What we write

It takes tenacity, determination and complete focus to put word on paper. It becomes even harder if you don't want to focus on world issues (world peace, going green, the Japan vs china tiff) You also don't want to focus on your own life as a person, it feels like you are opening your life's door to criticism and ridicule, however stellar a life you have led, exemplary in-fact. It is human nature. Someone will see the tack in your eye - and pick it!

And so you write about wayward issues, about the completely rude taxi tout your friend told you about, or perhaps, about the pump attendant who wanted to rob you silly, thinking you were still in a state of doze, (given it's morning) but the way you jumped out of the car and shrieked at him when you realized you were being robbed surprised not only you, but the attendant as well, and so you blog...

The randomness with which you blog will surely, and slowly, lead to it's (your blog) death. At a certain time, after a number of posts have been written, and the deep satisfaction has spread like coffee in your system in the morning, the word tap will dry out. Taxi tout won't be worth blogging about anymore. You won't feel the inspiration to do so. You just won't!

Like they say, pointless meanderings akin to most blogs end up no where.

How much higher can you hike the skirt of your life? Afraid they will see something and judge? So you stop.

Once you delve into writing, you feel that your followers expectations are heightened. Their awareness of your prose skills will influence your next blog entry, so like an antelope caught in the headlights of a car, you freeze, more because you feel their eyes boring into you (into your blog)

Of course it's easier to have a mini-series-a following of stories with a protagonist featuring, his/her life played out, but this will happen only if you can follow a lead properly, if you can finish what you started. So because you don't want to bite into something you may not chew properly and effectively have your shallowness displayed for all and sundry, you freeze.
Of course you want to spice up your story, let the protagonist be a heart-breaker, perhaps a serial dater or have some riveting character or proclivity that will have your reader hooked, but you don't want your reader to super-impose this onto your real life, which may or may not be....

And so your tap dries out.

I once asked a pal why he doesn't blog anymore; he said he realized mid-sentence after a year of blogging that he was actually not good at writing about himself, and so he abandoned ship. I challenged him to write about issues far removed from his personal life, all he could think of was 'the going green campaign' and of course he wouldn't be bothered...

Facebook = Shallow

It's addictive. It's catching, it's wrong.
It makes you wanna log on in the middle of the night, just to see what is going on. That is Face book, ladies and gentlemen.
There is something exhibitionist about it, makes one pour out their day for everyone to know, maybe to chide a counter parry, match and counter-match. Who happens more, Who is having more fun?

There are these two young'uns who live on Facebook.
One goes "I am at Mr Price at Nakumatt, this shirt looks stunning"
the other goes "Nakumatt, Mr. Price, i love, love, the clothes"
Needless to say, had you been tasked with profiling them, you would gather information right up to when they fart, exact time.

The exhibitionism that face book encourages is shameless. It makes you wonder if we actually live private lives, or if, at all, we want to live private lives.
You would know when your mere acquaintances fall in love, what kind of love thereof, segue, when the heartbreak (that will follow, as sure as day follows night) happens.
The frivolous existence that FB (acronyms now, please) has created reminds of some semi-living thing swimming on the surface of the water, too lethargic to dive to the bottom, to get it's hands dirty, to get to the deep of things...

Quick lust, they call it. Anonymous dates with all the wrong people, morbid looking people with veneers of models on their profile pages. Unabashed alias profile information, creating false liberties for some who have the time, (and the energy) to maintain two profiles. With the second tucked away safely, only to be used on those restless weekends (we all know those)

A friend of mine once got a very controversial message on FB. Perhaps he was adding friends too quickly, or his friend requests were being ignored more than accepted, or that someone had slyly reported his account (could have been a jilted lover) but the FB team proudly sent him a message as he was trying to add someone, it went; "You cannot add anymore friends at this time, this could be due to two reasons
1 - You are adding friends too quickly
2 - Your requests are being ignored at a high rate"

Then the FB team went forward and said, (and this really takes the cake)

"Please observe these rules;
1 - Do not use FB for dating or business!
2 - Do not add friends too quickly"

It is like the FB team went and knocked it's head on the wall of self righteousness and got flashes of sanity. I mean, isn't this the same network that asks you to specify whether you are in a relationship or not? If they don't, then why the hell do they want you to tell the world about your relationship status?!
I wonder.

Face-book is a bad apple, it's indulgences are like those of bad food. Sweet, and yet ultimately dangerous.

Inebriated Pork guy!

Last evening, i was feeling good about myself so i decided to treat myself in part because i was feeling good, and in part because i had spent the day with someone who feels good about themselves.
Guilty pleasures they are called. I went to this pork guy. He sells raw pork - those who know about pork places you will reckon, they are small slithery places where the pork guys slither in and out of their rank pigpens. They (the pork places) do not stand out like the beef places, in the open, street corners, white tiles in the background and smiling butchers gently waving fly-swatters while shrewdly bargaining pricewise with meat lovers.
The pork places are usually in the backwater quarters of townships. Behind the main street of third-rate town centers. The pork man(is that what they call them?) wont be inside like you expect him to be-tending to his hulk of meat. He will be outside easily bantering with listless looking fellows at the side playing 'omweso' a local game.
You will have to holler, squinting inside, for the smoke from the unattended firewood stove in the corner will make your eyes water. The pork man will spring to life when he finally hears your holler, and will quickly point to the streakiest part of the meat, snidely smiling, his smile saying "you know this is not the best deal, but i am going to indulge your guilty pork pleasure, so you will hurriedly pay and leave" The entire experience will scar you with every step.

So this pork man yesterday seemed offbeat when i approached him. He would continually smile, and had this mad tick in his eye, he looked gaunt and obviously drunk. Slurring his words, he said "So how many kilos can i get you?" "Two" i replied immediately, instant discomfort showing on my face, scowling at his poor work ethic-drinking on the job.
I handed him a crisp note and he handed back two greasy change-notes plus my meat, his hands shaking, clearly showing off his levels of inebriation. I quickly took my items. "Webale nnyo" he mustered in his steadiest voice yet to my retreating back.

I left with a cold feeling in my mind, i kept on wondering to myself, wondering if it's true what they say about Uganda and the fact that we love our alcohol that much, that we have made the horrid shift from social drinking to drinking out of necessity. I remembered something a friend of mine said about people from his ancestral home, and how sad he felt when he visited them recently, the abject poverty manifesting in the entire community, land not tilled, livestock not taken care of, all because of the drinking. He said the men looked withered by drink, torpidly moving around, small, potent drinks in hand.

My fears were confirmed true today when i drove by the pork man's hovel on my way home. The shabby door was closed. I couldn't help but feel slightly guilty that my 10,000shs payment last night was slowly killing pork man at the nearest 'malwa' joint, no less, denying him a honest-day's work.

I feel really bad for him.

I am sure you have already read stuff like this before...

Yes, it's true. We love our alcohol, but we cannot eat our cake and have it too, in other words we cannot imbibe all that alcohol and keep our waistlines... Oh!

read this well written elle magazine article about the same...

Thoughts to words

Or can I say, thought convalescence to words… that point, that silent point, your mind *ting* the clarity, the openness, the reality of it all.

I’m talking about those intermittent days, when you decide to come home early on a Friday night, and out of boredom, climb into bed early, say half 8.
Well, you rarely sleep before midnight (talking about those over-active brains that think, think, think) you reckon you can trick the brain, ‘let me close my eyes, let me think of a calm sea, let me close my eyes and smile, stay still, and sleep will come eventually’

And so you sleep, or so you think…

11.30pm – you wake up, or rather, your mind wakes up. The house is silent, your mind is not.
Thought one; I was thinking about marketing, and how having a roadside booth, with a pretty (yet) effective lad or lass (yes, I used the ‘yet’ clause, simply because so many pretty faces feel like the world owes them, they surf through life with disaffected attitudes and permanent sneers of disdain on their faces, and only brighten up when constantly preened “how gorgeous you are, my darling” and like cats that have been slowly but rhythmically stroked, undulate, unfurl their delicate paws, yawn ever so slightly, and purr contentedly.
But I digress. The marketing booth with the efficient clerk behind the desk. Her smile is bright, or too bright, you think, as soon as she sees you, she springs up, as if in reflex, and goes on to say “can I help you sir?”
You smile faintly, you smile more in response to her countenance than to what she is really saying, you reckon her response has not been terribly ruined by vanity, ‘one more, yet!’ you silently say to yourself. Efficiency undergirded by looks.
You regard her silently as she effectively commands her space, you appreciate her concise execution of task, one after the other as she tells you, with a smile, about the products she is promoting. You feel relaxed at this point, you eagerly inquire about different products. You do this just to prod more, to find out if the EFFECTIVE that sprung up to you when you first strode into the booth still carries. To confirm to yourself, or to placate that furtive voice in your head that screams ‘one wrong thing! She is going to say one wrong thing! And the pile of checkers is going to collapse’
But it doesn’t.
Simple booth. Superlative efficiency. Product sold.

Thought two - …


I have always thought to myself that ideas come in ones sleep. This has always been a truth in itself for me. I always get a solution to that complex algorithm in the morning after a good night’s sleep during which I think of various ways to handle the algorithm. Usually at 5am. I smile delightedly to myself that whoever is next to me-in the rare occurrence that they are-or that they are awake at the time and watching me sleep (very rare)… regard me in bewilderment.
I stride into the office, sit on my computer, select all those lines of unnecessary code and neatly type the solution down. And when that happens, my day is done!

I have always believed that it’s good, (healthy practice like that dentist says, about flossing after every meal, wearing his spotless white gown and demonstrating the best flossing technique yet), to sleep with a notepad next to you. You never know, somehow, your mind and your fingers might flow in tandem and you may be able to make that mind- finger connection, that plug into socket connection, energy flowing from one end to the other, synapses transmitting from one to the next.
Yes! That connection. The clarity, the whiteness, the completion of the process, when you write down what has been whirling through your mind, that whirl that woke your mind up long enough to blur the lines between consciousness and sub-consciousness.
You ought to articulate your thoughts immediately because, come morning, the urgency of other thoughts ‘I am going to be late for work’, ‘how will I handle the traffic this morning’, ‘that report is due today’ take precedence.
I believe that at some point in time, our minds give us leverage to think of things that we may have otherwise regarded trite, and it’s these ideas, these mind forms of expression that we need to translate on paper, not so much those we consciously think about.

Neighborhood Fight!!!!

Folks, i write this after having gone through a state of utter bewilderment!

I WAS NOT THERE, regrettably so, as i missed an epic Youtube moment, but i got this sizzling news a few days later. However, this didn't kill the "zing" though i had to settle as a news recepient of this very true story that happened in my neighborhood a few days ago.

I will tell the story as best as i can, and in my amateur writer style, will give you guys a visual of what went down.

Olwatuuka.....


My two neighbors, the first neighbor, mama Carol, and the second neighbor, Linda came to physical combat last week!
I was told that trade in the fittingly called 'trading center' of my Namugongo neighborhood stopped with hordes of people thronging, bee-lining towards my 'kisakaati' Fenced-off bunch of houses.

Now, mama carol is your typical early 20's aged next door lady neighbor, married with two kids, (second kid less than a year old) with a glum-faced husband who doesn't say much, and minds his own business at all times. You reckon his attitude has rubbed off on the wife, who at face value appears as this meek, timid voiced typically short and round bodied woman, the latter of which is a manifestation of her recent birth, as she goes about her business un-hooking dry clothes from the 'wire' just outside my front door, humming to herself, with her doe-eyed daughter firmly seated on her ample mid-section.

Linda on the other hand, appears as this spirited early 20's woman who gave birth young and had to miss her late teens. She figures the clock is ticking and therefore parties wild with her cousins who are a constant presence in her 2 bedroom apartment. She is tall, big-boned and dark, a typical eastern-uganda look.
Her husband works and lives out of town so Linda is left to her own devices most of the time hence the partying till A.M on most nights.
Her constant parties and visitors will leave you wondering whether she gets time to herself, not to mention the noise, but your furrowed brow is soon smoothened when she comes to your front door and softly taps, with a big smile and a slice of cake in hand from her party.

When i came to this 'kisakaati' two years ago, i found both families had moved in, the two women were good friends with one happily camping at the other's house during the day, as both are house-frau's.
A year down the road, i started noticing a certain heaviness in the air between these two women, mostly observed on Linda's face as she would angrily purse her lips as she saw mama carol trudge by.. that and the little jibes she would recite about Mama carol when she(linda) would come to my house for an idle chit-chat.
A few days ago, the animosity came to a dramatic crescendo when these two exchanged blows, in the signature cat-fight way, characterized by hair-twisting, face-clawing, resounding slaps and ripping of dresses meant to humiliate by showing the adversaries nether body parts.
"I was sleeping, after i had pulled an all-nighter for i had a paper the next day", my other neighbor Julian regaled the entire tale to me this morning as we rode to town together.
"I then heard ear-shattering expletives from outside, so i rushed to the window to see what had befallen our serene neighborhood, next thing i saw were these two women, linda and mama-carol locked in combat, wrestling and pulling each other's hair out. I couldn't believe what i was seeing, my first reaction was, Oh my God, what is happening!? i rushed out to break up the fight but hesitated as from my quick assessment, i could be seriously hurt! Linda was pummeling Mama carol with blows so expertly administered, that i felt myself cringe from the sound. Sickening blows kept on coming. Mama carol's feeble attempts to ward them off was not helping at all. Her 5 year old daughter rushed and pulled her sister off mama carol, as she had not bothered to put her in a safe place before engaging. 5 year old seized her sister in her arms and started running in all directions, confused at what was happening to her mother, no less.
As if this was not sufficient drama, two of Linda's female cousins, all tall, dark and big boned like their cousin, also rushed out of the house and started pummeling the object while screaming "leave our sister, you evil bitch!' leave her!

Mama Carol's gangly teenage nephew rushed from the house and started screaming at the wasps who were beating the living day lights out his Aunt, saying 'gwe, mumuleke, ngenda kubawatula!' You, leave her alone, i am going to annihilate you' The angry girl trio killing machine responded as if in tandem; 'you come, we will break your legs, you will face the same fate as your aunt'
It could have been the sureity with which this was said, or what exactly was said that forced the gangly teenager to quickly, like a stoned dog, retreat to the inner recesses of carols house, and close the door firmly.

Meanwhile, the fight continues. Linda, now utterly, utterly incensed pulls out yet another tuft of mama carol's hairs and with a victorious swing of her arm, shows it off to all the neighbors who have gathered from as far as the next trading center. The whole compound had now become a stadium with a mob of people, both young and old, enjoying, in a typical ugandan way, the drama that was unfolding, as if that was not enough, they kept on goading Linda 'Mwongere!' 'give her some more' - (roughly translated)
Sickly images of pools of blood on concrete, or gouged out eyes kept on flashing through my mind. I couldn't take this vulgar display anymore so with a sound, mustered just for this occasion, at the top of my voice and a stern arm swimg to match, barked 'STOP! ALL OF YOU, GET BACK INTO YOUR HOUSES!' In retrospect, i tried to think of that moment, it could have been the authority of my mustered voice or a sudden gust of sanity that could have quickly descended onto these women timing my scream, that, right then and there, did the magic, for the two women reluctantly unlocked from the deadly embrace.
'i quickly ushered Linda and her mercenaries into their house and with purpose, locked the door and turned the key, Meanwhile, mama carol dragged her battered body slowly back into her own house.
Shorthly after, the gangly teenager came out, of course after the coast became clear, and like a bogus, feeble dog that just had to bark one last time, even after the thief has seized the belongings, murdered the master, and jumped the fence, started screaming in his recently broken voice, his acne quivering on his face, "Mwe bakazi mwe, mulina sirimu, muli bi malaya....." (you women, you have HIV, you are sluts!) then added a typically immature one "temukomangawo okutusaba obutungulu" (never come back here begging for onions)
Linda and her troop on the other side of the wall, seized the windows, and like agonized prisoners, rattled them, and screamed back somethings unintelligible.

I turned to the gangly boy and ordered him to retreat to the house to which, feeble dog style, tail between its legs, whimpered off and closed the door safely behind him.
The neighbors, who at this point had become bored by the non-action, slowly started streaming off to go about their daily business, but off course the kids stayed around all evening, waiting for the encore that didn't come, and instead settled for a re-enactment of the earlier days events, word for word, in typical kiddish style.

By the time my neighbor was done with the story, i couldn't believe, i was utterly bewildered, and short of words, but had to, really had to share this story with y'all!

Oh how i missed this youtube moment!!!!!!!

My Yoga Experience...

Last week, one of my colleagues invited me for a Yoga class. We made a date for Tuesday (Yesterday) 'Wear something loose' she said.
And so i did.

I have always loved exercise, generally, though i thought more (as do many people) that Yoga is mostly an 80% of the time, passive trance inciting exercise where one sits and chants some mantra repeatedly till he/she attains (or pretends to attain) a state of euphoria, mind undulation, floating awareness..., as i thought that it's active. The latter state-of-mind clearly stamped out, the constant wincing as i type out on this keyboard maintaining as a rude reminder.

We went to this American club in off Makindye known for its famous flea markets where expats leaving the country regularly sell off their artifacts and other things.
After renting a yoga mat from the fitness center, i was whisked off to this room at the south side of the expansive house/center/club (all in one) and was welcomed by this ugandan instructor, 5.8", slight build, ebony skin, unplacable accent with matching, exaggerated arm (and leg) gesticulations.

Quickly we were told to get onto our knees. Here i am thinking, Kinky!! Unplacable accent starts drawling these commands, '...... put left limb infront of right limb, raise head above and arch your spine, feel the tensing of the muscle (says biologic name of mentioned muscle)...' '....stand on your right leg with your right toes digging into the ground, raise your left leg behind you at a 90degree angle to your right leg, lean forward until your spine lines perfectly with your left leg.... for those who want to go higher, raise your back until you do a U shape..... feel your body align.....your chakra..'
'Did he say chakra?' i mused to myself.
He said Align. Interesting, as i thought that particular word was used more for cars.

The exercises were too strenuous, i thought i tore something in the process. One and a half hour long execution of the most impossible swan shapes and curves i thought i last saw on TV, done by those pint sized Japanese freak acrobats.

At around 7.30pm we were told to lie down and relax our muscles, in a strait-jacket shape with our eyes closed. Unplacable accent then crept around covering our eyes with a cloth filled with crystal-like consistency, lavender scented stones. These had a clean, calming smell that quickly relaxed me. He went ahead and covered the entire length of our bodies with light burka like pieces, and went ahead and sprayed potpourri all around the room.
We were ordered to stay still and meditate.
Now, i have never meditated, my mind is too crazy for that. Yes, i always sit down and think, hell, i do that on a daily basis as the execution of my work tasks needs a lucid mind and well thought out task executiion techniques, BUT i have never really sat down in an ape-like trance, clearing my mind of all thought and try to attain a state of ethereal hypnosis.
I dont know what that is, but i sure want to try out, and this is what was required of me in yesterday's Yoga class.
As the instructor rustled about, unzipping bags and taking out Godknowswhat, i couldn't help but wonder what he was removing, that he was probably retrieving some oriental charm that would take a life, shape, form of its own and bite all of us into next-year! But the African in me was quicky doused by the consciousness that i was in a real studio and was doing real, yoga things, and that if unplacable accent did his job well, that i would probably be back next Tuesday.

'... now slowly regain your consciousness, feel your spirit taking form again, find your center...' the instructor softly droned, his voice sounding like a radio whose volume was being turned up, slowly-slowly.
I quickly, impatiently shook off the covers and darted my eyes around the now darkened room, as if expecting to see the receeding tail of the monster that could have been dancing around the room...
And with an awkward sound to his voice, sounding, not, like we were getting off the Alladin carpet from the flight over Asia, but, that it was time for us to fork out the money and pay up, for the session was complete, he said '...hmm..mmm and that is the end of today's session...' to which we awkwardly cleared our throats in in return, and paid up.

The whole experience left me with an ambivalence, a "what was that?" question, a curiosity that will only be placated by thorough internet research, and perhaps another visit to unplacable accents' domain for some of those indecipherable indian words....