The Corny Article

This one’s no good,move on to the next article.So there I was,standing by the roadside,waiting for a taxi.One drew up shortly and the ‘conductor’ asked me to get on board. I gave the taxi a long hard look and decided against it, there was simply no space.Plus I was getting some nasty looks from the thirty or so passengers that were spilling out of the windows.
“Some people are getting out.” The conductor attempted a pitch.
He didn’t need to tell me this, I could see that for myself and I politely told him so.
Muttering something under his breath about fuel prices, airtime taxes and my apparent snobbish attitude,he left.
Wondering how I was going to get to the city I started to walk.I had absolutely no intention of walking to town,you realize,but I needed to create the illusion that I was making progress in some way.Suddenly,there was a voice,
“Are you going to town?”
I was perplexed.Actually that’s a lie,I was freaked out,so I asked, “Father,is that you?”
A brief pause,and then the voice came back, “Faza? No,boss.Its just me;a boda boda cyclist without a spare helmet and a bad attitude.”
You need to understand that I was pressed for time and was undergoing a serious case of selective hearing.I chose not to hear the bit where he said something about having a bad attitude.
I was not keen on the idea of haggling over fares,so I attempted an alternate conversation…
“Man,these clusters of humps…we keep moving like this and I will not have kids.”
No response.Not even a grunt.All he did was swerve a couple of times to avoid the inconvenience that was the smooth bit of the road.
I tried once more.
“Last night’s weather,awful wasn’t it?It rained cats and dogs…”Then he spoke.
“Shaddup!” the words were spat out with a fair amount of venom.
I thought I’d heard wrong,surely it was the wind playing tricks on my ears.
“I said shut up!You know,as in shut your gob or whatever.Its not an effect of the wind playing around with what I’m saying.Its all me.I’m telling you to shut up!I warned you though,I just happen to have a bad attitude.”
In the ensuing one-sided conversation it emerged that his wife had left him for two guys aptly named Katz and Doug on a rainy night .Her reason being that he had failed to play his part in the Make Babies Promotion.
It was sad really.Surely by now everyone knew that the whole Make Babies thing was a scheme perpetrated by some sinister organization so it could come out and claim that German imported condoms were not doing their work.
“Look man,” he went on, “I realize its not your fault,but you should have seen this coming.”
With that he made a sharp right turn and we ended up in a field of maize that had previously not existed.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked,his eyes suddenly looking red.
Maybe they did look red as I jumped on,but I was way too preoccupied. Excuses aside,I had a nasty feeling I knew where he was taking this. My fears were confirmed.
“I am a bad man.Not like R.Kelly or that Bebe Kool fellow.Cut me,I bleed…”
I had to step in,this was getting inexcusable, he was clearly taking the piss,stealing lines from the Spiderman sequel, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
He hesitated before replying, “I’m just saying,I have achieved Bad Man Status.Your attitude has angered me,so I’m going to make like Red San and Step On It!”.
I was briefly confused, “On what,my attitude?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, have you had a chance to look at where you are?”
I took a long hard look around. I saw a couple of maize stalks lying on the ground.Other than that there was barely anything noticeable. Then it came to me,” Ndi Ku digi!”
“Exactly!So,do you always accept rides from strangers?” He inquired.
“Well,I rarely call them strangers if I have to part with some money.” I pointed out.
I was starting to get scared.Would anyone actually read this without occasionally pausing and wondering where the truth ended and how much of it was bull.
Then he cut into my thoughts.
“That’s actually a valid point.I say,were you done?”
I was a bit confused,“With what?”
“With your thoughts.I have this annoying habit of interrupting people’s thoughts…not that it matters to me anyway.I have a bad attitude and this has gone on long enough.”
“What has?The ride,the utter foolishness of it all?” I asked hopefully.
“That too,but I was talking about something else.Don’t you have a word limit?You probably do.So,if you don’t mind,I will go into monologue mode for the most part.I have issues,you see,big twisted issues. I wasn’t breastfed as a kid ‘coz my mum liked me as a friend…but that’s not it,I am as bad a person as you’ve painted me so far.Sure I’ve dragged you through this field,but I am like any other sane person. I pay my taxes by way of airtime and I most certainly don’t go around wearing banana leaves during Spring in the United Kingdom trying to prove a point.I am,however, a cereal killer!”
What I wanted to know is how I fit into this thing,what I asked instead was, “Is it possible that you have got this serial killing business all wrong?”
“Boss,look around you!We are in a maize field,I have destroyed enough crop and soon as I’m through,I’m going to Burn Dem Down.That makes me a certified Cerial Killer!”
“Or an utter moron,”I opined, “So what do you need me for?” I was getting really impatient and all sorts of asinine thoughts were setting up abode in my head. One of them had me convinced that this is how crop circles were formed…”
“Sorry about this,the whole breaking and entering thing.I need a writer!We cerial killers need publicity.Without it we are inconsequential,useless and as unappealing as feuding artistes.Oh darn…we have come to the end,”
“Of what? This tripe? This nonsense, the banter…”
He cut in for what was to be the last time.
“Of the article.”


A League Of Their Own

Yesterday I successfully entered the echelons of people that can use the phrase,”I spent my Sunday washing clothes” or its equivalent,”I washed”.
I realise this is not an issue,and there’s the random possibility that I am actually displaying some spoilt brat tendencies,but I still think its a big deal.It actually helped me open my eyes to a few crucial facts,primarily that my wardrobe comprises a great number of jeans and khakis and that I have generally been malicious with my demands that the house help washes them.
Nonetheless,he has been promising to get the job done.For all of two weeks I have been waiting,watching with considerable despair as my supply of clothing waned.On Saturday he made the same promise and I haughtily replied,”that’s what you always say!”
Sure enough,he didn’t turn up and that’s how I ended up with this proggie thrust upon me.
After the harrowing experience someone commented on how well I had done.Reminded me of those times back in primary school when teachers would pat peeps on the back and say (whilst unwittingly condemning denizens of students to eternal embarassment),”congratulations”. In the same breath she also mentioned that the househelp was probably embarassed.
Personally,I doubt that among the thoughts that ping-ponged back and forth in his mind he actually registered,”Oh crap,he actually went and washed his clothes…by himself…How Emnarassing!

Picture Perfect

I’m, not hating,far from it.I respect the whole concept of photography.Given the right setting I’d pose with Angelina Jolie if Bradd let me.But that’s it.I would not go all out on the whole thing the way many people do.It never ceases to amuse me(yes,I am actually a very to amuse person…which is why Breakfast Shows hold some sort of appeal) the lengths people go through for pictures.
I asked someone what they hoped to achieve from this,whether the answers to life’s greatest mysteries would be revealed within the flash of bright lights or whether she had actually chanced upon the secret to youth.I desperately wanted some sort of “deep” reason that would leave me in a state of awe or at the very least pondering the intricacies of film and the like. She summed it up in just the one word-JUST!
Suffice to say,my afternoon was killed and I consoled myself with some asinine game whose objective had me trying to guess what the next Ebonies play would be called.I didn’t see Obnoxious Abomination coming.It just didn’t make as much sense as the other titles. For the record,you can really find yourself in an Inextricable Dilemma wherein the outcome will without a doubt be an Excruciating Conundrum.The perfect example of such a situation would be sitting through any of their TV series…and I use the word “Series” in the broadest sense of the word.
Don’t Worry,Be Happy
Someone claims that getting your picture taken is some sort of anti-depressant.Apparently if you are feeling low and walk into a studio you will emerge shortly afterwards in such high spirits.Two things clash with this theory.I have never seen anyone smiling in those mugshots the police in “outside countries” take in the movies.Secondly alcohol is reputed to lift spirits faster than photos,seeing as there is no time lag as they “develop” alcohol.
There is simply no other way of putting this.People supposedly take pictures so that they can remember how they looked at some point in their lives.This prompts the question,“Then what?”.How exactly is this going to impact your life or the great hereafter?
You can not “just” take pictures.There has to be some reason,heck throw in some sort of vanity or narcissistic spiel.“I figured I looked incredibly good that day and seeing as I described myself in that chatroom where people go to meet their future spouses as looking drop dead gorgeous,this was ideal…now obba where do I get blue eyes…”
There are a few questions that are exceptions to the “just” excuse.You can answer some questions with the one word.Questions such as,“Why do you say all those nasty things about Jennifer Lopez?”
The issue here is not so much the fact that pictures are taken.People need to make a living,Winnie Munyenga needs stuff to talk about..the issue is the fact that people will actually go to the ATM,withdraw money walk past all these takeaways and airtime joints and get a picture taken…Just for Just!!

Club Hoppers: The Story Of One

This is one of those articles where I claim the plan was simple,then I back track and you realize I was not very honest the first time round and the plan was nowhere near that.The truth is the night in question was destined to have some harrowing experiences.We’d just left a graduation party and this should have been the climax of the night. Seeing as I have just started writing this its pretty obvious that it wasn’t.
The first stop was Garden City.Somebody had suggested that it was “actually happening” on Saturdays.Somebody lied.I suppose we were to blame.We should have seen it coming.On a very “happening” night the guy at the gate hands you the parking tickets with lots of aggression.Actually if you don’t lower your car’s window in time he’ll probably hook you up with some instant ventilation.This particular night he was simply not “feeling it”.From the way he was handing them out it seemed like he had actually realized that for his 5 years in law school,this was a major setback in the whole “conquer the world plan for global domination” he’d planned.
Even then,we ventured into the great unknown.One of the people I was hanging with actually voiced some concern,“If this place is so happening,why are there very few cars here…did guys get towed?” As is wont to happen,we ignored the voice of reason and made our way to Alley Gators where there was very little going on.And that’s not taking into account the Karaoke.It didn’t matter anyway,we’d actually decided for another venue.Going to The Venue held as much appeal as watching paint dry.
A quick call revealed that the place to be was actually Kamwokya.
We made our way there and someone figured playing pool was not such a bad thing on anight such as this.Fate intervened and somehow Fat Boys,despite having a pool table had registered its highest number of pool players ever.The othe place with a coastal sounding name wasn’t too bad either.It had a bevy of chics clad in brief skirts (which is not entirely a bad thing) and totting Smirnoff Ice like there was some sort of promotion taking place.We didn’t stay for long though. If we had,this piece wouldn’t have anything to do with club hopping would it?
We ended up going to the Rouge,which can best be described as this really cool place with red walls and a higher number of English speaking chics than you’d find in other night spots.The other thing about this place that was really hard to avoid noticing was the music being played.(Would have taken quite a bit of effort not to notice that,really).It was the kind that doesn’t force you to go into hiding because some idiot on the dancefloor is trying to show some chic that Usher got his moves from him.
We still were not pleased with comfortable with this so we hit Club Silk where we met some guy dressed like he’d stepped out of some East Africa TV music video.I wouldn’t say he was wearing too much jewellery but if someone was out to rob him the ideal weapon would have been a magnet.
The night,as has this story,ended with PunchLine.

Seeing Red:A Rouge Story

The first thing that crept into my mind as I entered the club can not be printed.Not necessarily the first thing when you get down to it,but the first word.It was an exclamation of sorts.Nonetheless,I made my way up the stairs and my vision was accosted by the colour.

I realize at this point you’re looking at this and thinking, “What did he expect?What an idiot?” In my defense,I half expected a few shades of any colour but red,but red is all I got.
In a somewhat unique way,(and I say unique in the broadest sense of the word) the club is pretty roomy.I casually observed a lady nearby doing the splits.

Before you get all high and mighty,ask yourself how exactly this is a bad thing. Seeing as there was sufficient room.she didn’t bother anybody.Plus the Rouge is probably the only club where she could do this.In Silk someone would have tripped over her(and said something tacky to the effect,“I fell for her!” *embarrassed laugh*) and if she’d taken that sort of thing to Ange she would have been trampled under some sort of stampede.
Let’s face it,sometimes Ange tends to get so crowded you spend half the night trying to get in.

Something about the place gave me the impression that I didn’t quite fit in. I can’t put my finger on it really.It might have been the fact that the music could not quite be danced to(someone will probably want to dispute this) or the fact that the smoke coming up from under the dancefloor was very suspect.Given the right amount of smoke you could look out for someone,anyone that you had a grudge with and visited your wrath upon him.

Then again I almost felt the way I would if I entered a nightclub only to find that I was one of 12 Ugandans…no,scratch that,Africans…

This is a good thing,you realize.It means that no matter how badly off you are,you can never be the worst dancer in a place like this….