness and I felt a pair of soft, sacred , righteous lips touch my own lips. A bolt of lightning flew by and landed somewhere on earth leaving shock waves in its wake. The rumbling sound of thunder engulfed us in a warmth so supreme that that my Manolo Blahnik boutique duvet back home felt like a pair of flimsy overused second hand bed sheets from our local flea market called Owino. When she sighed and giggled, her voice vibrated and bounced around the starry skyline like the Buran-the first operational Soviet/Russian shuttle orbiter in 1988. We floated past the Sputnik 1 deep space satellite station and I heard a man say, “I love the way the world looks from here. It’s so peaceful and serene I feel like singing you a serenade.” We floated to a massive white cloud and perched up on it. I sidled up right next to her and watched life from afar. The silence was so holy you could hear angels’ footsteps on heaven’s floor from where we sat. We watched the rivers, the lakes, geysers and hot springs until the sun came up. The beauty of the rising sun was so scintillating that I decided to cry. When my tears came out, they tasted like caviar and had the properties of molten silver. Then I stopped crying and laughed. My laughter resounded over the soft-scented morning breeze like the sound of a very small cock learning to crow at dawn….

And still we Live on.

Big world-Not all of it flowers and Sunshine. Problems are just opportunities that haven’t yet happened. Anger is a spark. Rage is a wild fire-Out of control and therefore useless. Useless is what they thought that piece of land was before i bought it. Years later, they now come to me with offers worth Millions and I smile in their face before I tell them to fuck off. A complete fuck up they said is what Besigye did to the NRM when he first ascended against them in 2001. Many believed him and rallied behind him. Victory was almost in their grip but then came the polls and the results damn near blew the lid off their asses. So from that experience, we learnt to go slow on dark-skinned, overly confident, out-spoken politicians and girls who have big asses. That ass was the talk of town when Desire first gave us a sneak preview of it on social media. Every one with a dick went nuts. The women unleashed a lethal dose of hate on her. Cynicism and pessimism flourished while love and Magnanimity withered and writhed to a painful death in the face of our hot probing eyes. Death was the ultimate destination for the ill prepared. AK left us and my little friend Vienna from my childhood fairies succumbed to Leukemia. For days on end, our tears flowed relentlessly down our faces and dried on our laps leaving telltale marks on our grief etched faces. Amidst our sorrow, we watched the weekly series of the WWE broadcasts and we saw Seth Rowlings come out each time and return still as the WWE Heavy weight Champion. He beat Cena to his ass and the Duddly boys came back to Raw after 10 years of oblivion. The Undertaker failed to pin Brock Lesna with his signature choke-slam and our hearts bled when John Patrick Amama Mbabazi fled the NRM and chose to run for President on the ‘Independent’ ticket. Besigye never gave up, the police did. So we learned that Problems are just opportunities that haven’t yet happened. When the value of the shilling plummeted to a record low against the dollar, the import business came face to face to a life-sized nightmare and the economy slumped on its knees. We saw many businesses close and we heard the cry of employees who were left unemployed as employers struggled to downsize and remain a float. On the other hand, the price of coffee on the world market grew rapidly like pubic on an adolescent’s mons pubis after his first shave. So the opportunity was for us to export more since we couldn’t import that much. The shilling gained weight against the dollar and the economy scuttled to its feet again. While all this happened, the war of words raged between the ruling party and the opposition. The loose-mouthed, bullshit-spitting, low-life, village-boy gone politician who suffers severe illusions of grandeur-Tamale Mirundi got fired and rehired. His rantings were out of control-so were those of my dog Gucci who stayed up all night barking at his own shadow. Paranoia is contagious. I watched my shadow follow me one night as I walked along the northern Bypass and I suffered the inkling that I was being followed by a stalker who was so careful he only treaded in the cover of my silhouette. Could it be that the old man of the state is paranoid too? Is he so terrified of losing his hold of the state that he is willingly letting go of the very same thing that he would gladly suppress and sacrifice life for? Wasn’t Mugisha Muntu enraged that he lost to a three time, full time loser? No, he went nuts but he showed the public a picture of a calm demented man waiting for an opportunity to blow a cap. Besigye still wears that old frog-smile of his. We somehow feel sorry for him. A lot more sorry for the people that have vested their trust in him. He has let them down 3 times and they can’t wait for him to do what he does best again-let them down. We should turn our lights out and stay in the dark for three days…stay there and weep for the fallen stars that once lit our darkened skies and hope that the titans will come to our rescue. We are a dying state. We feed on rumors and we binge on gossip. Hypocrisy is the new swag and corruption is the new creed that our leaders live by. Our land is dry with poverty and reeking with disease and yet we still spend millions of shillings on creating new districts and municipalities. I fear for what tomorrow brings forth to us. We fear our own shadows and we fight our own wives and children on social media and national Television and Tabloids. We are a mess yet we still march at the Kololo memorial grounds and claim to be the pearl of Africa. We are vampires, Zombies, lost to our own existence.

The Devil she Craves

Imagine a sea of red roses. The colour of fury, of wrath with the scent of fresh coffee brewing on the Coffeemaker. The portmanteau of red-hot flames with minus zero freezing cold chills amassed in the colour of intimacy, of love, of sensuality.

She could feel both exquisite opposites and even though she felt the slim film that separated the two, she believed a wide black gulf swarming with vile apocalyptic blood-thirsty beasts ultimately separated these two completely independent worlds that she lived in simultaneously. Sometimes she felt so lonely she wished the Incubus that assaulted her soul during her sleep would materialize and sooth her already broken soul with its malevolent sexual attacks.

Sometimes amidst extreme violation, she would binge on the pain until the soreness finally transformed into a subtle clout of pleasure–pain. They say pain is addictive. It’s like contraband substance. It enters your blood stream and possesses you in ways that your whole existence bows in submission like a pack of wolves would in the presence of the alfa male.

Pain separates your mortal existence from your spirit. It’s the threshold that ushers you into the potent visceral realm. Reason amidst pandemonium is the lost cause her disoriented psyche sought. A little light, a glow is what her soul needed to survive the empty blackness her soul lurked in. She knew she could find the light somewhere buried in her memory but what she lacked was the spark. Long gone and buried deep in the heap of her life’s keepsake regrets was the will to dig deep and find that spark she so desperately needed right now. Like a lone ship lost in the tempest of a moonless night with a dishevelled captain in strange waters, she groped and grappled while her proverbial boat surfed the precarious deathly tides.

With all hope suspended and all footholds to life lost, she hangs on to the only thing that still reminded her of what it felt like to still have a beating heart-pain. Pain was the drug she abused. Pain was that force that still held her boat together even when the winds and waters battered it. The ghosts of her past that occasionally revisited her present and violated her dignity to levels that transcended extreme moral wickedness were the only reliable source of pain that she now so desperately depended on.

She knew that once the pain wore away with the tide at dawn, the sign and hope of life that the rising sun brought henceforth would be the death of her. So, she curled back in her destitution and wished that the demons of her sorrow would once again violet her and induce the pain she so evilly needed to stay alive in her death.

The Cow on Set

The government spokesman sat on TV set and I thought to myself, he’s fat. Doesn’t he look like a cow on set? While silly thoughts about the size and outlook of this fat man played ping pong in my mind, the interview progressed and I thought he looked like a cow indeed. His speech was strong and over flowing with confidence but lacking of substance. He argued incoherently while over-zealously contradicting himself. I told myself, “ this cow is chewing his curd on set”
I flipped the channel and ran headlong into the local channel that broadcasts in the local language and on the screen was a large writing…Abebitone basisinkanye Omukulembeze…and I thought, what a funny , pathetic lot they are! Some of them looked like clowns in those silly looking yellow bow ties and waist coats. On their faces, they wore smiles that flashed yellow teeth. “don’t their breaths stink?” I imagined. The event dragged on and the presenter was a wasted, horny-looking piece of junk who carried on his duties without enthusiasm. So I thought he must be an undercover policeman.
Did I say Police man? Yes I mean Police woman. Damn it, I guess they all mean the same thing. I grew up in the foothills of the mountains of the moon and 30% of people I knew were either policemen, army officers or RC 1’s. I had a deep respect for law enforcement officers. I revered them. To me, they were the most respected and important members of our society. Then the ADF rebels attacked the peaceful, solemn town of Kasese and we saw several militias grow up in the name of crime prevention and law enforcement. The little crook Byarugaba Amon who had dropped out of school in P 5 got recruited and the crime rate in Nyakasanga and Railway quarters in Kasese skyrocketed. When tears wastefully plagued the faces of the innocent, hard-working citizens of these villages, Byarugaba binged on Alcohol and the cheap sluts from Kasese Inn as he wasted away his stolen spoils. I was a boy and growing up in the changing times changed my perception of these law enforcers. Today I woke up and my daughter told me she had a nightmare. I held her close to my heart and we sang a song together until she felt better before imploring her to share with me her bad dream. She said she dreamt about our neighbor Mr. Opolot who’s a Police constable. She says, in her dream Opolot intercepted her on her way back from school and tore off all her clothes before hitting her with the butt of his AK 47. She said he did to her what the crazy Police women did to the woman on TV. This tore my heart asunder. I’ve always been so cautious about watching TV with my little one. As a father, my duty is to protect her from any inappropriate TV programming and lord knows I’ve done a good job. It however never crossed my mind that even the 21:00hrs news on TV needed Parental Guidance. So to my horror, my Little girl is traumatized after watching the Law enforcers manhandle and undress a woman on National TV.
Am I growing paranoid? They say Paranoia is contagious and it seems like everyone nowadays is paranoid. My neighbor-he’s the king of those that are paranoid and what beats my understanding is that he’s not running for any political seat and neither does he work for the government or any political party. He’s just the run-of-the-mill guy. But he’s level of Paranoia ranks way above that of President Zuma, Mugabe or even president Barshir of North Sudan. Could it be true that Uganda is now the nursery bed for Paranoia and cynicism? I get this chill each time I see a law enforcement officer but this neighbor of mine has his paranoia scale ringing off the hook each time he….Ok, here's the story. The other day we were out of the houses watching the kids play in the compound when a security guard stumbled into our neighborhood. He was lost and was merely asking for directions. My neighbor yelled for all the kids to run back into the house immediately and bolt the doors lest the guard does some vile act in front of them. Then he turned his attention to the lost guard and you could see the fire in his eyes. Myself and my beautiful fiancée were shocked. In the long run the guard left but the gloom his uninvited visit brought with him lingered.
When I was growing up, I went to school with kids who shared a metallic hut with their mother and father and an entire family of nine. Ah, by the way we used to call those metallic huts synonymous with the Police barracks uni-pots. Is uni-port an English word? It was a shame. Today, I still know people who still live under similar circumstances. And these are the same people we rely on to have sane judgments and uphold law and order. I know Mr. Oplopt so well since myself and him speak at a unique level and you can know a fool when you talk to one. He’s a good neighbor, a respectable family man and a friend too but he’s not a smart guy. He’s dumb and his wife Akello Mercy will not mince her words about it. But at his Duty post, tens of people rely on him every day to mediate and pass judgment on cases three stories above his maximum level of understanding.
I flip the channel I find this Scare-crow faced presidential aspirant rumbling about being sprayed with a lethal inhalant while in detention at Nagalama and I think, he sounds like a little bitch. Disgusted with him disguising as an angel of the light yet we all know he’s a demon from hell’s gaping abyss. He carries no message for the people of this godforsaken country except for the cliché’ mantra…“we will win not by compliance but by defiance”. I pity him and those that follow and believe him.
After several minutes flipping through the channels, I end up right where I started and the fat cow on set was still chewing the curd. Am afraid of lies ahead of us. Tomorrow is not promised and today is a gamble. All we have is yesterday. The future is blind and the present is dumb. We are bind people being led by old, battered-down, ill-minded pedigree blind fossils of men. Our neighbors see us and they weep because they see us walking towards the cliff and they fear the result. because we are deaf, we don't hear anyone's counsel. We will fall and when we do, no one will be there to help us up. Behold the darkness that we long dreaded is now at hand. Save us lord….For God and My Country.

Together as None

So the lazy dog that spent all day laying under the shade and grooming himself told the other little dogs and the handicapped cat that if they ganged up together, they could overthrow the man that owned the house in whose compound they wallowed every day. The handicapped cat accepted but on condition that he takes the best couch in the house. The other little dogs demanded only for a steady supply of food for the rest of their lives. The old fuzzy, lazy dog told them all their demands would been duly attended to and fulfilled. So hairy bunch of mutts and the handicapped cat spent the next few days planning their takeover.
While the other mutts worked their tails off surveying the property, studying the owner’s moves and alternative escape routes should the shit hit the fan, the old mellow, fuzzy dog groomed himself and enjoyed the warm April heat of the sun. Each day he studied their cohesion, their dedication and conviction. He was never amazed at how easy they bought into his idea. Besides grooming himself, he only paid attention to the force majeur relating of the takeover.
The celestial travels of the sun ensued by the poised nightly passings of the moon in occasionally starry skies finally brought the bunch of fuzzy bandits and their feline counterpart to the designated take over date. The old fuzzy, mellow mutt was alert and vibrant as he prepared the sorry lot of bandits for the attack. With a few moments of super charged pep talks and a couple of tail wags, the assault on the house started. The old fuzzy gangster stayed back and watched the fuzzy fools delve headlong into their own demise.
The man of the house was always ready. Although he never attempted any eviction of the intruders in his compound, he always knew a day would come and he would have to deal with the four-legged fur balls once and for all. He knew the day was nigh when he noticed a change in their routines. So on this designated day when he believed they would attack, he laid his trap wide open and all the four-legged fur balls willingly fell for it.
Later when the Vet officer was called to take the nuisance animals off the property and put them out, the old fuzzy mutt lay in his usual place grooming and admiring his balls. His competition had been tactfully dealt away with for good and now he had the compound and all the leftover food for himself. He was proud of himself and his accomplishments until the handicapped big eyed cat came back to the neighborhood.
So it came to pass that when Amama Mbabazi left the ruling NRM party, he formed the TDA and sold them an idea with an ideology backed by a concept. They bought into it until he seemed to levitate all over the opposition parties and their handicapped leaders. Then when it seemed like the bigger problem had been finally settled for good, the big-eyed blue Monster opposition bandit called Besigye returned and overturned the TDA tables at the verge of declaring JPAM as the TDA flag bearer.
Now aren’t we back to square one? We seemed to have made three steps forward and five backwards. Will the old, lazy,mellow, fuzzy dog ever share the same plate with the wide-eyed handicapped cat again?

Kilembe

Two rabbits. Both white with aurora-like eyes. Little, chubby, fuzzy faces with teeny-weeny twinges of cute tails behind them. Two Rabbits they were. They browsed in the wide open floral fields and beyond the tree line, the Mighty Nyamwamba flowed. Flowed down steep, precarious hills among mighty larger-than-life rock boulders and angel-white crystals of sand. Down below the roaring cascades were the little, pristine pools of crystal water. Here the ducklings made merry. Plenty of yellow feathered ducklings swam and stirred the basking water to life. The momma ducks just lounged by the banks grooming their radiant, elegant, feathers that glistened in the backdrop of mid noon rainbow over the horizon. Beneath the pool’s crystal water, you could see fist-sized circular rock boulders neatly stacked by nature’s adept artistical hand. As the waters cascaded from about a quarter a mile down the bosom of the mighty ranges of the moon, with it came ounces of that angelic sand at a time and soupcons of those little circular boulders. Some of these flowed past the pool where the ducklings partied. The sand and the boulders amidst the undying voice of the flowing river and the cloud-white mist of miniature cascades made their way down to Kilembe town. Here in Kilembe, the river bed widened and sprawled past the earth-old eucalyptus trees and the copper-scented yellow eroded peripherals of the river basin. Here the waters that still kept their minus zero freezing cold properties flowed at a rather laid-back pace. Here the dragon flies patrolled the waters and the cows and goats drank freely from Nature’s refrigerator. Somewhere behind Kilembe Hospital, nature curved a swimming pool for the little escapees from Nyamuhuga primary school to freely enjoy a piece of Kilembe’s almost euphoric paradise ecosystem. This state of the art pool was flanked by huge rocks expertly piled in a semi-circular dimension with carefully crafted perforations for the crystal waters to seep in, twirl into a gentle whirlpool and then stealthily leach out. The floor of the pool was made of the little, round, impeccably smooth boulders and the unblemished, fine, white sand. Here the boys and girls tore off their clothes and plunged into the near-holy waters to drench their little bodies and arise out of the pool cleansed but with a myriad of goose bumps and transient spasms.

Oh shit, here comes my boss. Am in office wasting company time by writing all these things from my childhood. Pardon me guys, I have to stop here and go. Hey, before I get my ass fired for negligence of duty and abuse of company Wifi-Internet, I have to say…I wasn’t born in Kasese. My Little Sister Sheila was. I grew up in Kilembe though. All my childhood is indelibly imprinted with thoughts, memories and vibes of Kilembe. Shit, the fucking boss is gonna kill me. Till next time, fuck you all. Lol, I love you! I fucking love you !

Fucking Fucks

Go fuck yourself you old, fucked up, booty-looking, queer-color loving bigoted despots. Fuck you hard. Fuck you five times five hundred times you silly oppressor of the unprivileged. Go to hell you butt-looking fossils if you have been doing the same insane shit and failing for 30 motherfucking years. All you left over’s from the forties-fuck you. You turd-headed ducks are several notches out of sync, you are totally out of step with the current times. Fuck all you sons of bitches who live in the forties and fifties but still run around in the current day and age singing pussy-ass adages and mantra’s that spewed over from the late eighteen hundreds. You little pie-headed pussies with over-sized limbs and big fucking pot bellies think pussy-ass analogue black and white TV’s can project HDMI HD images in color? Shit, these fucking old rotting bastards in big cars and funny dress codes should take your raggedy pubic-crowded faces to the Alfa-fossil and kiss his wrinkled, raggedy, cranky booty hole. Fuck all you paranoid fuckers, all you fucking grandfathers and pussy-face cum bum-scratchers misplaced from a lost screwed-up generation. Get the fuck out of our time. Scram you bitches to Lord-knows-where and bury your god-forsaken sorry beings in a shit-load of crap. Am done here. If you don’t like this post, put your fucking middle finger into your butt and suck it till you get high off it. If you like it, put your middle finger up and scream, YOLO!

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.

In the Heat

He couldn't believe what the little vixen did next. She stood up and untied her top, letting it fall away and exposing her perfect perky tits in all their glory. "Do they look nice without my clothes on, uncle Dave?", she asked. He was in shock as he stared at her perfect young form. "Yes Ash," he said, "your breasts are absolutely perfect, but I don't think your father would like it if he knew I was seeing you like this!" Ashley just smiled and said,"well it's a good thing he's not home!" He couldn't resist touching her any longer...he swam up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He bent down and took one of her tiny pink nipples into his mouth. He was afrid ahe would get scared and push him away but she just moaned softly and pressed her firm tittie against his lips. He felt her push her hips into him so her crotch was directly against his raging hard on. He though she might be scared or surprised by it, but to his surprise she just moaned harder and began to grind against him. He suddenly realized that his little niece might have more experience than he realized. She wrapped her legs around him and he gasped as he felt her soft warm slit cradling his fuckmeat. He smiled at her. "Hmm, I don't think this is what your parents had in mind when they suggested I look after you for the weekend!" "Nope," said Ashley,"but it is definitley what I had in mind!" Hearing his little slut niece say that she had planned on seducing him made him hot as hell, and he knew he had to fuck her hot young cunt immediately! He picked her up and carried her out of the water and onto the deck, where he knew no one would be able to see them. He laid his niece down onto a chaise lounge and pulled off her skimpy bikini panties, getting his first look at her bare little pussy. She spread her legs and used her fingers to hold her sweet little cunt open, showing him the tiny pink hole that he was about to stretch out. "Do you think my cunnie is pretty,uncle Dave?", she asked."Oh yes, baby", he said,"I think you have the prettiest little cunt that I have ever seen!" "Are you gonna stuff your big fat cock in it uncle Dave?", she asked in her best little girl voice. "I sure am baby," he said, "I am gonna fuck my little slut so good she will be begging for more!" With that, he ripped down his swim trunks and watched the horny look on his little niece's face when she saw that it was 11 inches long and almost as fat as a pop can. "Wow uncle dave, you sure have a big dick! I hope it fits in my litte pussy!", Ashley said, "I better get it nice n wet with my mouth before u stretch me out!" "MMM baby," he said, "you are a good little slut,aren't you?" as she went to work on his cock....she definitely knew how to make a guy wanna cum, as she slobbered all over the head,looking up into his eyes as she forced it inch by inch down her pretty little throat, making gagging noises....

Oh Gucci my dear pet dog!

So we leashed his tail to the seat hoping that when we got back from the Hospice where we would be visiting for an hour or so, the bear dog would still be in the same spot we left him. He had a big mouth arrayed with precarious sharp Posho-white teeth and a large red tongue that dripped with globules of saliva. We loved him for his courage, macho beauty and bushy tail. My daughter above all spent countless hours every week brushing and grooming his bushy tail and his brown bear face. So, we bickered over which of our three cars to drive while bear-dog watched noncommittally until I conceded to driving the little 650cc car we called Michelle-O.
Driving down the road to the Hospice, we made small talk, laughing occasionally while casting little furtive glances at each other. Diana was dressed in a mischievous , thigh-high black skirt that stuck snugly to her petite body like a pair of clinical gloves. Her prefect pair of legs escaped the confines of the gorgeous skirt in a way that only a goddess’ legs could. Her beauty illuminated the little car like the April Aurora usually does before one of those shinny mornings that usually preceded a mid-season down pour. She reluctantly shifted in her seat and laughed her signature queen-of-the-light laughter that never once failed to stir up my most visceral desires for her. I turned, looked at her and then with my left hand shifting from the grey gear lever jutting from the little space between my seat and hers, I let it rest on her immaculate thigh flesh. She smiled back and said, “bae, not yet c-bus time..” The C-bus in our own terms is….ah….well, I rather not disclose that right now.
We drove past scanty, half-dried vegetation, bare dry hill sides and two construction sites where we could see the men's backs glistening against the hot sun. The Murrum road underneath us was unrelenting against Michelle-O’s high-end Pirreri’s. The straight-three engine chanted while we wobbled and fish-tailed our way past a muddy, bumpy section of the road. I imagined the countless road networks in our corrupt and poverty stricken countryside and I worried about the future of our nation with the polls around the corner and a myriad of impoverished voters who would decide our fate for the next 5 years with just a bribe of Ugx. 2,000. The current state of affairs in my motherland ripped my weary heart off its hinges and bashed it back and forth against my rib cage with petrifying exertion. It Saddened me just as the state of my great grandmother at the hospice. She was almost 103 years old and most of her mental faculties had long resigned leaving her old and battered body to fend for its self with the least intellectual capabilities at her disposal. The Janitor who was an elderly man in his late 60’s was her only companion and he recounted that she spent most of her borrowed time in the evenings and mornings watching the clouds and birds fly by. They took turns at naming them and calling them by their nicknames whenever the Janitor was free.
We left the hospice with the next big white cloud that my great granny called Omnisee. We drove back home through James brown’s 1971 Revolution of the mind Album. The journey back took us forever since each of us seemed to have been taken aback by the aura of imminent death that lurked around my great grandmother. We barely had eyes for the poor commercialization and squalid respectability of Kireku as we drove through having taken the dirt road to elude the evening traffic through Bweyo’s. The unsuppressed spectacle of poverty and sheer tokenism could be seen through the sprawling junk of subhuman, diminutive mud and wattle shacks roofed with dead-brown decaying low-grade iron sheets . Once in a while you could see a beautiful white painted bungalow fenced with reinforced concrete amidst a sea of ugly improvised shacks that the residents called home. Urchins and bare-chested juveniles roamed the dirt roads with defiance and death in their eyes. The elderly wore yellow T-shirts with unclear campaign inscriptions. We drove by in silence and wondered if the old man in clean Persian linens, spick and span walls in state house ever thought about all these voters crawling at the rim of death and life. 300 meters ahead brought us out of the Kireku Nightmare. We felt like Aaron emerging out of the thicket after 56 days of slow death and torment in the hands of the Queen Elizabeth Wilderness.
At home bear dog wasn’t where we left him. His bushy tail had left scores of his black and brown hairs sprayed around the bits and pieces of his Ugx. 50.000 leash that had held him captive until he chewed his way out of leather, wood and iron.
He had to be somewhere around the compound. I had to find him and give him a quick bath before he was served dinner. C-bus was almost served….

Void of Care

He did not care about them. He did not give a hoot about any of them. Matter of fact he didn’t give a damn about the whole fucking community. He was the meanest, most vile, self-pleasing egomaniac my village had ever seen since the days of Iddi Amin(May his troubled soul roam restlessly in Hell) . Pinto didn’t concern himself with community affairs or even the least of his three children’s welfare. He was to the community a fiend ( Idiot, fiend is what I said-not friend). Pinto was a brute to the community, destroying and stifling all efforts to the good of the entire community. To his mother and father, he was a shame, he was the ogre they mistakenly brought to life-a miserly of their actions they had to live with for the rest of their days. No one spoke about him at home. His name was only whispered in hushed monotones in the guise of the dark. When he got home, a bizarre silence seemed to engulf the entire house and all his household would suddenly fall back into the silhouette or seek refuge in the ill-comfort of their beds. Only when he left home or fell asleep would the other people under his roof come back to life with a sigh. Pinto was the reincarnation of the fierce Pabolo Bitek that my grandmother recounted with an aura of fear. Each time she recited that episode in which Pabolo fought an entire village at the local village bar over a plate of roast maize and boiled beans injuring himself and a dozen other brazen men, our little bodies were without fail left with humongous goose bumps on our limbs.
Today Pabolo the reincarnate had called for a meeting to announce that he was taking a second wife-Anite who was the only daughter to the local merchant in the village. Being only barely 19, Anite was being forced into this unholy matrimony with the man who was born with the heart of a Zebu bull and the dumbness of an African wild ox. Anite was the proverbial rabbit being given away as bounty to the village hound after a very successful hunting spree. Anite’s father having been indebted to Pinto was forced to abdicate his only daughter to Pinto to settle the debt. Pinto wore his biggest smile as he passed on his horrid communication to his and Anite’s family members. Later when he had dismissed the gathering, a dark shroud of gloom hang low other the village. The usually vibrant weaver birds that sang and tweeted in the giant cactus tree that was heavy laden with thousands of their grass weaves seemed to have been visited by the angel of death-the same angle that visited the Egyptian’s houses taking all their male first borns on the night of the Passover.
With the taste of bile on her tongue and the weight of the deathly mistletoe poison on her heart, Anite waited alone, scared and distressed in the dampness of the darkness of Pinto’s malevolent bedroom. She quivered and her body perspired with every passing moment. She knew what awaited her. She was afraid that she had woken up into her worst nightmare. All her life’s floral dreams sped before her bleary eyes like a movie in fast forward. Dead dreams, unfulfilled wishes and shattered promises gouged her once vibrant spirit choking her with acrid tears. A lump of bile in her windpipe maintained a choke-hold on her throat. All those beautiful smiles, happy moments and events flooded her writhing body causing her heartbeat to race two fold faster. She first heard the sound of those heavy footsteps approaching and soon after the deafening slam of the door that shook the little house to its foundations. she bit her lip, writhing in suppressed fury. She knew time was at hand. She pleaded to God to forgive her for her unforgivable sin with incoherent incantations. Like a ghost, Pinto stood in the doorway with his shadow cascading on the stout wooden bed from the wall making him look like Besigye with the face of Museveni and Amama inelegantly swathed together by a mundane artist to achieve the kind of caricature results that enthuse trepidation and evil. Her heart beat raced more rapidly and she knew the time was now. A jolt of electricity battered her from the core of her heart and the force of it paralyzed her vitals.
She was already growing limp by the time Pinto tore her legs apart and started abusing her sacrosanct womanhood. She felt nothing. She only heard voices and echoes of a doomed song wafting over a very still darkened sky towards the cliff where she stood. The sound that carried a certain chill to its notes engulfed her and she was no more. She was dead. The Mistletoe poison that finally taken its full toll on her heart. Pinto gulped and yelped as he bored himself into her lifeless body towards one of his usually vile and disgusting orgasms. He screamed , scratched and smacked her face with both fists was he climaxed. Her eyes were wide open, a look of horror lay in her inert face. Pinto slumped off her corpse and almost instaneously went to sleep. In his dreams, he saw an ox. A big black hairy ox with huge balls-the size of two fully grown men’s heads and a very small penis-the size of a Bic ball point pen. In his dream the ox walked towards him and he noticed, he had dog-like teeth and no tongue at all. His mouth was a gaping black hole that carried painful cries of a dying baby. The ox reached him and put its pint-sized penis in his ear and he could hear violent, heart-wrenching struggles of a man dying at birth. The baby he thought he first heard crying was actually a man being born and the sound of it overwhelmed him with a feeling only his master could relate to. He’s body started to stir as though he was having another orgasm except that for now, his blood seemed to be boiling as it flowed through his dilated vessels. He was too weak to scream or move. The morning light reclaimed him for the death-pit nightmare and he woke up to the sight of Anite’s dead body.
The whole village gathered at Pinto’s house with fire in their eyes and more fire in their hands…The world quivered and the ground underneath seemed to be giving away as Pinto stepped out of the house bare-chested with Anite’s corpse in his arms. silver bows and gaudy ribbons hang low at his door entrance. He never saw the first flaming torch that crushed against the nape of his neck instantaneously setting his nappy hair ablaze….

The View from Where i Stand

I stripped myself off all my fine-looking, pricey clothes, I took off all my shinny, lavish stuff. I took off all my shoes and silk stockings. I took off everything including my panache. I took off my cocky King Besigye attitude and laid it on my six by seven pure hardwood, hand-curved, leather-laced bed. As I walked to the window, I slipped out of my defiance and stood by the window stark naked and stared into the starry night sky. From my window I saw the world in all its beauty and glory. From outside my Window, I must have looked like a Greek god-chiseled out of quartz and sapphire. I stared at the city below and let my mind wonder yonder over the red car tail lights, the neon lights, the beautiful buildings and hundreds of cars sleeping their drive ways. Far beyond the glitter of the Central Business District, the night was deeper than my deepest appreciation for the beauty of my beautiful Diana back home in my bed, miles away slumbering and prolly dreaming about my voice, my wit and my C-bus. “That must be the red-light district there yonder” I thought.
I pulled on a pair of cheap slacks I had picked up from the flea market back home in Kampala. On with that, I had me a lousy Turtle neck T-shirt and a pair of car tire flip-flops. My chauffeur picked me up from the allée and dropped me off in the red-light district without asking any questions. That was one of the things I respected about him. As he drove off, I watched his tail lights fade away in the blackness of the neighborhood-in his wake a grey haze slowly grew and soon after thawed out into the darkness just like everything else here.
With my hands in my pockets, I strolled for what seemed to be like an hour until I stumbled into a shanty street with trickles of people in small groups of two’s and three’s. As I walked past them, I caught a whiff of the magnificence of a virtuous scent in the mild morning breeze. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to my right and there she was… she came closer to me, the scent of her body took me captive, seized up my full attention and completely redirected my interests to her face. When she smiled, the curl of her lips engulfed my memory and with it flew fifteen years back in time to that April Sunday afternoon when myself and Frank Kyomuhendo walked through Kiyanja to Virika Dioceses in the Heart of Fort portal town. It was there right after the Cemetery that sat on the gentle well kempt slope that overlooked the gorgeous little pond with ghost-haunted algae, magic fish and crystal water that danced with the shadows of the lush trees against the afternoon sun that we met her. She must have been friends with Frank before because they hugged, talked and laughed for most of the evening. Fast forward, it was fifteen-frigging years after and here she was in the heart of the red light district at such an ungodly hour wearing the scent of the devil and the smile of an Angel. We walked to the sound of loud local music playing out of a tavern perched at the edge of town, towards that place where the salty sea water communed with the old sulky earth. Here fishermen docked their boats and traders cut deals that resulted into fortunes and sometimes catastrophes. Here we stood and laughed about the good old Sleck days amidst silent whispers of the tide that seemed calmer than the Pope tonight. Occasionally we could hear the mellow swishing sound of a miniature tide breaking as the sea hugged the peninsula. We talked until we watched the delicate furs of the rising sun start to fluff up white pillows of clouds over the head of the still-sleeping sea at the threshold of the horizon. We talked until the fishing boats started arriving from their nightlong jaunts at sea. Then we walked away and our backs must have been illuminated in the deep orange and mauve beauty of the aurora to the enchantment of the morning skies.
My chauffeur picked me up at the Junction and drove me back to my Skyscraper hotel room. I rode back to my expensive, beautiful life in sheer silence-silence amassed in deep cerebral preoccupation. My thoughts took me back to my haven where I transformed from a man to Zeus, to where my goddess Diana complemented my weakness for her wetness and sweetness with her impeccable crown of celestial hair and glamorous bright, beautiful smile. As we drove through the red-light district, only now did I notice how life was unfair. I saw charred and tattered bits and pieces of humanity, floating around the dirty, clattered streets in torn clothes and almost no shoes in the bone-biting cold. They were the flotsam and jetsam of humanity being blown and tossed about by the invincible waves of life’s mean hand. Some of them had their hands cupped around their mouths as they drifted about, as if to harness the warmth of their breath. The rising sun shone on them with its earth-old radiance and I wondered what the Angel of the night was doing in this part of the world tonight. I wondered what path her life had taken over the past 15 years.
Back at my hotel room adorned in all my bling, I stood by the window again and looked down at the waking city. This time I saw pain, suffering, poverty and death. I saw sick, hungry rabid dogs and schizophrenic people. I saw money and power assembled in eternal grief and damnation. I saw a path, a path that many treaded to the skyline where it wound up into the forlone wilderness oblique to Hades fireplace. I saw hopelessness. “This is no path for me to take”, I said and turned around. Turned around and picked up the phone. I called My Diana and her voice on the other side sounded like a cup of cold,crisp, orange juice with just the right ounce of sugar in it. She lit up a smile on my lips and my day started. It started the way it just always has to. As I started out, the city hang low behind me from one side and underneath me from the other side. The lights…..

Voting in Spite

That fat, black ugly Bitch. Bitch or Witch-Whatever. That big, fat, ugly bitch witch-the one who said “You will be killed-we will kill you” That big tree stump with a waste bin dangling in the place of brains. Is it just me or does that bitch look like a cross between a big, short, black Ox and a Muvule tree? I think she has horns and an adder in the place of ... Someone help me here, is it that she is sooo dumb that she can’t see how evil she looks in that red pair of slacks and that ridiculous yellow T-shirt? Damn, that bitch only has cow-teeth. Hell, and that is the bitch they use to voice their opinion? Hahaha, why do I feel like this whole system is a bad joke! Oh, am I so negative? Ok, let’s tone down abit here and be more forgiving, what is the name of that 98 year old Minister who appeared in Parliament with his creased pants twisted sideways half way up his tummy and his tie furrowed up and knotted like something a dog just dragged out a rubble? What’s that bitch-nigger’s name? He looked so ridiculous you would think he was a retired clown-cum-puppeteer at the circus 80 years ago. And ladies and Gentlemen, that breed of wretched, age-etched and scruffy people is what the current system finds more suited to determine the future of this land. On the lighter side, while you ponder about Whatsapp, Twitter and Facebook, this hag is preoccupied with P.O. Boxes and handwritten letters with a postal stamp…type writers and Radio Uganda as the cutting edge media of interaction. Out of tune is what this kind of man is, totally out of step and sync with the current times , generation, technology and challenges. This is exactly how backward we are treading. Double tap that and you will be faced with the usual archaic and unintelligent response-call it the only response they have proven to be capable of. Did we really evolve from these apes? The youth and the current generation of vibrant enthusiasts is constantly stymied and beached to the milieu while in the forefront old, out-of ideas and craggy dim-wit septuagenarians run the show.

I am amazed by the quality of young so-called youth they have conscripted into the system-a clear, opulent and ostentatious display of tokenism. Ladies and Gentlemen, these bullshit-slinging , butt-mouth wagging bum-slits are the newest breeds of dumb in this land. These neo-dumb boys and girls are the reason why this land has been left to the big-potbellied and rabid wolves to traverse and devour anything in their path at will without the slightest inkling or apprehension for repress or corollary. Are we really on the right track? Are we that dead and gone that tomorrow does not concern us anymore? Are we that blind that we now entrust our vision to old fossils of men and women who can barely see a mile ahead. These are the men and women who now seat in cozy imported chairs and aesthetic buildings to affix their furrowed signatures to our land’s 2020 vision? Are we that dumb and far spent that we freely and willingly sell our suffrage for a few pennies of this worthless currency? Really? Are we that gullible that we will undress and wear worthless T-shirts and goddamn banana-wilt infested fibers to impress a bunch of heartless and decaying headed fellows? Is this vindication enough to support a lost cause? What are we leaving behind for our children? When we are dead and gone, what will be said of us, least of our generation?

Someone tell me, is it me or these apes in expensive cars with booty-mouths are that ugly? Damn, these bitches and sons of bitches are not appealing at all! How do they get all of you hoodwinked? How do they keep you all on your knees with your mouths open? Don’t be fooled, it’s all a hoax. Get up on your feet and think! Get some brain cell activity! Unless you arise and vote, you are the reason this land is goner! Vote and vote wisely! DO NOT ENGAGE in violent acts. Wisdom does not call for you fight amongst yourselves and destroy whatever little we have achieved as a people for the last 30 years. Dialogue is the old, formidable tree-shade under which we all sit and discuss our differences and challenges with intent to seek peaceful and meaning resolutions to our divergence. Threats will not work either. Calm, informed and controlled advisories will go a long way, long after violent threats have reached their demise. I call for calm, I call for restraint and I call for us to stay in touch with our humanity. We have our differences but these disagreements here and there do not strip us off of our sanity and discernment for what is communally accepted as right or wrong. We are what we are because our forefathers preserved what we have today for us. If the Leaders of today and forefathers of tomorrow still behave like irresponsible, unruly and slow on the uptake juveniles of the post evolutional era, then we are no different from dinosaurs that fought themselves and annihilated themselves in the process. We can do better. Fellow countrymen, TOLERENCE should be our beacon through these darkened days in which we grope and stumble blindly.

Dead in Tears

Cry out loud. Cry for this earth-old soil on which we stand. Drenched with the blood of innocent Ugandans and deeply deprived of rain through the degenerative intent of our leaders who have chosen to cut down trees and replace them with Sugar cane plantations for the Indians to export to Kenya. Our old earth cries and yelps with the pain of barrenness-the proverbial barrenness that the deserts of Africa have borne since the beginning of time. While the sons and daughters of the soil pine away in dire conditions perched on the line between extreme poverty and disease-death looms so ever close. We have been pushed way up the wall that we now get easily wrought up over nothing. We sale our suffrage for a few shillings and a promise of a few more shillings thereafter. Though the colonel has performed at his best and has rekindled hope in the hearts of the dying electorate, our nemesis still casts his malevolent shadow over the light at the end of our tunnel- a gloomy prognoses about our fate at the polls.

Today we buy a Kilo of sugar at Ugx. 4.000, A kilo of beef at 10,000 and our shilling precariously hangs at about 3.440 against the dollar. Steady progress indeed. The price of oil on the world market hit a record low and the pump prices around the plummeted while here in the land of vultures and buzzards, the pump prices still stand at Ugx. 3.550. I’ve heard that the Go Forward flag bearer owns a string of petrol stations. He binges on the extreme profits therefrom. Don’t we all know that the colonel also owns a chain of Petrol stations in Uganda? Is he living a good example by being part of the local OPEC gangs that milk the already malnourished and dehydrated proverbial cow that represents the Ugandan people? Does he have a moral high ground to satanize H.E YKM? But of course that’s what we call peace-the peace for which they fought. That’s the vision we romance and wear yellow t-shirts for as we steadily move forward. We have a tax tag on the filthy water that runs through our taps and the unreliable and erratically crazed power in our meters costs an arm and a leg. They have built us roads with pathetic integrity and only last week, Ssemyalo Ronald lost his life on one of these roads they are so proud to tell the body of voters that say they built. He lost his life in a road accident along Masaka. In his cheap casket at his burial, his face wore a look of one thousand unanswered questions. In his face I saw the plight of his entire family lineage. He gave up his life unwillingly. Thank you for the roads you built. These Chinese you so well trust to do shoddy work have indeed lived up to your expectation. Poor engineering and substandard, ill-marked roads are the death trap of us. We will all end up like Ronald and you will remain in this land with your big, expensive and pompous 4X4 rides.

We turned up in big numbers and voted for you in the last election. We had faith in you and we believed that you still had a vision and the will to move this land forth. We holistically ran down the streets and celebrated your victory. We romanticized your gallantry and sang songs of praise to you as our dry , cracked lips and sweat-drenched faces baked in the hot sun while you were smug in your pavilion and signature round hat. We were never bothered that although we all had an equal claim to this God-given land much as you did, we still stood in the sun while you stayed under the shelter. We walked to come and witness you cross that historical lane while you rode your state-of-the-art car in a convoy of 30 man-made monstrous rides. We loved you more than we loved ourselves because we believed you were the change we needed. We are now way too old and far too spent to clamor for anything nice out of this life. We are past that age and we have lived a life of need and exploitation and poverty and oppression. We can no longer reclaim our youthful dreams but we had hope that our kids would live on to achieve what we failed to achieve. We believed through you, they would have a better future. That you would pass on the torch to them. You lied. You lied to us. You broke our hearts. We bled and you watched our lives drain out of us and soak into the earth old soil on which you fought to deliver us from the claws and clutches of the dictators of our past.

All those promises evaporated right before our eyes when your minions got around to oppress us after your landmark, historical jubilation. The Central bank lending rate went up two, three, four fold. We struggled in our finances and we peacefully demonstrated. Instead we were doused in tear gas and we were beaten. Our bodies were torn and we were weary and hopeless. The prices of house hold goods went through the roof and many more of us sunk six feet below the ground. Then the budgets were read and the taxes went hay wire. You taxed Paraffin, you taxed water-drinking water. Water that the lord gave us freely in abundance-you taxed it. You put a tax on agricultural machinery and my grandparents moaned and turned in their graves-six feet underneath. Both my grandparents died in the hands of the LRA during the twenty years plus civil war that rocked my motherland. Most of my family died horrendous death in northern Uganda and I lost my sight in the process-to live a life of ridicule and impairment in a land that I was raised to embrace as my own homeland. The world watched on while we were plagued for 20 years. They made films of our plight and took pictures that won awards in America and Europe while we starved and died. Ghost soldiers got paid sums of money while we were mutilated and taken into captivity in our own land. May your souls and Kony’s soul roast in hell’s unforgiving flames for the eternity that only the Lord can predict. The vultures and Buzzards flew low and snatched whatever they could. Land, our savings, Our cows, conscripted our young and energetic youth, our property-everything they could take. We took solace in the churches but the buzzards and vultures still found their way in there. We were battered from all dimensions and all we had left were our empty stomachs, diseased children and the troubles and the shirts on our backs. We became refugees in our own land. We were now aliens in our own land. We lived off give-outs and the mercies of our Indian and Chinese masters who paid us peanuts and worked us to the point of death and yet we still breath to date.

We breath and still crawl out of our rat holes everyday because we are resilient. We have lived through the darkest moments our land has seen. We lost everything but We still believe in our leaders. We do not believe for ourselves but for our little ones. For those innocent, pristine little ones who still go to school and study the history of this country in which the same players traverse from the past, into the present and headlong into the future. We will vote and we will vote wisely. Come 18th February 2016, we will vote and our President will emerge as the winner and he will be crowned and sworn in and we will weep. We will weep because we know that nothing will change for the better. We will live on as slaves for the next five years and after then, the same vicious cycle will be repeated. Change isn’t a luxury we can afford. We haven’t sacrificed enough to deserve change so we consume democracy in rationed propositions and we exercise our rights in the darkest hours of our days as though they were contraband. We have sold our souls to aliens. We have nothing left to hold on to. We have nothing to claim, nothing to give. We are dead. We have no future. No, we don’t! That’s our fate. We have accepted it and have made peace with it. Long live the soil from which we were molded, the same to which we shall return. Long live our Land!

Edeoughts In Power

Hello Edeought , I saw you sit in a boat and row. The boat wasn’t in the water, it was on a sandy beach and you were dressed like the Edeought you are. You sat in it and you rowed and the swarm of minions that follow you around just like flies follow a bunch of shit clapped and snapped pictures of you. They thought that was cool. I bet you did too-that sheepish smile on your leathery face told the story with crystal clarity. But to us who have lived through the real life experiences of fishing all night long and ending up with only a handful of fish in our nets in the morning, what you did wasn’t funny. For those of us who have fished 200 fish to have 180 of them confiscated by your law enforcers-what you did wasn’t amusing. For those of us that have lived off the boat and have lost parents and family to the insatiable appetite of the sea’s raging waves-you looked ridiculous in that boat.

What is fun to you is to us a matter of life or death to us. What you laugh about is to us a situation of either food on our table or no food on our table at all. That boat you sat in and made a fool out of yourself in is in our world what determines whether or not we stay alive. We use that dug-out boat as an ambulance. We brave the waves and the untold carnage in the dead of the night at sea, we row with our own hands and our muscles burn underneath our skins to save a life. To us that boat is a legacy passed down from generations to us. It’s the only thing we can wholly lay claim to as one that’s truly ours. To us that boat is the special insignia we hold on to. Our parents died in the sea and we never got to give them a decent funeral. We never found their bodies either, we found the boat. So we hold on to it as if it were that our parents left us that boat as a sign that even if they are gone today, we live on and carry on with the family tradition tomorrow. We were born and raised in this dirty, smelly landing site that you only visit once every five years to seek our vote. Sir, that boat to us is the reason I can today speak two international languages and 12 local languages. That boat is the reason I went to school. That boat paid my school fees, bought my scholastic requirements and put these torn clothes on my Uncle’s back. That boat bought our chicken, rice and soda on Xmas day and we rode in that boat from our impoverished island to mainland to attend a service at the big exotic church where the walls and people were out of our best fairy imaginations. That boat sir is what pays the taxes you have levied on us. We don’t need much, we only hope that when you step down from your 2 Billion bullion truck that chauffeurs you around on the campaign trail, have some respect for us, for our customs and those things that we uphold as sacred and so close to our hearts.

Hi , Edeought we are weak but that doesn’t make us dumb. No we are smart. We are wise. We are silent. In our silence, we have found immense strength. In our oppression, we have developed unimaginable resilience and versatility. In our poverty-the song that you sing every day, we have learnt to accept our predicament and live with what we have. We don’t steal nor do we plunder public funds. We live within our means. In our sickness, we have learnt to work for and take our medicine as prescribed. We will live until the lord decides our time is up-then we will leave in peace and rest in peace while the rest of our kind live on. In our captivity, we have taught our children to know the lord and respect your rules. Our children have been brought up with humility and they have the wisdom of the land that our fore fathers passed on to us. They are strong and smart though they wear rugs and eat out of the soil. They don’t have strange accents and all those titles your sons and daughters have. They don’t fly jumbo jets to go give birth in foreign lands. No, they dont own half of the city like your people do. No, our children have nothing but each other and that to us is worth more than you will ever plunder, buy or own. To you, it’s all folly and you insult us every day and we are offended but we dont fight you back. We don’t fight you back because fighting you back is weakness to us. To us, strength is restraint. In our alienation, we have built dependable, social cohesive bonds with each other. We won’t kill each other-no. We will die for each other. We have decided that power is nothing if its uncontrolled. Corruption is evil, its everything bad we have been taught to avoid and so is cronyism, sectarianism and tribalism-to you, this is your life line. In our insignificant tribal communities, we have learnt to practice humanity and remain as humane as our fathers before us commissioned us. In us, we have found fulfillment and as such we shall coexist. We have adapted to the world you created. Because we faced pain and suffering with brevity and astuteness, we have in it found relief. Because we accepted defeat , in it we have found victory-a way of winning through losing. Because we took you in and you betrayed us and turned your guns against us, we have found a away to forgive you and live with you as though you were never there. We are what we are because you are. We are poor, diseased, marginalized, overtaxed and oppressed but we are alive and we are happy. We are a life force. We will survive. We will survive long after you are gone. We will still be here! We will survive!

Nothing left to lose!

He tore off his buggy well pressed yellow shirt. He sauntered out of his black old-school trousers and kicked them a mile away. He had no drawers no. No underwear. His big black uncircumcised penis dangled out of his mons pubis like something sinister out of a low rated porno film. His pubic was nappy and creased. Black taints of pubic mixed in minimal proportions among grey pubic. Only here was the true extent of his age obvious . A mere look at him in this perspective, you would tell that he was well above 85 years old and you could tell that he’s an alien without morals, class or integrity. He had a pair of Ruff Rider condoms, he looked at them with the anger and frustration of the embattled Colonel and tossed them away into the bush with the force and brutality of the other General who runs the sorry gang of loose, impoverished hooligans that claim they protect lives and property. His face contorted into an ugly caricature of a man whose spirit is consumed by evil, whose heart is amassed in extreme darkness-something similar to the evil look on Gadaffi’s face after his gut was spilled out. There she lay, disheveled and scared shitless. She lay right there like the sacrificial lamb on Abraham’s alter right before Abraham’s sharp blade bored down into its fuzzy frail tissue exposing veins that gushed with pure, warm red life. He held his big black dick in his hands and walked to where she lay. His big, black, uncircumcised and diseased penis approached her sacred womanhood with vile intend. She closed her eyes, she couldn’t take it anymore. She wished death upon herself and death he offered her when his diseased uncircumcised penis tore through the tissue of her soft , tight and closed vagina. Her tender skin, gave away, her tissue collapsed like the walls of a warm eaten house, little squirts of blood gushed out. He was excited. He slapped her belly so hard that for an instant it seemed as though her heartbeat receded from her body to a place in hell before returning to her with a million promises of pain and damnation. She cried and reeled for help as his engorged penis delivered a two day-long deluge on her- inundate with a great quantity of furious disease. She called out to God and friends and whoever could hear her. She begged for rescue. He smiled and croaked a plethora of insults on her-his face covered in lewd smirks, a snigger that depicted the darkness he wore in his heart. Her painful voice rang out through the entire land and her cries for help could be heard in distant lands.

While he raped and abused her, his quark Generals and minions stood on and watched. When she bled and squealed to his brutal thrusts and insults, they nodded their heads in agreement and clapped their hands in support of his heinous act. They stood and watched while he raped their daughter. They looked her in the eyes with a gush of fury and vitriol and said what was being done to her was free and fair. She was their daughter, their little beautiful daughter who was conceived in Eden when the lord created the earth and was born out of the blood and flesh of the many others that came before her. Those men and women whose blood soaked the earth and whose black flesh was broken and left out to dry in the baking African sun, left for the buzzards to nibble at and feast over. She was the progeny of a million sacrifices. She was the only daughter, the most precious daughter. She was the fairest of them all in the land, massively endowed and specially curved by the lord’s adept hands. She was blessed with the attributes of the goddesses. She was the pearl of the land, the pride of her African inhabitance. “The pearl” was what they called her. So he raped the pearl and the quarks watched on. The same quarks who claimed to love her, the same quarks who lied to her. The same quarks she trusted and believed in. These quarks are the ones that could have rescued her but didn’t. They just stood right there and watched. Those classless, spineless quarks. Those cowards, those dimwitted paps with nothing save for soupcons of shit in their skulls. Those pathetic vermin, those uncouth scumbags, those low life, beleaguered, sorry excuses of men just stood right there and did nothing while the old hag in the gigantic round hat did odious things to her.

Today she walks around with her head down. She walks about in the dark lost and crestfallen and she talks to herself in shame. She weeps and cuts her wrists and watches her blood spill onto her sore thighs. She’s hollow and can barely feel herself. All her beauty seems to have left her. She lost her pride, she lost her place among the goddesses, among the pearls that day when the psychopath violated her in broad day light, in front of those quarks while the rest of the world watched on. The world watched on. A world of Observers. She’s now the laughing stock of the land. She’s only a silhouette of her past, lost and forgotten beauty. She walks among the ruins of her past life whilst battering her once stunning forehead on the rubble seeking retribution. But retribution is a seed that grows out of a soiled and dark soul of an old odious man who has long lost himself to greed intermingled with the insatiable craving for power, control...attention. She has no soul. She has no life, she’s only a shadow that now crawls and wanders in the forlorn emptiness of a tormented past. She’s got no conscience, no name, no belonging, no integrity-she’s just another wasted breath that wafts in the cold, troubled emptiness that now stalks the once vibrant and amiable pearl she was. Retribution, is the opulence which comes at a price that her doomed existence falls short of. Salvation is the prayer she craves. Her lips move all day long and all night long in intercession. Her diseased body is weak and rotting away. She lays on the ground and raises her hands to the heavens in entreaty. Where will her recompose come from?

We have come a long way!

I was a small boy, very small boy back in ’90. It was Xmas of 1990 when my mom took us to a children’s party at the golf course. I still remember this like it was yesterday. Obrien was the little boy with the mischievous smile and chipped teeth who spoke with a bourgeois lisp. He sat on a stool and played that first noel song-his adept fingers chipping away at the strings of his guitar. The result was a medley of tunes that stayed with most of us kids at the party for the rest of our lives. We developed a love, a passion for the guitar. Many years later even during my adolescent years in St Leo’s, I would quite often catch myself staring at guitars in a musical shop through their big glass display windows. When I learnt Luganda, I was awed to learn that a guitar was called Enanga. Enanga? Yes, Enanga, I learnt meant a guitar. Much later on when I was older, I learnt that emphatically, a enanga also meant a douchebag- Someone who has surpassed the levels of jerk and asshole, however not yet reached fucker or motherfucker status. A few years ago, Enanga rose to fame as the eloquent spokesman for the delinquent police force. His approach to public relations was suave and differential. We all listened to him. We gave him audience even though our respect for the police force was long lost. Even when Enanga lied through his teeth and we knew he was lying, we gave him the benefit of the doubt because his dulcet tones soothed our wounded souls.

Since the inception of the last concluded presidential polls, through the People’s president incarceration –all the way up through the hate speeches, the botched Amama petition and the Post Election violence in Kasese, we have had a fair share of Enanga’s doctored versions of events. The dull and false drone of his voice recounts of events in and about the country now reeks with acrid stench. We now mute the sound or flip the channel each time his large, grizzly face flashes on the news. I find myself muting the sounding and watching his extraordinarily large jaws open and close. Always- the image of a praying mantis feeding on another smaller insect springs to my mind. Could it be that Enanga downgraded to enanga? How is it so easy that even a smart, brilliant man like him could be easily compromised and downgraded to the same low thinking level of douches like Bebe Cool and Bukenya? Do you all want to place the blame on the Leopard as well? Well, it seems that the Leopard is a celebrated virtuoso in those peripherals.

There are things that don’t carry any meaning to me anymore. Matter of fact, lets drop all the courtesy and emphatics, there are things under this current regime that I don’t give a flying fuck about. I’ll tell you some of these things:-

Indicator lights from a Taxi driver or from a boda boda rider mean nothing to me-Just like farts from these fat ass chics. Those low life idiots that make turns without indicating or sometimes indicate to the left when their intension is to turn to the right. I don’t give a flying fuck about those low-life scum bags.

Religious leaders…Lord have mercy…I don’t give a hoot about these. Religious leaders currently rank among the most untrustworthy persons in society-I feel they only rival police officers for this position. The other day, untold amounts of bootleg alcoholic brands were found at one of the major city pastor’s house, then another pastor was said to have been sodomising young male folk in the church. We heard that the Mufti connived with the government to sell off property belonging to the Moslem fraternity in Uganda…on a separate occasion, a Mufti went on a rant publicly excommunicating a sheikh from the religion? Aha, one pastor in my neighborhood, the pastor fucks his sheep. The traditional religious priests practice human sacrifices and several other ungodly acts. These so called religious leaders are now in cahoots with the errant government to fleece and milk dry the already poor citizens.

Leaders…isn’t that what they call themselves? I call them crooks. All the way from the top to the bottom-Elton Mabirizi in his own words said, from the top to down there…down there. They are all rogue. They lie through their stinking teeth and steal from the poor tax payer and yet they still claim to be doing whatever they do in the best interest of all the citizens. I curse them all! I truly don’t give a tinker’s damn about them anymore.

Telecom companies are the Tupac Shakur’s of the current Thug Life crews in Uganda. They will take every single individual opportunity to steal from you the subscribers. I will not talk about unaccounted for losses the subscribers have suffered in the hands of these thugs under the Mobile money platform. They have voice bundles they sell at Ugx. 1000 whose validity should last 24 hours but in practice last only a few hours after purchase. Your airtime vanishes anytime and their internet packages behave like Hoodini-appearing after you pay and playing disappearance tricks on you when you most need it. Here’s the catch, you can never reach these Telecom company Customer service centers. If you are very lucky to call those numbers and reach them, after waiting half an hour in the queue you will be told that the system isn’t yet updated so they can’t verify your claim. They then ask you to call back in 24 hours and when you do, you are talking to another clueless, ill-trained and poorly paid customer service advisor who will tell you the same crap-load the last one told you. So here the cycle continues and they get richer every day and you never get your hard-earned money’s worth of service. These Telecom companies are the first to Congratulate H.E the President on his counterfeit win in sham polls in full page decorative messages in the daily gazettes. I don’t give a monkey’s butt about all of you telecom thugs!

Do we have commercial banks in Uganda? I think we have Commercial bandits instead. They loan you money and they start acting like local money lenders pulling cheap tricks and juggling widespread financial shenanigans that have ruined the fortunes of many unsuspecting members of the public. Many a time, little sums of money keep disappearing from your accounts and they sell you “no service” at state-house rates. I once subscribed to Executive banking services from the leading commercial bandit in Uganda and for four years, I got nothing but shit from the Ntinda branch. The ratbag that was assigned to handle my accounts was nothing short of a buffoon. Later in 2015 when they couldn’t explain the disappearance of Ugx. 2.900.000 from my account, I was advised by the same monkey-head to switch to another service. I remember looking at the sorry, excuse of an accounts manager and seeing a two-day-old lump of baboon crap crowned with a million flies and roaches. I don’t give a fuck about all you commercial bandits with radiant logos and advertisement memes!

The list is long, I could go on and on…but here’s more of them, Taxi conductors, hawkers, sham traders, parents in law who ask for 10 fold more than their daughter’s actual worth, Chinese products….am gasping…the list goes on-But you tell me more!

Think about it this way: if you live in a country with a small almost worthless currency -- call it a penny -- what would you mean if you said "I would not give you a penny for this"? You would say you don't care for it. Same for "I don't give X for Y" -- you would not exchange even X (usually something fanciful, worthless, and obscene, as here) for Y. So do you understand what I mean when I say I don’t give a flying fuck about so many thingamabobs in this banana republic?

Gazelle for a Nickname

So I followed this Gizelle across the dance hall like a Cheetah on the prowl. A part of me felt like a lion-that big mighty king of the jungle sashay in my head. The scarf around my neck gave me the feeling I was a big bad lion with a badass mane. The other part of me felt like a cheetah-very sleek, agile and super fast. Too slick to get caught up in the dancehall jungle. I was here to hunt and I was gonna get me a gazelle for the night. The DJ played Mr. Vegas’s Heads High riddim and the bass was so strong that my balls quivered in my Calvin Klein boxers. I waxed and waned through the heaving, sweaty, dancing revelers. With a cocktail of drinks in my head, my sense of pussy and vision remained unraveled although my strut was already showing telltale signs of intoxication. I went past this smoking belle in a black body suit and six inch pumps. She was shaking her big, fat bubbly butt like a magician. When she saw me approach her, she swirled at a 60 degree angle and dipped it low, low, low before she picked it up and twerked it before my dick. I was tempted to touch it and tap it. I did, just for an instant before I slithered away into a bevy of red chili hot Rwandese chics who were frantically sucking at a magnum pot of shisha. The Big ass chic in the black body suit looked around for me and finding no trace of me around went back to bubbling her derrière.

The steaming hot girls received me in their loop with ecstatic cries of animation. One of them in the butt-short dress blew a mint-flavored cloud of smoke in my face and screamed…Hi Super Tuesday! This bevy was too much for me. I couldn’t stay here, I told myself and I sauntered past the hottie who had blown a bowl of smoke in face leaving my business card between her cleavage…call me, I said and I walked off after my Gazelle that was now perched on the tavern’s only counter sipping on a glass of something on the rocks. I etched forward and crept up on her from the rear. Before I wound up on the counter next to her, my sight lingered on her chiseled booty and down to her calf. She was a work of art, a faultless timeless piece of the creator’s artistry.

“Hey Gorgeous” I started with a big fat smile on my face along with a half full bottle of Bell clutched in my right hand. She looked at me, perplexion wrought on her face. Her lip dropped as though she was about to say something and I saw the opportunity. I spoke first. “Have you been to Two Seating ducks and an Egg before darling?” “I umm, huh…what are you talking about?” She endeavored. So I went on, “ Oh I see, you haven’t been there before” She breathed visibly and sucked her lower lip. “ I will tell you about Two Seating ducks and an Egg in a moment” What are you drinking gyal? You have a nick name? A nickname?” “No”. She answered. “Perfect” I screamed and took a deep seep of my Bell. She looked at me with a quizzical look on her face and a smile escaped her pouted lips. Between a spurt of miniature giggles, she signed “Dude, I can’t believe you are doing this to me”. I smiled back and said, “ let me tell you two things-Actually three things but two first. Listen Gorgeous, now am going to buy you a drink and give you a nickname” I looked around and called on the Waiter. She served a couple of horny looking ruscos, paps, bozos before drifting to where we sat at the counter. I spoke first, “Look here lady, my name is Mr. Awesome” She smiled and retorted, “Mr. Awesome, am Nina-Brown” “Ok great, Nina-brown please serve Gazelle here another drink on my bill and a Bell for me too” She smiled and returned in a minute with our orders. I handed her Ugx. 20,000 and with the panache of Frank Kyomuhendo, I hissed… Keep the change as I returned my attention to the attraction of the night. “So here we go, a drink and a nickname” i heard myself say. “What nickname?” she scoffed. “Come-on Swit-thing, the drink came with a name for you and the name is…Gazelle!” A smile grew and spread across her face “Jeez Christ, what a nickname! Gazelle? “Yeah, I lifted up both hands and I felt like Manny Pacquiao in after a KO, My names are Cormac Dan. You must be pleased to meet me. Come here Gazelle. Put some weight on my chest”. Excitedly she jabbed my shoulder and asked me, how do u put weight on your chest? I was already mid way towards her when I spoke to her ear, it means hug me. We hugged for a moment and I lost my head in the embrace and the fresh scent of her tropical fragrance. The weight of her voluptuous boobs lay on my chest and our heartbeats synched. By the time we disengaged from the hug, we both knew with clarity what was going to happen between us. We took several more drinks and danced to the tunes of the night in the little town park long after we left the tavern and drove off to a couple of other joints around the town in her little Duet. By the time the night gave away to the dawn we had shared a thousand kisses and a million laughs and giggles between us. We went on to sleep in her little Duet while the rest of the world awakened to a new day. The ninth day of October 2010 in Kasese. TO BE CONTINUED…

Nuts and Idiots Leading a Country

What do they call the men of the cloth that live a solitary life in the deserts or forests for years in search of inner truth? The verb has escaped my vocabulary. I should have been one of those guys. I love being silent and alone. My world is luminescent when am in seclusion. I have always hated crowds. My world suddenly grinds to a halt when I find myself in a crowd. I like…, I mean I like... Hmm.... wow,wait a minute, hold it right there. Let me rephrase that, I LOVE deserts, prisons, and monasteries(Yes, I remember the verb now…Monk is the word I was looking for) I should have become a monk. Sometimes I walk along Kampala road and I go like, hmm… Too many people and bafoons not enough baboons!

Once back in 2003, myself and a bunch of Rotary club enthusiasts geared up and drove up about 80Kms to the Wasewanaaba Base camp somewhere on the foot hills of the Mountains Of The Moon. For days on end we camped there and spent long daily hours training and familiarizing ourselves with our climbing gear. We were determined to make it up half way to the 5,119 meter high Margherita Peak. At about 2000 meters above sea level, I remember we stumbled upon a perch of rock that opened our eyes to a 360 degree spectacular vision of the wild world around us. Here amidst the hushed wilderness, I found myself at home. Lost in the lush green beauty of the Mount Ruwenzori National Park, I felt I could live out my entire life out here and not yearn for the life I left behind me. Though a paradoxical subject of debate to you, over my several mountaineering trips in the recent years, I have discovered that there are fewer idiots at 2000 meters above sea level than down below.

I’ve come to think, there’s a lot of stuff out there that I don’t understand. I don’t understand how one man can lead 30 million other people for 30 years from nowhere to nowhere and still claim to have a vision for the same people! I don’t believe in labels, commissions of Inquiry, the Minister of presidency, Executive director of KCCA or Government spokespersons. I don’t listen to Radio Uganda nor do I watch UTV. I have no love for the Electoral Commission chairman or the Miss Uganda pageant organized by the UPDF. I believe in blow jobs, hugs, alcohol, carbon monoxide, masturbation, squirts, twerks, artists, dead Field marshal presidents, Toyota Tundras, the Daily Monitor newspaper, and not properly labeling fatal poisons, but above all else, most of all, I believe in the one thing that can come out of a woman’s vagina: orgasms.

On 8th April 1891, Jean Lorrain, Monsieur De Phocas wrote….The obscenity of nostrils and mouths; the ignominious cupidity of smiles and women encountered in the street; the shifty baseness on every side, as of hyenas and wild beasts ready to bite: tradesmen in their shops and strollers on their pavements. How long must I suffer this? I have suffered it before, as a child, when, descending by chance to the servant's quarters, I overheard in astonishment their vile gossip, tearing up my own kind with their lovely teeth.This hostility to the entire race, this muted detestation of lynxes in human form, I must have rediscovered it later while at school. I had a repugnance and horror for all base instincts, but am I not myself instinctively violent and lewd, murderous and sensual? Am I any different, in essence, from the members of the riotous and murderous mob of a hundred years ago, who hurled the town sergeants into the Seine and cried, 'String up the aristos!' just as they shout 'Down with the army!' or 'Death to the Jews!”

Today 5th March 2016, I write…I see idiots every day. I see many of them. A lot of them on TV and more in the gazettes. You hear some of them on the FM radio stations but most likely, we see more of them than we hear them. Some have mastered the art of using their tomfoolery to ascend to the highest offices in this country. Some have totally failed to outgrow their buffoonery only to end up crying like little bitches with a bullet in the leg. I see them and I despise them. I loathe them so bad I sometimes feel as though a deadly toxin, a highly potent poison is flowing through my veins in lieu of red blood. I attend weddings when am invited and my heart bleeds when I see someone getting married to an idiot. Is there something stupidly special between people and idiots? I quite cant place what’s more vile than the other-being a hypocrite or being an idiot. What is more ridiculous-male or female idiots? I see them on Facebook, WhatsApp - all over social media-everybody grabbing each other's assholes in the honeycomb of survival out of a fear-animalistic stupidity.

As it was, so it Ended

I met this girl on a domestic flight from KAO to KAJ. This was many years go. It was a 45 minutes flight and she took the seat next to me in that little 10 seater Cessna CitationJet. I didn’t pay her no attention. I just sat there and buried myself in Robert Ludlum’s third chapter of the Cry of the Hallidon. I wore a pair of huge Peltor Tactical XP Neck ear muffs since I was seated just about adjacent to the twin Engine plane’s left wing The engine’s relatively high-pitched wail was so loud as the little bird ascended to about 5000 miles above sea level. The monotonous muffed sound of the engine must have lulled me to sleep for I woke up about 30 minutes later and we were already hovering over Kajjansi. The aerial view as usual breathtaking. She must have been taken up by the beauty for she said something to me that I didn’t hear. Not wanting to let me be she nudged me. I took down my muffs and I turned to look at her. I was upset with myself for having ignored her since KAO. She was the most beautiful piece of ass I had seen since the beginning of the year. When the plane landed at KAJ, I helped her with her luggage and even went the extra mile of dropping her off at her residential apartment. I politely turned down invite to step in for a glass of fresh orange juice under the pretext that I had business to take care of in town. Soon as I left her place, I was greeted by the lowest traffic on Entebbe road since the 2010 Alshabab attacks in Kampala. With Rick Ross’ Rich forever album blaring out of my car stereo, the twin cam supercharged engine of my ST/B roared past taxis and a few cheap cars on the route. “Somebody lied, I’ve gotta chopper in the car…” I chorused with Lil’ Wayne on the remix of the “Am not a star” song. I got home in time and I soon forgot about the girl I met on the flight.

Three days later, I was out at Hooters with my O’G’s Dillar and Sil sipping at half a dozen brown Bell Lager bottles on our table when a light skinned, petiite chic dressed in a polka dot skin tight dress to the knees hugged me from the back. A fresh scent of tropical fruits assailed my sense of smell like a Trojan infantry descending on the Achaeans. You are my type and I love your scent, I said while turning to figure out who the hell this blessed piece of sexy ass was. She walked around to the front of my chair and I saw she was wearing six-inch Louboutin peep toes that complemented the black dots on her dress. She bent over and whispered in my ear, am going home, do you want to drop me? That’s when my memory clicked…she was the chic I met on the KAO flight. Damn girl, you look as sexy as a bitch, I screamed. Come here, put some weight on my chest, I said as motioned her to hug me. We called for multiple rounds of drinks and we partied like we were in the ‘60’s! I woke up the next morning in her bed. How the fuck did I get here? I sat on the bed and looked around for clues. She came back from the kitchen with that glass of fresh orange juice and she was stack naked. I received the glass of juice and placed in on the bed side table then turned my attention back to her body...not sure which one took my attention more-body or booty. I sat between her legs while I got wet frolicking with her genitals. We got tribal and primal growling and howling until we soared to the sky and lost our selves among the stars and comets. Heaven must have been our home for longer than NASA's maiden space flight back in the 50's, 60's?.

I woke up while she was asleep and crept into my clothes. In the dinning area I found a booklet and a ball point pen. I scribbled a few words on it and tumbled down the stairs to the parking space where my 2.5L, 400HP beast sat waiting for me. I ignited the engine and the black beast coughed once and roared to life. I pulled out of the parking yard like Lwakataka on the race track.

Back in the house, she was awakened by the sound of my car downstairs. She yawned, gingerly ambled to dining room where her attention was drawn to my note on the dining table. She read it and tears rolled down her face. She couldn’t believe that I was leaving her and I wasn’t coming back again. You fucking bastard, you can’t break up with me, not just yet, she screamed and smashed an empty juice glass against the wall. A million splintered pieces of glass ricocheted off from the point of impact on wall and rained all over her dining area.


Three days later, she checked herself into a hospital along Entebbe road because she was suicidal. Then she had her mother call me and leave me voicemails and messages trying to get me to take her back. She went on all my social media accounts and liked all my pictures and posts from the past year so I blocked her on everything. I ended up having to change my phone number because she constantly called and texted me begging to take her back, then when I didn't reply she insulted me and threatened me. She sent me a box with $400 worth of gifts for my birthday. The day preceding my birthday she created a fake account on Facebook and messaged me 25 times. She's insane, I thought.

I woke up on the 10th of October and a truck was hooting at my residential gate. The truck was fully loaded with household accoutrements. I recognized a few of the items and that’s when I knew I was fucked. Bitch was moving in with me by force!

Intricate Feelings

Do you know what it feels like to be born with a dick? A big dick? It feels like driving a big six by six truck through a muddy road and going past all those small tin cars stuck in the mud. Something like driving an armored H2 Hummer truck along Kampala road while others are driving Premios and Vitzs. It feels like being the only tall guy in a room full of whining midgets. Do you know what I feels like to wake up in the morning to big erect dick? Do you know? Well, I’ll tell you. It feels like waking up to a naked Munyankole girl next to you in bed. It feels like having a heavy wallet laden with 50 crisp notes of Ugx. 50.000 shillings and not having anything to do with it. So I wake up in the morning to my gorgeous Diana lying next to me spread-eagled. Her bare back glowing against the morning rays of the sun sneaking into our dark room through the slits in the curtains to illuminate her sexy body. Am in a trance staring at her impeccable beauty when my dick creeps up on me and whispers to her…good morning beautiful!

Do you know what it feels like to walk around all day with balls hanging below your dick? It feels like walking around with a pair of cabbages around your neck. It feels like having to run a race with a pair of eggs between your legs. You want to run but you also don’t want to crack the shells of the eggs. They are so important yet they are equally so susceptible to pain. So I walk around with dire precaution, with surgical precision as though I have a pair of newly born twins between my legs.

Do you know what a burden it is to carry sperms inside you? It feels like a being a terrorist with a jacket full of explosives strapped around your chest. You have this over boring feeling in your gut that anytime you can choose to give life or take it by choosing between a blow job or a quickie. Sperm is that bad ass tadpole that's gotta be corralled in a rubber if you are broke or unready for responsibility, that white squiggly liquid which causes your life to be ruined when it reaches the wrong woman’s egg. We men are a a breed of terrorists with sperm loads roaming the world and looking for just that right target to unload our spoof into…. We pillage every village along the way, fight random sperm soldiers, and carry on our normal routine until we find what we're looking for..... Women.

Have you ever been on a roller coaster? Do you know the feeling you get when it starts the ascent? It feels like you are superman ascending to new galaxies. Then you get to the peak and you start descending, you feel like you are falling freely from the sky. You feel like your life is coming to end and then, all over a sudden, all the motion comes to a halt. The wind stops blowing, the sounds die out and you are finally at ease, at peace, safe. That’s how you feel when you have had mad, hot fucks with your neighbor’s daughter and you chide yourself for not wearing the rubber only for her to tell you three weeks later, she’s HIV –ve and she just completed her cycle!

Do you understand the responsibility that comes with having both Pubic hair and a beard? Women are lucky, they just have to deal with pubic only. We guys have to deal with a beard as well. You sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and you feel like a fuzzy little animal. Something like a squirrel or a badger. You run your fingers from your chest, down to your pelvic area and back to your face and you feel like you just touched a Capybara. So you wake up and stumble into your bathroom to shave the fur off your body. Only then are you able to sleep and feel like Adam in Eden-butt naked.

Have you ever had a wet dream? Well, your body in unison with your adolescent mind creates the perfect image of an angel with slutty ways and this drop -dead sexy angel caresses your manhood to dick-hard proportions while you are a sleep. Then the angel starts to give you that badass blowjob before she sits tight on your iron bar dick only to get up and walk away. Suddenly you are running after her and begging for her to come back and finish what she started. She stops in her tracks and does the Miley Cyrus twerk and boom- you jerk off. The spoof rides out of your dick like a 38 caliber slug leaving a double barrel and crashes somewhere all over your bed sheets. You feel so good until you are awakened out of your sleep by a warm low viscosity substance oozing down your thigh. You wake up suddenly with your heartbeat going nuts and you are exasperated for having messed up your beddings. Now you have to change sheets and wash the soiled ones first thing in the morning.

Being a normal horny man isn't a lot of responsibility. It isn't concerned with lot of accountability or transparency either. Having a dick and being able to use it to satisfy a woman’s desires and probably create life is only a first step to being man. Being able to do that makes you mere Zinjanthropus and being Zinjanthropus is only inadequate. So you need to evolve and transcend that stone age existence of only being able to hunt and gather. Fucking and being able to cum is comparable to early man only being able to hunt and gather. As a Man you have to evolve and become tamed and obedient to your mistress. Your mistress is your partner, your girlfriend, your wife not your side bitch . Loving her and respecting her alone as your only mistress makes you her master. A real master is one that is faithful and loves his mistress alone. A man lives for something; a purpose beyond his own personal gains. This can come with time, and with family. A Man Understands the value of work and is financially responsible, Knows right from wrong and always strives to make virtuous choices. I do not relate to members of the opposite sex in a flirtatious or forward manner, but instead I save my sexual expressions for my angel. If I am the king then Diana is the queen! We rock!