6 keys from the edge…

I’m not one to speak. My usual approach is to just sit there and be talked about or, depending on how I feel at a particular time, have death threats sent my way. Don’t feel bad on my account, these threats never amount to anything and I stick around for quite a bit. Your friends will likely tell you that they have had  a short stint with me, a fling if you will, but the truth that hides behind those red eyes and brewery breath is that I go as I please, no one tells me what to do or when to do it.

 

The Meeting

I’ve heard your pals claim that they found me in pubs, bars and the occasional kafunda, but come on, I’ve got more class. It has been my experience from time immemorial that our first meeting usually takes place in bed. People wake up to me. Sometimes, in very inexplicable circumstances, I have competition in the form of a male or female that came home with u and is now looking at you like you spiked her drink.

 

Okay, I may turn up in some unsavory places like ditches or Mama FIna’s Sips and Swallows, but I can’t be held responsible for your taste in accommodation. To be fair, I’m not as demanding as the broad or dude that’s trying to kick us out.

 

The start of something special

For the most part I lay dormant, even after you open your eyes and profess to the world that you don’t know me. It’s not so much that I can’t be arsed to fight for recognition, I just happen to believe that good things come to those who wait…so I wait. Then finally, I come with reasonable fanfare, usually accompanied by nausea and a headache. I didn’t ask for this entourage, but surely if you’re okay with the Ewww De Toilet that you’re giving off, my crew shouldn’t be a big deal.

 

Relationship status; Complicated

For whatever reason you decide that you don’t want me around, don’t you love me anymore? Or is this you playing hard-to-get? I think I get it, you have heard stories from your friends about how we were intimately involved and now you can’t believe you’ve got me. Don’t let that come between us; we have a good thing going. How many people are as comfortable with an open relationship as I am? Go on, do your thing, I’ll be here. Whoa, that was brief.

 

The break up

I don’t know whether I should feel insulted or flattered that you have no problem discussing me with my Exes. Actually, when I hear you ask how they got rid of me, I have a clearer picture of how I should feel. If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have me. Let’s face it, we are both adults, you knew what you were getting yourself into. For some reason you think I’m hydrophobic and attempt to flash me out with water. I don’t know who insinuated that I’m a vegetarian, but for whatever reason you really took to that chicken soup like preventing the rapture depended on it. Don’t get me started on Katogo.

 

Let’s just be friends

Fine, fine, I finally relented and left. Sure it took a while, but I thought we may have stood a chance. I wonder whether you ever think about me, whether you feel bad when your friends talk about me. Do you miss me? I don’t have to wait long for an answer, I guess, because we both know you will come looking for me again.

 

Now that we have voted, we can pat ourselves on the back. See, it doesn’t even matter whether your candidate took the biscuit. What’s important is that you are now, for lack of a better word, relevant.

You know those stories you hear from elderly folk about how they participated in some sort of monumental event, like say, walking to school ten kilometers away? Well, you can proudly say you walked to your polling station, and what’s even cooler here is the fact that when YOU walked, something that affected the millions of people happened. Not just your village.

If, like me, you happened to get your nail marked by some clearly overqualified official at the polling station, you know by now that you will never have to invest in nail polish again. As I type this, I’m looking at my thumb and wondering which excuse I can use to get out of a tight spot when being quizzed about accessorizing my nails. It’s down to;

·         I wanted to see what being Gothic feels like

·         I am embracing Henna as an alternative lifestyle option

I’m not going to sit here and pretend that the social scene will stay the way you left it before dipping your hand in that basin and placing tick against face…or for the more hands-on among you, thumb against mug. Wherever you go out, at least one person will ask whether you voted. A slightly lower number of interrogators will be willing to buy you a drink basing on your answer. Plus, your confidence can grow in leaps and bounds now. Seeing as it’s the post election period, there is no such thing as the ‘right answer’ to that question.

On the flip side, you can expect the number of people you have been popular with to wane drastically. You may not know it, but part of your appeal stemmed from the belief that you were a young person. That stain on your finger will work against you, in which case, now would be as good a time as any to invest in some nail polish remover or band-aid.

Also, there will be a spike in the number of people that believe that you have an opinion to share. Trust me, there’s nothing as frustrating as having people look up to you for insight and depth. Then again, I think the issue here is revealing that your elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.

Such is life, it’s not all rainbows and skittles (ha, the henna lifestyle thing starts to rear its hideous influence), but look on the bright side, the president finally got you to listen to him.

Here’s the thing. It used to be the important people that would get titles bestowed upon them. Stuff like Sir Apollo Kaggwa, Saint Balikuddembe, Earnest Bazanye… you get the idea, and we were okay with that. They deserved these titles. Then an interesting thing happened (well, ‘interesting’ is relative, just go with it) people started to name roads.

I don’t even know how this madness started;

One fine afternoon… in a bar

Mmwe ba-guy, on my way here I crossed this ka-pretty young thing with major curves. I first stopped and stared like One Republic. That thing was just for world…then it hit me, the ka-thing was there under my feet, I just had to get acquainted with it. (Meanwhile you guys, Word has allowed ‘ka-thing’, did Microsoft set up shop here or is our software piracy being taken to the next level?)

So this thing I am telling you guys about… it was a road, as you may have surmised from the way I have been going on and on about its curves and saying I want to intoxicate it and take it to bed.

But then a problem presented itself, you don’t get someone high and sleep with them just like that. What happens when someone calls you up and asks what you are doing? You need a name. So I gave her a name…

…we now return to the piece in progress.

So now roads have names. ROADS! Granted there’s no baptism ceremony, you just wake up one morning and someone has gone and called a road Amata Gafudde Avenue inadvertently messing up your travel plans. Do you know how long it takes you to get that out of your mouth? By the time you’re done the conductor has decided to move on to do other important things like caressing the thighs of the passenger next to him with his eyes.

Nonetheless, I would like to have a road named after me. Just one road. It doesn’t have to be a fancy road by the way. It can even be one of those panyas Titus uses when he’s done cavorting with the neighbour’s housegirl and needs a quick dash.

Actually, you know what, no. I don’t want that one. Give me the one where they met. That’s fine by me.

So, do I apply to someone? Do I walk over to some government office and talk to a big shot and state my case?

“Big boss, a brother needs to get laid, name a road after me. Just allow”

Or do I have to wait for the incumbent’s campaign rounds to bring him to my neck of the woods and then make him an offer he cannot refuse…

“ka-kati, first chill all this mp’enkoni n’onsense guy. We have some serious issues to discuss. I am not going to ask you for a district and I do not expect you to expect me to (no way I could sneak in another round of great expectations) chew any rodents. But you want to create the impression that you won fair and square so you sorta need my bwino next to your name, so how about you just pick out a road and call it Majestic Musoke Avenue? Just allow also you”

Alternatively I could just wait for Peter Ssematimba to become mayor and approach him. But what if…

“Young man, you are focusing on the wrong road. The road you want is the path to heaven, and I gotta tell you, that it is long and narrow. Don’t concern yourself with the things of this world. Come over and let me minister some more to you. My house is in Rubaga over at sse-sse-sse-mats road…”

 

You’d think moving to a new place would mean a fresh start, right? You’d think wrong. See, my lifestyle may have been upgraded somewhat, but my immunity’s still a bitch.

How was your Christmas Day? 

I got off to a decent enough start. You know, the sporadic load-shedding that suggests someone at the power company is sending you signals by Morse Code.  Apparently you can’t sue ‘em because of something on every bill that indemnifies them. I think it’s the bit at the bottom where they tell you they will disconnect your power supply if you have not paid up by the time the silly uniform has walked through your gate

Then there was the rain.

Whoever goes around blessing the rains down in Africa has not experienced a Christmas shower in Uganda… or is some sick perv. I’ll let you think about that for a bit before you pass it on to the Red Pepper’s Hyena as one of your own. 

I woke up to bad weather, but it was okay. Sometimes Christmas means more than that.

Then it kept raining, like someone was trying to prove a point.

And then, just in case I couldn’t take a hint, it rained some more.

I felt a little, I don’t know, off-ish, so I skipped the beer and the wine, figuring I’d go see the doctor and follow through with my traditional self diagnosis thing…

It didn’t work. 

I thought I had Malaria. I didn’t.

They thought I may have Typhoid. I did.

It’s been called the poor people’s disease and I think that’s a pretty dumb thing. (Oh MJ, why did you have to go??)

I asked the doctor what options were available, secretly hoping that there was an injection that they could administer that would magically make it all go away. Seriously, I didn’t care where that needle was going to be stuck, provided I was fit for thirty first (yeah, take that one too).

There was an injection, but it was one of those intravenous (read; drip) things and I would;

1. 1- have to endure about 15 minutes of drip drip action (thing is, they’d said that my blood test results would be ready in 10 minutes, then proceeded to walk the dog and bring them back after 30. Clearly they were liberal with their minutes, there was no telling how long I would be in union with syringe)
2. 2- feel very very nauseous after all that. I’d gone to bed feeling like if I put my mind to it, my walls would be covered in a new coat of ewwww.

So we settled for pills. Actually, that’s a lie. The lady with the certificate really wanted to give me the injection, but I politely declined. Even her pleas that I take one “starter dose” was met with a well practiced, soon to be perfected shake of the head.

She said it was alright and proceeded to write out a prescription for me. Between you and I, I’ve been to pharmacies that stock less drugs than the stuff that was on that slip os paper.

Oh, and it would take me way past New Year’s day. Naturally, I asked the most pertinent question at the moment…

“So, can I drink?”

she: drink what?

Me: alcohol

She: what alcohol do you usually drink…

I paused for a bit here. I have never thought of myself as a rigid drinker. Do I infact have one particular poison?

Me: oh you know, er, uhm… *cough cough* beer… whisky… the usual

She: You can drink wine

Me: Huh.. what?

She: What’s wine made out of?

Me: Er… fruit

She: There you go

{what the heck is sambucca made out of… isn’t one of these drinks made out of jackfruit? You know the one… the thing that tastes like funny scented glue}

I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong. Come on, you saw THAT coming.

The lady in charge of dispensing the drugs made a show of the whole thing, it felt like I was back in primary school;

“This one is 1 times 2. Strictly after meals”

This was, in fact, written on the little medicine pack.

“You take one, eh. Two times a day. After you have eaten food.”

I think that’s what the pack had written on it, but shit, what do I know? I have Typhoid…and a pair of eyes.

“So, if you take one now, you take the next one after 12 hours… after food.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Does that then mean that I should take 1 two times a day after meals?

The math lesson went on with all the drugs and a part of me felt really bad that none had to be administered with every bowel movement. I’d have wanted to see how graphic she would get. 

“Kati, let me go to the toilet and then come back and swallow this medicine…you get?”

Obviously, I sought a second opinion.

My other doctor, the one I would have called Dr. Favourite if I was Carrie Bradshaw or one of those happy males that watch Sex & The City, said I was on the right track. Except for the Ibuprofen (whoa! I got the spelling right, bring on the Spelling Bee). 

Apparently, my stomach was going through enough shi… stuff as it was, throwing in a drug that had some acidic tendencies was NOT going to do me any favours. So I asked whether I could take my personal favourite; Zerodol. (How is it that Microsoft Word gives these things the green light, but is quick to throw squiggly red lines under Eid?)

Oh, and as to the question to end all questions, yes, I can drink one or two beers. After all, I need my fluids, right?

Man, I love the Hippocratic oath.