They Can't Secure your future!

 Fact: Since 1986 The NRM Government has built 4363 kilometres of Tarmac Roads. In the last 34 years in power they have on average been tarmacing 128.3 km of roads per year. Today Uganda has about 20,544 kilometres of road coverage.

If we are to go with their performance rate over the last 34 years, it will take the NRM government about 126 years to tarmac the current road coverage in Uganda.

This therefore means that the current NRM government can not secure the future of even the un born Ugandans with good tarmac roads.

In Kenya, Uhuru kenyatta has built about 8000 kilometers of tarmac roads in just 3 years at half the cost of building roads in Uganda. This is double what the NRM has built in 34 years in power.

#SecuringYourFutureByNRMIsNothingButHotAir.

Noon Breeze

They stood in the middle of the sequestrated highway at midday. It was so peaceful, so silent. Even the wind seemed to have taken a siesta. All around us, the park was at peace. The picturesque savanna plains burnt a couple of days ago by errant pastoralists presented a kaleidoscope of quaint country illusions. A few patches of brown grass and shrubs remained in isolation. A roosting sparrow chipped from high up in the Cactus tree on the other flank of the road.

As I stooped over to capture a magnificent photo of my family, apart of me drifted far away into the heart of the of the peace that surrounded us. I lost myself into it as my fingers subconsciously took multiple shots. The sound of an approaching automotive resuscitated me. Rubber soles slapped the burning bitumen as my family scuttled to the safety of the sidewalk. In a moment, the red Nissan Quasqai was gone. The silence returned. Peace once more prevailed. A pair of weaver birds flying low glided past our faces, pieces of half burned grass between their beaks.

While the clear pristine Kasese sky held no promise of a downpour, in my mind, a storm was gathering. I knew a raging tempest was fast approaching. Like a hen gathering its chicks in the face of the first downpour after enduring a prolonged African drought, I guided my family back into the car and drove away. Apart of me remained in that spot, imprinted on a million grains of sand hidden in the tiny crevices between the miniature gravels held in captivity by the gooey tar.

Masters at work

Seated on a dry tree stump at the beach, we watched the fishermen work. The placid lake was basking in the ambiance of the evening. Midget waves relayed and crashed against the sandy beach receding to the lake crestfallen like an adolescent walking away from the girl of his fantasy after being turned down. A stray dog with only good use of three legs limped to the beach. He gazed at his own image on the glassy surface, took a drink and winced a couple of times whilst the waves distorted his image. A blitz of apprehensive barks ensued. A vexed fisherman threw a wet maize cob at the dog, striking him between the neck and fore limbs. He howled and scuttled off.

The fishermen operated like clockwork loading nets, buoys, anchors and other fishing paraphernalia into their boat. The stocky fisherman in army green slacks and a stained old yellow 'vote Museveni T-shirt' seemed to be the guy in charge of the fishing outfit. He stood at the beach and signaled instructions to the other three men. In his right hand, he held a small radio close to his ear and occasionally stumped his foot on the wet beach whenever he heard something he didn't agree with on the broadcast. He could be seen pacing and grimacing. I watched him and thought, I know nothing about him and he knows nothing about me. I wondered what his story was. I was sad that I would probably never know.

The men on the boat finished loading and called out to the stocky guy. He hurried to the boat, radio still held to his ear and embarked. The fisherman in the aged leather jacket pull-started the Yamaha engine. It coughed once and purred to life. The other men stared at the sky while the stocky man lowered the radio from his ear to read the time on his wrist watch.

The sun was already fast receding behind the sky. Over the horizon where the sky appeared to meet with the lake, a bright amber art piece was taking shape, nature's own adept fingers working seamlessly to create this sensation. The fishermen, steered their boat right out into the growing sunset and blended in. The masterpiece was complete. Four fishermen in a dugout with a motor engine sailing against the tide bathed in the tranquility of the amber ball of fire changing to hues of orange and then almost tangerine.

Rolling Wheels

She came to him last night. The look in her eyes told him she had moved on. The smile on her lips told him he still had apart of him left in her. Then for the the next hour,her voice,her heartbeat, their shared past raced through him like Boda bodas at the traffic lights during rush hour on a Monday morning.In the car they kissed.Yes,she kissed him and he knew her eyes and lips were playing games on him. He still loved her and he wished God would bless her with him BUT, he also knew he didn't deserve her anymore . He was Now A Father. How could he have the ability to love and hurt her and feel no guilt at all?

He picked up a pad of paper and a splintered Bic pen. He started to scribble...

Darling Grace....am talking about me. Am talking about the pages of my life that i haven't flipped in along time. It feels good going back in time. I love the overwhelming feeling of nostalgia, the fresh scent of innocence and the great aroma of love that comes with the trip. There is a song from 1988 by George Michael called "One more try" ...am listening to it while i smile!

Wild thoughts rummaged through him... He thought of words, words she had written to a girlfriend of hers when he was nursing his first heartbreak as an adolescent. "I will stand aside and watch. When the tears and whinnings subside,then i will step in like a heroine and grab that boy by the heart and take him to places he never knew existed. He shall not be in need again!"

He knew knew of the blazing desire to be taken to some places he never knew existed.

His mind took a flight. The night was cold and there was an eerie chill to the air on his bare back. Her body underneath him was warm and anxious and hungry for him.

When he was this close to it—eyes squeezed shut, lips twisted in a Billy goat sneer, cheeks glowing—the most descriptive word wouldn't be "passionate" or "erotic." It would be "determined." Because right then, at the edges of his fading consciousness, he was worried that the phone would ring, his knees would lose their traction on the sheets, or she ... would change position, and suddenly he would be sliding away from that elusive peak instead of moving toward it....

Primal Urges

Mini - gorgeous who wears nothing save for pristine brown skin and dances all day long on what i deliberately call my 'haute couture dashboard' pulled a facsimile of the famous Foxy Brown deep-it low and twirl-it-till-it soaks dance move from the 2001 Oh Yeah smash single as we took a turn to the left. The sheeny 'colansi' road hastily gave away to a loose surface road. The AC now in full blast whizzed through the dashboard gills like carbon-dixode exiting the strained nostrils of an Olympic marathoner approaching the 42km mark. The murrum was so fine it went up in a cloud of dust behind us like an eerie halo we couldn't shake off. Some portions of the ill-maintained road were creased in multiple corrugations. Negotiating 45 degree bends at 60km/hr, the sedan's under-steer gave me the rusty feeling country roads treat nouveau riche city dwellers with each festive season when they flock these parts with their larger than life attitudes. Close to the Nyamununka crater with its famed rotten-egg signature smell, we hit a couple of potholes and the automobile fish-tailed. The children smugly sit belted in their seats behind me exclaimed in a frenzy of unbridled excitement. Gorgeous flew me a lady bird smile and intimated the need for us to stop and commune with the great wild outdoors for a break. I jammed my leg on the pedal and my brembo's pressed hard against the disks as I steered to the road side, the six speed transmission circling back in absolute acquiescence. We stepped out....

From where we stood, the crater lake was so vast and up till now so minuscule in contrast with the far stretching wooded grasslands. Only a pair of warthogs gingerly wallowed on the muddy beach(in the spirit of the festive season-so am misled to imagine). Somewhere beyond the tree line, an elephant trumpeted,another one joined in. The wind carried the beastly serenade over the open savanna plains to us.. ..We turned around and walked back to our car, visceral somber calls of the wild beckoning us to venture deeper into unfamiliar realms. Not a word was said. Not a beat was missed and yet the primal urge to return to our wild roots seemed to have fleetingly been carried away in the crisp wind that ran through the shrubs with a rustle like a set of boisterous fingers through nappy hair.

Questions

On the eve of Christmas, the Christmas of 2012. I was driving to Fort portal from Kampala. Towards Mubende, I remember driving through perpetual grassy plains heavy with light. Marabou stocks and bold vultures flew low over brackish swampy waters, dragging their feet and the pine woods closed in again on either side of the tar laced road I was on. Mubende was almost half way the entire length of my journey.

At this roadside market, I met a group of of kids. Just like me, they were traveling upcountry to their village for Christmas. There was about five or seven kids with three chaperons. Howbeit, there was this one kid, a little girl about 5 or 6 years old who resuscitated my sense of wonder. She had bought a stick of roasted chicken and was having trouble eating it because it was too hot. I offered her mine and asked what her name was. "Kimora" , she said. "My name is Kimora but you can call me Kim. My mother calls me Kim" . She told me about her mother and her little kitten and how much she loved it. She said she was constantly worried about her kitty dying in its sleep and for this reason, she stayed awake all night long watching over it. I gave her my hankie as an avalanche of tears escaped her eyes. She said "Thank you Garfield. Garfield is what I'll call you" . Moments after she was gone, I found myself shading tears. With a heavy heart, I entered my sedan and drove away. Uncontrollable qualms of unfathomable loneliness and a forlorn longing for something I quite couldn't lay claim to obsessed me.

Two months later, I was at capital shopper's Nakawa going up the escalator when I caught eye of this kid waving at me on the escalator descending from the first floor. At the landing, were about two dozen people. The woman she was with stared down at her as I approached the first floor landing. I jumped off the escalator and turned around to look for the little girl. She was gone.

This little girl remained in my memory over the years like an indelible print consuming my peace of mind. Sometimes in the middle of a busy street, I have caught myself staring at a total stranger or at a mother and her daughter as though I would get the answers to some of the questions that plagued me. Questions I knew would go answered for life. Answers I probably should never hanker for and yet I still looked, looked in all the forbidden perspectives.

Fuck Boy Ssewanyana

Outside the office and the dull, plain community college building the parking lot ran down to a patch of grass, then a copse of trees separated the campus from the highway that led to the dreary grid of suburban streets and fast food places, most of them eerily empty at this hour. He sneezed in the twilight breeze and spread his hands out with a teensy-weensy jubilatory cry of conquest

"It's a fucked-up world," He said, "Filled with fucked-up people. But I don't think you're one of them. I think those other guys were. I want to hold you because I want to hold you, not because I feel sorry for you. We have an agreement, remember? This is only the start."

“Are you serious?” Emma heaved as she skipped three steps to elude a trip from an ill disposed Styrofoam cup.

“Yeah, serious from the bone to the marrow”, Ssewanyana Daniel hissed between clenched teeth.

The past year had not been so great for her romantically. She had attempted being in an open relationship, which failed miserably. She got back together with two different men from her past, which failed miserably. She attempted to use self-help books to find love, which (you guessed it!) also failed miserably. She had been ghosted, both in the "guy stops texting me" sense and the "guy leaves the country for good" sense. It had been exhausting to try to encounter deep, romantic love, to the point that she had often considered giving up on the whole endeavor completely. But what was she going to do, not date at all? Sincerely sit around and wait for the right guy to come along? Fuck that. She was too impatient and too horny to wait, and too broke to not accept free drinks. This is where the fuckboy entered the picture.

Ssewanyana Daniel was the archetypal fuck boy- a manipulating dick who does whatever it takes to benefit him, regardless of who he screws over. He will screw over anyone and everyone as long he got what he wanted.

So Ssewanyana Daniel had bought her four drinks and this is how far his money’s worth had paid off! He was walking her past the fast food places, a cheap motel in his mind-Two ducks and a Seat, at the corner house crowning Magezi Street. Once they entered the cheap hotel room. The rest of the motions seemed to just fall in place like clockwork. She closed her eyes and her mind zeroed down on 'The Great Gatsby,' a book about the unattainable dream. She saw Ssewanyana slip into the bathroom, his dick looming ahead of him like a tow-bar. Her mind raced through the pages of F Scott Fitzgerald's classic book. One of the greatest pieces of literature of all time. A timeless classic that tells the story of a man, James Gatz, who has an undying dream, a desire for a love that he will never have. "Gatsby believed in the green light. The orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but it's no matter. For tomorrow we will run faster, reach our arms out farther. Then on one fine day, so we beat on, boats against the current, we are borne back into the past"- A closing line in the masterpiece novel, The Great Gatsby.

Ssewanya returned from the bathroom with a black, prickly condom already on his unbendable dick. The sight of him like this turned her on. She cherished the feeling of warm, oozy, goblets escape the tight lips of her womanhood down to her thighs. He loomed over her now with a look of absolute rage on his face, muscles swollen, fingers clenched—the rage of being oversexed. Ssewanyana bent over and grabbed her hair as if he could pull the come out of her, pulling her head to the side till she opened her teeth in a grimace of pain.

"Give it to me, bitch! Give it to me, you hot cunt!"

Slapp!! Whackk!! Splatt!! Plapp!!

He grabbed his cock in one hand and opened her cunt with the other and began to slap the head against her clit. His dick felt like it weighed a ton and the sound it made as it splashed into her wet trough was like a log splattering into a muddy swamp. He beat her cunt with his prick and each blow was a jolt of pleasure for them both.

Faster and faster he beat her with his cock, and Emma wailed and screamed so loud he was afraid they'd hear her at the other end of the hallway, so he quickly grabbed her rumpled panties from the chair and stuffed them into her open mouth. That seemed to be the last straw, the final indignity she needed. She wailed behind the black gag of her panties and arched her back and started to come—the big one, the soul-killer—and at that moment he stopped slapping her with his dick, pushed the head dick down with his thumb so it found her moist pink hole, and shoved his whole length into her with one thrust of his hips, right at the height of her climax.

Thirty minutes later, she was still waiting. Ssewanyana had left the room claiming he was going to the ATM. She waited on end for him to return. Later, three hours she disengaged the wait option, dressed up and sneaked out of the boarding house. She had never felt so cheap in her life. She had never felt so useless and miserable in all her life. She had never felt so small and vulnerable and yet so safe, before in her life.

Mine is Gorgeous Diana Cormac .

His face was lost in the golden hues of the twilight, his prosternum still drooping with fresh dew from a night out of Monkey Business. Through the haze of the gloom, a sketch of his muzzle was visible. His big red tongue pendulous between an array of razor-edged teeth. He was standing on mound of lake sand left over from our concrete fence construction works when Gorgeous opened the door and stared, awe struck. Doubtless, love-struck. Gucci anxiously turned his head and seized Gorgeous in a gaze that lasted a better part of half a minute. I was watching from our bedroom window and I knew instinctively that they had fallen in love.
My fiancée is mujer muy hermosa . A very beautiful woman with the body of a goddess and the character of an angel. She is truck-stop sexy and lord-have-mercy-wet. She’s got the most enchanting gaze that back in 2005 when I first saw her at Freedom Square with Joy Musimenta, she seized me and held me helter-skelter like a moth caught in a spider’s web. Although the preceding weeks after that first encounter didn’t seem particularly involving as I wasn’t able to bump into her again at Campus, she stayed in my mind vivid and recurring like a movie on repeat playback mode. Struggling for an escape, like the moth’s panic movements would only lessen its chance of survival, I dated many worthless chics with half a brain and a single butt-cheek double the size of Enanga’s head. My deep indulgence in carnal pleasures only exposed to me in its true depth how much I would never fill the emptiness in my life with infinite lips, breasts and pussies…. Pitiable women of all earthly hues submerged in their own unending feuds. Only Gorgeous could fit perfectly and expel the empty darkness that my yearning spirit was so wary about. Years later when the heavens opened and our paths crossed again, I saw in her eyes what I saw again today while she and Gucci stared. I saw love and I knew this love is what I had asked God for back in 2012 when Roy Kaka handed Gucci to me. I held him in my arms and his little fuzzy, double-coated black and brown hair wedged to my tweed DNKY jacket. That day a bond that would live through flames and canine puberty was borne. We both instinctively knew that this love that we conceived would never be full until that last, final component fell into place. I smiled as I watched Gucci approach Gorgeous with a hug. At last the final component fell into place. I couldn’t hold back anymore pent up feelings, I gave in to the bitter-sweet indulgence for I knew that our destiny had finally been curved and set out for us.
No artist with the even the most adroit and faultless skill could capture this feeling, this image, this Indulgence in a painting or curving. I resolved to try nonetheless. I chose to keep this image with me for life. I walked over to my garage that at times doubles as my workshop and I picked up a palette of natural, earthy colors and let the strokes of my brush run wild and unbridled against the taught canvas. Between each stroke of my painting brush were a million atoms of unexpressed emotions. Each stroke itself a living demonstration that love and destiny were the primal forces that drew and molded Eve out of Adam's side while he slept. As the image materialized before my etching eyes, Gucci was laying on Gorgeous’ lap, licking her unpainted cuticles. Tisha my daughter was smiling and giggling sheepishly as she drew laugher-choked breaths between intermittent hand claps. Destiny took my hand-clasped painter’s brush and the strokes grew more aggressive. A bit more chaotic. But beyond what the eye could see, an artist’s impression of love was visible. Like the writings on the wall at Belshazzar's feast that only Daniel could decipher, only me, myself and my loved ones could resonate with the message the painting carried. Today we understand the poetry of the heart, but over the courses of our lives we will tend to demystify this precious feeling more and more. We will learn about biological processes that cause specific reactions; we will learn about cultural influences on how we behave and think about love; we will learn about the psychological and physiological processes that make us fall for each other. Even though we often think of ourselves as a faithful species, we’re not the only one in the animal kingdom. Wolves, swans, gibbons, black vultures, albatrosses and even termites are just a few of those animals that find a mate for a lifetime. Mine is Gorgeous Diana Cormac .

You Cannot Censor Me!

Sir, I don’t need you to tell me when and where to pray from. No, you are not God. You are just a mere mortal. You are no better than me-we have all fallen short of God’s glory!
I don’t need you to tell me what and what not to see or watch on TV. I don’t need you to censor the information I receive. I have God-given intelligence and free will to decipher the information I receive. I will get whatever information I choose to and I will make my own intelligent independent decisions. I need you to serve the interests of the people that have entrusted you with the responsibility of that office you hold today.
You don’t have to fly those Sukhoi jet fighters over my head to assert your military might. No, owning a handful of Sukhois and a few other jetfighters’ doesn’t give you the right to violate my personal rights and freedoms. Instead, we trust you to keep those jets away and only use them to protect us from external aggression. If you must run routine tests, shouldn’t you fly over the massive Lake Victoria or any of those sparsely populated areas? I am just a man and certainly my opinion doesn’t matter-you are the THE MAN so I guess you will only do as you please.
Pastor, I don’t need you to coerce me to give a huge offering or a tithe with threats of hell and eternal damnation. I can read the Bible, I can intercede and prophesy Blessings and all the fruits of the spirit upon myself. I can give to the poor and support the work of God in ways galore. Stop acting like you are the only representative of God in this wretched generation. Instead, I need you to do the work of God and use the powers and blessings bestowed upon you with humility and the fear of God. If we the sheep must see God in you and heed your teachings and counsel, stop acting like the devil.
Aha Mr. Lokodo, I hear you are in war against pornography. Is that all there is to your Job description? Am not the judge of your performance in that office you have been entrusted with but am concerned that everyone I know thinks you are just a joke. My mind runs blank when I think about you….wait-a-minute, what was the name of that Nigerian boy who leaked Desire Luzinda nude pictures to the media? You threatend to string him by the balls(sic) and throw him behind bars? What happened? Didn’t he premier a video hurling insults at you? I was very disturbed by his lurid responses to you. And to my shock, the whole incident just was swept under the carpet. Then there was several other nudes that followed suit and the same common village barking dog(pardon the pun) barked on as the nude played havoc with the social media fanatics. Then in the season’s finale Stella Nyanza blew the plug off the whole episode of nudes. She had justifiable reasons and even the dumbest the fools in my village could somehow though in a creepy way understand that. Then you sir, said you would arrest and prosecute our Stella Nyanzi. She’s some sort of a super power in her own right, so she lashed back at you and blah, blah, blah…the Cancer machine was an issue about that time and you sir, smack in our face brought into the picture the Pornography machine worth billions? Wasn’t that rather misplaced-Like a pervert who talks about the girth of this Penis at his mother’s funeral? Is Ethics and Integrity all about pornography and leaked nude pics and videos only or is that the only role you are motivated to do? Is it sir? Wouldn’t the revered Reverand or rather Father dare advise the Uganda police, the UPDF or even the parliamentarians on their ethics and integrity Achilles heels? Of course not, instead he picks on the weak and defenseless ones, the ones that own no guns nor jet fighters. Father, these people are only victims of the circumstances. I think, the masses should be protected from such leaks. Instead of summoning Desire Luzinda and threatening her, it would have been prudent to have comforted her whilst working with her to bring the low life thug who leaked her pictures to book. Above all, we are humans and no law forbids us from taking pictures of our naked bodies either for our own gratification or for sharing with our loved ones. We should be protected in this endeavor! At the end of the day, I am just me and I don’t have the opinions that matter just as you do so just like water under the bridge, my ideas or opinions just tumble by. I must say this though, I believe you are better off preaching the word of God in a dioceses’.
I see they bought you new trucks, new motor bikes and a lot of concentrated tear gas and a lot more bullets. Am happy for you though you still sleep several notches below the poverty level. You don’t need to pollute my neighborhood with those potentially cancer-causing pollutants to deter me from joining Besigye’s defiance campaign. I am smart enough to discern what is good or bad for me. For instance, I sympathize with FDC and Besigye but I don’t support several ideas or actions they stand for. Am well cultured and civilized and my approach to challenges and frustrations defers from the ordinary brute. I will abide with the rules and regulations. I will respect authority as long as the Authority is Authority. I have no tolerance to Anarchy and this goes both ways. Therefore, my brother, my sister….Relax. Chill. Stop waving that gun in my face, take it to the armory and stash it away. It’s not necessary. Take that tear gas and store it away. It’s not required. If you need to communicate to us and you are convinced that your message is noble, step down from your high horse and we will communicate as humans and your message will be understood and respected. Brute force isn’t constructive. Dialogue is. We are one. We need each other. Lets act like it.
What happens when a formidable force meets with a tough immovable force? Besigye is Unstoppable. Museveni is Immovable. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?
Let me help you a bit here:
• An immovable object is an object whose motion cannot be changed by any force, except possibly by an unstoppable force (see below).
• An unstoppable force is a force strong enough to change the motion of any object, except possibly an immovable object (see above).
Dimensional analysis
Consider an immovable object of mass M. Mass is only an impediment to being accelerated quickly; even a tiny force can move an object of immense mass, albeit slowly. So, I don't interpret immovable to mean having immense mass. Instead, to be immovable by any finite force the object must be at the bottom of some infinite potential well. This means that it would take an infinite amount of energy to perturb the object and permanently alter its motion - something only the unstoppable force will be capable of doing. This potential well must have a characteristic width L, which is the width of the region to which the object is confined. The potential well must also have a depth V, a quantity with dimensions of energy. While the spirit of an immovable object implies that the width of the potential should be small, it is really the depth of the well that characterizes the object's immovability. The depth of the well V should accordingly be infinite, on the scale of Λ.
In non-relativistic classical mechanics, there is only one way of doing so. I must say that V ~ Λ. This is because V is the only quantity with dimensions of energy that can be formed out of M, L, and V.
Cut the long explanation short; We have a country to build, shouldn’t we stop fighting and rallying behind each other for lost causes? Shouldn’t we just all join in together and work forward for the good of the entire nation? Mr. Besigye, Mr. Museveni….stop. Let’s work together again. You did it before, you can do it again! We can’t wait forever. Come on guys!

Happy Birthday Cormac

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

She-devil

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

He Lives in Her

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

Ipsum Idiot

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

Angel

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

Where we started

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

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

Thingamabobs

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

Silent Cries

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

Three Tit bits

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


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

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

Sexy Woman of God

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

In the Niche of Time

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

In Cold Blood

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

Two Chickens

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

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

Saccharine

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

Steak Out

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

Vanity in the Sky

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

The women who took my Fore Skin

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

The Weatherman bleeds

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

Memoirs of a Nympho

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