6 keys from the edge…

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…”