’twas the last day of the year…

This is my year end post, it goes a little something like this…

I have learnt this year that live and let live is the way to go. I believe that half the fun in making New Year’s Resolutions (here on referred to simply as NYRs) lies in the knowledge that you probably won’t live up to them… Make ‘em anyway.

I have learnt that Boda Bodas are the way to go. Sure I’ve fallen off ‘em a couple of times and bled a little. I’ve looked on in wonderment as the chemical component goes all fizzy on the wound as it goes about its business of killing the germs… I’ma ride ‘em anyway.

I’ve been asked to be serious about my approach to writing. I’ve been asked to write as a professional might. Three out four of the professionals I know write shit that could put a cup of coffee to sleep. The remaining one out of four influences my style and that’s who I’ma take seriously… I might diss em a couple of times, but its just jokes, I’ma read ‘em anyway.

I have taken to naming my property, not just CHOGM but gadgets and shit. I get frustrated when they fail to respond and haven’t the decency to refer to me by my name or title (that’s Ghost Of Sparta, to you Sir), but I’m gonna name ‘em anyway.

I have learnt that whenever I hype a movie up way too much it fails to live up to people’s expectations. I may be overdoing it… I’m gonna overhype ‘em anyway…. The Dark Knight is going to kick so much Hollywood Arse, the box office is gonna walk funny.

I have been educated on shit that I chose to ignore in class; I have been privy to discussions that I shouldn’t be privy to. To the wonderful ladies that for some reason or another felt it was truly necessary for me to know How Stuff Works complete with graphs and charts and stuff, Thanks, but seriously, Too Much Info! I am a simple man.

That goes double for you that figured I should know where to buy ladies’ lingerie. I am not a cold heartless bastard but I doubt I will need to walk into a lingerie shop anytime soon. The theme of these little soirées is “bring your own lingerie”. None will be provided at the entrance. In all fairness, this is brought on by the “bring your own ‘rubber’ theme that y’all see fit to impose…

This year I experienced my first moment of Speechlessness. I didn’t think this was something I could go through, but it happened anyway… You read this stuff in books and see it in teen flicks, when it happens to you, you call up your pal and he tells you why it happened and you want to bash the phone on the side of his head, but seeing as you’re not using the earlier model of cellphones (the ones that were the same size as a laptop…or fridge) he’ll probably survive with barely a scratch… to the one that made me lose words for all of five minutes I say….

New friends made, none lost, to those that put up with me, cheers. It gets a little monotonous when I have to handle being me. It’s dreary and that I can rely on you guys to keep me going, cheers. I promise to cut down on the expectations y’all have of me so that whatever I do is ordinary, after all, you and I are just ordinary people… who am I kidding, I kid coz I love!

To all the wonderful people that populate the blogosphere…and Baz (ha!!!) Thanks for pouring words forth and making me laugh, think and hate you for being better than me. The constant reminder that there are people that are better at this game than I keeps me going, and for making me believe, thanks.

For the guys that made my costume party happen, thanks. I believe in Bottle Parties because of you. I really do… even though some saw fit to bring stuff that tasted rose-petal flavoured booze… you guys rock… which brings me to…

The peeps I have gone for Rock Night with. Ain’t no stopping us now. Here’s to hopes that we shall keep doing that thing we do and we shall keep hating on the suits that come over and slow dance to Linkin Park jams like they are Whitney Houston ballads. Damn Right! I don’t even slow dance to Snow Patrol when they are suggesting that we be there as if chasing cars, why on earth would I, in the glare of Starlight, be caught dancing slow without my Muse….

To people I’ve gotten high with and traded stories of highness with the following afternoon, we’re getting too old for this shit. Let’s cut down on the alcohol. There’s so much to live for… hehe, this paragraph is my April fool’s joke for the next year.

To anyone that schooled me on stuff academia, thanks. I am a better person for it… I may drop words without giving any thought as to whether they make sense, but hey, you can school me on that. To people that encouraged me to go back to school and get it out of the way, I say thank you and I ask, “Now what?”

To Uganda for pulling off the illusion of the century and giving it a name (CHOGM) (not MY CHOGM, the country’s)… I sit back here and applaud you and await with bated breath to see what your next trick will be… I know democracy will be a tall order, but shit, I can now see who’s propositioning me at 3am when I leave the club…

to the ladies of the night that beckon, watch some East Africa TV, style up and quit calling me Arsene Wenger and asking me to aim for your “Goal”, then we shall see…. shit, we won’t, just style up, the country needs you to pay higher taxes, we’re counting on you.

…then again, if you’re reading this blog, you ARE styled up just enough.

My NYRs for the year to come….
Achieve a certain level of happiness and comfort, no one likes a constant grumbler.

Speak Less, Listen more. No one understands what I’m saying half the time anyway. I blame it on the booze.

Keep a job for a year or something… It looks prettier on the CV.
Have an open mind. . . just.

Cut down on cussing. There’s got to be some distinction between me and the dude that sells the newspaper at the corner…

Watch. Like nobody’s dancing.

Cough. Like no one’s listening.

Smile. Like there’s nothing on your teeth

… Live. Like there’s no tomorrow!

To you and yours, Happy New Year!

lemme just say. . .

A Certain Interruptus; A Detective’s Narrative

I feel the inside of my mouth go dry as the shock sets in. I think I might have dropped the “f”-bomb in my shock. Not that it matters, I mean, you barge into a room and the last thing you expect to find is the quarry you’d surely dealt with earlier. It’s a room in a brothel, so I suppose it’s perfectly normal to find a man and a woman making the beast with two backs, but this… this is almost insulting.

What’s this supposed to imply, that I didn’t quite “do it” for her? Was she faking it? Given her line of work, I suppose she would be well equipped with such a skill set. Damn she’s good. I gave her my all and I was so sure she’d repaid in equal measure, but here she is. Looking fresh as a daisy, well, as fresh as a slutty daisy would look.

Reflection

Yesterday, I was just like you. Pretty much. I thought that girl was cute, thought she had a wonderful smile, that her smile lit up the room that she took my breath away. That there were endless possibilities, if I could just gather the nerves and tell her… but it’s too late. Too late to regret. I went out just as you did, hang out with my pals and had a great time. As you undoubtedly did I don’t even know how it happened or when it happened, but it did. It may have been that sip I took from the glass, the one I joked about not being strong enough, as the hours pass me by, I wonder am I? Am I strong enough? It may have been from that suggestion that we share that last drink, that we pass the liquid from one to another, because I was shy, but now I find I may be shy no more. In the end may be that’s what being shy is for… was for.

I got home, feeling a little tired, feeling spent. I retired, in anticipation of the hangover that would undoubtedly come. My last thought as I closed my eyes and drifted off, “I’m getting too old for this shit”. Now I don’t know whether I was right, whether my assessment was spot on, I will never know.

I woke up bathed in sweat, with joints hurting in ways suggestive. I should have known, perhaps I did, but denial was so close, I reached out and it’s the course I took.

I called up the boda-boda guy, told him I needed to go to the clinic, asked him whether he knew where it was. He had a rough idea. Good man.

I presented my health insurance card to the lady at the reception, she took it from me, with her gloves, she appraised it. She looked at me, didn’t seem to think I was a threat, asked me to go to the waiting area. I did.

I pulled out my book, the novel I’d got from my friend because I hadn’t read for ages and because I hoped it would inspire me. Inspire me to go on, to fulfill the promise I’d made not too long ago when I’d been inspired.

My chest hurt a little, but I figured it was a cough, my sister had only just recently recovered from one, it only made sense that I should have one. The waiting area was empty, may be because it was too early, may be because people didn’t want to take any chances. In the corner, looking at me, a mother and her child, on the chair next to mine; a grandfather type with his impatient son. Once or twice I’d catch the glance of a nurse, pretty and brown and I’d smile. Then I’d realise the futility of it all, she’d know what I’ve got and her assessment would not favour me.

I buried my head in the story I was reading, my thoughts with me. Then the doctor called out my name. Seemed pleasant enough. I started to pack my book in the bag when my  reality and my denial came crashing into each other. All it took was a drop, one drop of blood as my nose let it out and the truth hit me as more flowed. Hit me so hard I was blinded to the panic around me. I didn’t see the mother grab her daughter and run. Was deafened. Didn’t hear the son shout out that they should go, didn’t hear the little girl scream.

It all happened so fast, I am now in a ward, isolated, alone and abandoned. I see my family. But there’s a glass between us. They daren’t come in. I don’t blame them. But that they are here means a lot to me, makes me wish I could fight harder. Be stronger. But its too late. I’m not alone in here. Some are far worse than I am, closer to meeting their maker than I, but in the end we will meet. We shall compare notes, wonder how it happened. For now I feel a tinge, a tinge of remorse. Dreams not fulfilled, hopes not achieved. So much left unsaid. If I’d be allowed a moment, a few seconds to make good I would. Lord knows I would. I’d say I’m sorry, say I was wrong, say I loved you. If I had the chance I’d say it all, but now I can’t and to think, yesterday, I was just like you.

more random than a ugandan cop’s uniform

My boss sent an email around telling us how we can detect and avoid Ebola. Its kinda touching to know he cares. Its also nice to know that he knows that Ebola is in town… so is Kevin Lyttle, but more on that later. What makes it so reassuring is the fact that I can skip work and tell him, solemnly that I had heard someone in the vicinity had caught the damn thing and was giving out goodbye hugs.

I don’t mean to undermine the Ebola thing, I appreciate the efforts of all those wonderful men and women that are trying to do something about it. So much so, I thought twice about my scheme to skip work by coughing out ketchup (or tomato sauce for those of you in families Amarula) and saying something like, “Oh my. Won’t you look at that…”
To a certain degree, the fact that most of the ketchup that’s readily available in these here parts is diluted with water kinda contributed to the death of that plan.

In other news, Stuart Kevin Lyttle is in town. For those of you who may be wondering who this is, I will start off by telling you who he isn’t then move on to who he is… and if I really feel like it, who he was.

He is not that cute little rat (What gives? A cute rat? Its like saying grasshoppers are pretty… but when you think about it…) that fell in love with the yellow bird and had their romantic venture acquire a Celine Dion soundtrack. Am I the only one that sees the bit at the end of the “I’m Alive” video with the rodent saying, “IN YOUR FACES BITCHES” and then lighting a cigarette? No? Anyway, the vermin is not Kevin Lyttle, that’s Stuart Little.

Though a local artiste in his own right, he is not that guy that calls himself England’s Rose and says shit like, “ They call me England’s Rose, Coz I spit a tough game and wax some Prose, innit?!” That’s the legendary man of mystery, Ernest “Black Man Rising” Bazanye.

Kevin Lyttle is Jamaica’s answer to Akon. We figure news of Akon leaked, because we have gathered intelligence that suggests Kevin was around way before AKON… or before you and I… or around the time the Big Bang was graduating from being a Tiny Pop. He is what you would get if someone took in helium and attempted patois… twice.

Apparently he mentioned in some interview that he doesn’t know his dad and that he has a step brother “somewhere out there” (over the rainbow?). It goes without saying, Bobi Wine and Chameleone will be fighting to prove that each is said brother. Given his resemblance, I’d say England’s Rose is a strong contender.

My mum was upset when she read that Kevin said he was still single and searching and that he had seen loads of beautiful girls in Kampala. Yeah, I felt the same way when Juliana Kanyomozi said she was single and bothered not searching and then turning up in the press the following week in the arms of some dream…What The ****, I thought to myself? Is this what she meant when she told me she was living The Dream?

My mum’s ire stems from the fact that Kevin seems so cock-sure of himself and she believes women, or girls or hags, have a say. That just because the dude sounds like a rodent on helium and he has tonnes of cash, a woman has a choice. From this observation, I am so glad I didn’t develop my social life during the 70’s.

Also in the news, Kabila told Kony he has one month to leave.
I’m intrigued. Is that all its supposed to take? I mean, we have spent like a bajillion shillings on this war, and all we needed to do is pick up the phone and go like, “Hey, uh, Joseph, you and your kind are not welcome here, so, uh, you know, BOUNCE”.

The real question is, what took Kabila so long? Credit issues? I know I am still hounding MTN for my credit that was taken away from me. And they don’t tire of saying I should be patient… more on that later.

Did it become an issue when Kony allegedly killed and ate Otti’s penis…not necessarily in that order? And I mean that as:

STEP ONE: Kill Otti

STEP TWO: Eat Penis

NOT

STEP ONE: Kill Penis

STEP TWO: Eat It

If you want to use the above steps as source material for your porn flick, feel free

One can’t help but wonder what the point of no return is in these arrangements. So anyway, Kony is meant to be out of there like by the end of the year…

I’m planning to watch Beowulf today. I think I will use the loner approach. I figure this way I can avoid those people who figure the head rest in front of them is actually a foot rest. I won’t fault them. We all have our vices, my phone is always on, I just have the decency to put the thing in silent mode instead of placing the volume at the max knowing full well that my ringtone is so bad, it widens the hole in the Ozone.

Thy Will Be Done

Forgive me father for I have sinned,

I have sinned against you and my fellow man. I took a life and quite possibly have set the wheels in motion for another to be taken.

By association, Father, I have taken two lives. I know it would be asking too much seeking forgiveness, but you are just and forgiving. You are forgiveness itself. And yet, I come before you not for forgiveness, but to state my case. To explain. You are all seeing, so I suppose you saw what happened.

You gave us free will, so it only makes sense that I did what I did. You saw this coming, Proverbs 6:34 proves it, Solomon clearly stated that “for jealousy arouses a husband’s fury,
and he will show no mercy when he takes revenge.”. Then again, when you think about it, I showed some mercy. I could have let her suffer, you know she deserved to suffer, not what after she did to me… what they did to me.

The gas put them out. Put them out real good. I am not pleased with what I had to do or by my work, but all things considered, I wasn’t cold.

Of course there was that moment when I slipped, when her eyes opened, when she tried to push my hands away. But I’d already started. Allowing her to live in that state would have been inhumane. Father you know this.

It’s like in Deuteronomy 32:41. You know, where it says, “when I sharpen my flashing sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my adversaries and repay those who hate me.” She hated me Lord. Why else would she hurt me like that? In all fairness, I didn’t use a sword. It is not like the idea didn’t cross my mind. It did. Loads of times. I played out the whole scene. Too messy, I thought. In any case, that would be overkill, so I improvised.

When I think of it, I think you wanted me to do it. I think you wanted me to put a stop to it. Did you?

Is that why you made me drive to the hardware shop? I found it odd that a traffic jam had materialized out of nowhere and I had to use that shortcut.

Should I be seeking forgiveness or thanking you Father?

For bestowing upon me this…this responsibility.

I don’t want to second guess you Father, but given that I managed to come this far, this means you love me, doesn’t it? That you are actually looking out for me?

It’s all become clear. Your will is being done through me. I am your hand, your emissary.

Is this not what I have been seeking, been asking for? I have knocked, and the door has been opened unto me.

Father, I understand now. You wanted me to do what I did. But no one else is worthy. Worthy to carry out your work. And that is why I can not let them take Albert to jail. Its up to me, isn’t it Father?

To bring your judgment upon him.

I know what I must do, I must save him, that I may bring salvation to him.