6 keys from the edge…

Done with the first week at the new place. How was it? Well. . .

My housemate has not been in since I got there. I think he was picked up and taken to the home for crazy people. I thought it might have been a business trip, but let’s be honest, which business trips go on for more than 3 days? A pleasure trip, maybe? Nuh, not likely. In these harsh economic times you can’t even enjoy pleasure trips that go on for the whole night… I mean nights out on the town…

There’s {'there are'… stupid autocorrect} other things that suggest that he might have been crazy. Like the sim card. There’s an abandoned sim card lying somewhere in the kitchen. That’s not the part that worries me. Sim cards are abandoned all the time. Thing is, this particular one is shaded blue…violently.

At first glance I thought maybe he was trying to save a contact’s number with considerable difficulty, but as I tried to make out name and digit, the truth came at faster and harder than a Ugandan pothole; he was trying to switch to another network!

I suppose I would have felt betrayed if I didn’t feel sorry for him. Maybe that’s why the people in the uniforms came and took him away…wait, do Butabika staff wear uniforms? Do they have a little van that goes weeeewoooooweeeewoooo as it comes to pick up people? Can we afford stuff like that?

The gatekeeper is extremely helpful and eager to please… too diligent even. When I was moving in, I made the mistake of leaving the movers (read; rogues) with my ‘balance’ or ‘change’ as I went round back to lock up the house. When I came back, gate dude had oh-so-helpfully let them out. Leaving me in a very Uganda government situation a’la No change. Guess who will not make it to my facebook friends list.

Of course, I felt the need to share this bit of misery with someone. All I got for my efforts was a Ugandan interpretation of the philosophy, “Karma’s a bitch”. Thanks. Two more strikes and you too will be unfriended. This time I will go easy on you, I won’t give you a Christmas card. {Hey, neat, Microsoft Word knows to turn the ‘c’ in Christmas into an uppercase letter. Does that work with eid…nope. Damn thing doesn’t even recognize the word. Infidel! You will pay for your deceit}

{Hang on, Ngoni are still around? I’ve just noticed that Luzinda Desire was tagged in a poster for their zouk performance at club 9 degrees… Zouk? 9 Degrees? Why don’t they just go over to Congo and put a nail in that career’s coffin. And yes, Luzinda Desire and I are Facebook friends. This was way before I realized that she was friends with at least 5000 other people. She probably won’t even read this}

So anyway…

New place has a kitchen, but the landlord’s either a cheapskate or has a morbid fear of electricians if the dead ‘bulb holder’ is anything to go by. Housemate told me that the landlord has vowed to get that fixed…along with the shower handle…and the doors and the other sockets, but for some reason he hasn’t gotten round to it. I don’t get how you can possibly mess up a ‘bulb-holder’ with this level of precision.

It actually looks like someone took some time to **** this up. We are talking, buy a ladder and a metallic file kinda time. Your best bet with the state this thing is in would be to employ someone to hold the bulb in place as you walk on by or invest in some electro-friendly superglue. It beats my understanding that Word has no issues with the word Electro-friendly, but it will dare throw ugly red-death squiggly lines under Eid.

On the day I moved, the neighbor’s kid came over to help me carry things into the house. In hindsight I think the little devil may have schemed with the movers to make off with my change, but I digress. Evil In Diapers must have thought that this made him and I buddies and that if he was willing to help out with grown up stuff, I would reciprocate and pitch in with kiddie games such as, throw dirt into the washing water as adult did his laundry. This is clearly a relationship that’s got no future.

Especially if his grammar does not expand to allow more words into his life. How long can a person live on ‘look at this one’ as conversation fodder? I should trade words with his teachers or whoever it is that gifted him with these almost patronizing and entirely annoying four words.

During the day time, I noticed it, but it took coming back home late to fully appreciate just how annoying it is to have a gate door ‘this’ small. No, really. I could kneel in an attempt to go through and still manage to bump my head. Granted I have a big head, but THAT’S a small gate! Only Evil in Diapers can walk through unharmed. I suspect even the gate can’t be arsed to deal with him.

There are two routes to my place, both with their share of potholes. When I’m asked to give directions I go with the more scenic hunger inducing route, “It’s near two pork selling joints. Call me when you get to either. It’s advisable that you order some pork as you wait for me. Pork”

The Boda-boda guys haven’t gotten with the program yet and still think that they can get away with charging me like I’m going upcountry yet all I’m doing is going up the road…then down, then up the road again. Its like a bad Chaka Demus and Pliers song/experience.
 

I am not a snob. Seriously. I just like to think that certain things are beneath me. The problem is, I have the number one sign that someone maybe a snob. I am too bloody quick to defend myself and attempt to link myself to a certain class/group of individuals.

You know that thing where someone brands you a snob and you say, “I am not a snob! I even hang out with. . .”
Yeah, that confirms that you are one. That said, here are a few snobbish traits I have managed to pick up and some pretty lame attempts to justify them. Feel free to add yours.

“EATING JOINTS”

I eat “Rolex”. Shit, the combination of Chapati and Egg and “accompaniments” (****! That word actually exists?!) is to die for. It’s such a shame they couldn’t come up with a decent name for it. So yeah, I like to eat the damn thing. An urban legend suggests that rolex postpones hangovers. They will come, but they will come late! Thing is, I can’t bring myself to buy one from anywhere but Wandegeya.

Defense: Rolex originated from Wandegeya, according to our forefathers. You can’t expect imitators to reproduce the product efficiently.  Any Rolex from anywhere else is a knock off.

SELECTIVE EATING 2.0
Burgers and Pizzas should not be bought from a place that boasts a clientele of three. That is to say, if it is not Dominos, Nandos, Steers or even Antonios, they should be handled with caution and the sort of delicacy usually reserved for transporting landmines. Places that are overly eager to display their capacity to preapare “special meals should not be trusted. That’s to say, any place that is named thus; BURGER DEALERS, PIZZA SUPREME MAKERS or even CYBER PIZZA AND BURGERS DOT COM should be avoided at all costs.

Defense 2.0: Which sorta doubles as a confession. Some new outdoor food vending thing opened up in an area close to where I live and I thought I’d give it a shot. Never mind that it was next to a brothel, or that the guy selling stuuf had the marketing skill of brick. I figured I’d try out their burgers. If they were any good, I’d be visiting this place on my way home and I’d be able to do away with that silly “I Feel Like Chicken Tonight” place in Kabalagala. BIG MISTAKE. The burger I bought did not have CHEESE, as I’d been led to believe by the brick behind the counter, but had a friggin fried egg in there. WTF?? What sort of self respecting burger has eggs on the slab of meat?

BODA BODA RIDERS

I’ve gone on and on about this, one of the most convenient means of transport today, what I may have forgotten is this. Whenever I can, I have earphones nestled in my (where else) ears. From time to time, the other end may be attached to anything ranging from a media player to my wallet. Its not because I suffer an affliction that requires constant in-ear stimulation, but rather so I don’t have to be engaged in discourse with the guy steering us through traffic.

Defense: Boda guys seldom speak in a language you understand. When they do, I try to listen, but I can make out very little from what the wind lets me pick up. A typical Boda conversation will run thus;

He: Kati ***** naye ***** imagine ***** (laughter) ***** don’t you see ***** fish ***** dame
The  ” * ” standing in for words the wind has maliciously carried away and I have, consequently, failed to pick up. If I forgot to carry my earphones I simply smile when I think I am supposed to, jeer occasionally and shake my head in sorrow.

OCCUPANTS OF WAITING AREAS

These range from those at the clinic to the waiting area at a company you’re looking to join and are thus awaiting someone to come over and beckon you to some conference area for your interview. Standard behavior is to wait and keep quiet. Do not feel the need to engage in conversation with other occupants of the area. In as much as it may make the wait seem shorter, more often than not it will not yield positive results. If there’s a newspaper nearby I tend to read that. If I’ve got credit, I send messages or surf the net. Engaging in a conversation is a last resort and one you should turn to if you absolutely must stay awake.

Defense: Without planning it, if you get the job and the other occupant of the waiting area doesn’t, you will come off looking like a dick. An arrogant, self righteous prick and he or she will not have any problem with “accidentally” pouring stuff on you the next time you run into each other.
Defense 2.0: If you happen to be in a clinic, that interaction does not do any one of you any good when either one of you hears the other being asked to present the “stool sample” the doctor asked for. You will never recover from this, so you’re better off reading the text you received telling you to text the word, “ACNE” to ****

WAITERS AND WAITRESSES…and BARTENDERS

Once in a while, one or two prove that they are different and as such I should have no qualms about interacting with them. Please note, I said one or two. Usually the third or fourth  will make you regret the whole experience.

Defense: When you display a show of camaraderie with waiters and waitresses, more often than not they will figure that they are above being tipped and will likely keep your “change”. It’s happened to me a couple of times. And when I asked for it, it’s like I had cracked the world’s funniest joke (yes, Baz, even funnier than that Obama +Black House thing of yours). The times I have displayed an “I left my friends on FACEBOOK” attitude, I have been successful in getting my “balance” back with considerably less issues… granted, there is the possibility that my food may have been forced to accommodate someone’s spittle, but….

STRANGERS IN TAXIS

I try to avoid engaging in conversations with these people (that actually does sound snobbish) because of two experiences…

Experience 01: This one time I was trying to sell of my phone, I bumped into a guy that expressed interest in it…and at a price higher than I expected. Naturally, I felt obliged to “conversate” with him till I got to my destination and exchanged numbers with him. I was young, I didn’t know any better. I was also quite desperate. It didn’t seem like such a bad thing…until the texts started to come in.

“Sweetheart. I think we should meet and talk. It was nice meeting you”
“Darling, I am serious about the phone, I just want to know you better”
“Dear, I just want to be your friend, where can we meet?”

Experience 02: Everyone has gone through the communal newspaper experience, so I won’t even go there.

- END -

The thing about getting tagged is that it robs me of my “mystery”. Think about it. When I sit down and try to conversate with you, you will know me inside out and if I try to lie, you will call me out on my fib. Generally speaking you can read me like a blog book…that said, here’s your ammo.

I can’t manage time. I have tried everything to get rid of this, but it just won’t work. The whole “set your clock fifteen minutes ahead” thing has refused to work for me for two simple reasons;

·        I set the clock so at the back of my mind I know what time it really is.

·        The city clocks are all over the place screaming the right time at me in black and white. At this point I don’t have the heart to glance at my dull and unhappy looking chronometer.

The problem is, my time keeping is not perfectly flawed. There are instances that I find my self right on time for. I may be late for a date, but I will arrive right on time for my Dental appointment.

I’m a beer snob. I don’t know when that started, but it’s there. I seem to have a problem with beers in brown bottles. I have tried to make it seem glamorous by saying stuff like, “I don’t do brown bottles” which in effect makes me sound a lot like those girls back at the university whom I despised for saying they only drank wine. I don’t have a thing against wine drinkers, heck after the events of New Year’s Eve 2006, I respect them…BUT it pisses me off when they say they drink wine in a way that implies they are way cooler than the rest of us! Beer drinkers are more daring, you will not get a wine gut, so don’t think you’re HARDCORE. YOU are NOT taking chances, THEY are!

I have kind of eased up though; I take canned drinks . . . under duress.

 

I have a problem with Authority Figures. I figure this may be because I like to do things my way or because more often than not, they don’t know what they are talking about. This started back in Primary School. Standard Four it was.

I say “standard” because it was not in Uganda, but across the border in Kenya.

We had this exercise in English Class where we had to arrange words in Alphabetical Order. I don’t know why they thought it was vital to learn this seeing as I’ve never been asked at a job interview whether arranging stuff alphabetically is among the skills I intend to bring to the company. Maybe you have had greater success with this.

Sad.

Anyway, so we had this exercise and I got all but one number right. I looked at it and thought it was correct, after all, back then, the letter “S” came before the letter “W”. I told the teacher so and got the thrashing of my life. Then when she got round to showing kids how to do it, in a part of the lesson they called, “Corrections”, she realized her mistake and looked at me with an expression of Horror. Like she’d just discovered she’d dealt with the son of the devil and daddy was coming to talk to her about it after class.

No such luck, after the lesson she asked me to stay behind and she apologized. She said it was her mistake, blah blah PMS blah.

If this had been Tennessee things might have played out a little different. Pamela Rogers, anyone?

Anyway, since then, I don’t like to take shit from higher ups just because they figure they are right and I am wrong…except at work. I respect authority figures in an office environment. If they say a camel is a sea creature I will not question them, but rather ask whether it should be fried or boiled before consumption.

 

I did an ARTS based course at the university. I feel the need to point this out because even the few people that know me well do not really know what I did at the university. I have been thrown occasional, “You did Industrial Arts at the university, yeah?” and “If you have your fine art degree you should be sorted” and my personal favorite, “You studied I.T at campus, yeah”?

It’s gotten so bad, once a pal’s dad was recommending me to someone for employment and I had no idea what the job entailed until I read the note he had asked me to deliver.

“This is (name). He is known to me. He did Information Technology and he is good. Give him something.”

I didn’t deliver this note lest the person on the other end asked me to create software that would allow him to steal Tony Blair’s personality whenever he logged on to check his email.

Then recently I received a call from a friend’s brother (who I suppose by proxy or over-wanting I can refer to as a friend as well) and he asks me whether my I.T skills take into account servicing computers.

I thought I’d go with the flow seeing as it could be easy cash and I could pick some help from Google, so I asked him what exactly he wanted and he says, “Servicing, you know. The kind you I.T people do.”

I didn’t go.

 

I have a sleeping disorder. I don’t know what it is called. It could be insomnia, but seeing as I don’t have a blog to go with that claim, I think I will lose credibility. I will hang out till about 5 in the morning and then wake up at 9am….the same morning. I don’t know why this is. I also have instances where I can not sleep till really late (or early if you’re one for details) and I occupy myself with music and the internet. Its sad really because more often than not I figure that when I’m awake the whole world is awake with me and consequently I call people up and send them messages at what some may call awkward hours.

I’ve contemplated popping pills, but with what happened to Heath Ledger, I am frightened.

This thing wouldn’t have been awful really, but it shows and I have a sympathizer in the form of my brother’s friend.

Not too long ago I met her at two pm and in mid conversation she asked me whether I had trouble sleeping. I was kind of shy about answering this because I figured if she knew about this, she’d surely know about my other dark secret…

Then she says she has the same problem, that she finds it really hard to sort it out and that a slice of cucumber will get read of the bags under my eyes. So much for that plan to milk ‘em…

Then she went on to say that her eyes dry out and at this point I’m thinking, “Close, but no cigar”. The fluid in my eyes stays there for a while, and for all intents and purposes it probably will stay there until I take some ill-advised trip to the sun

I listen to everything but Lingala Music. This type music brings such great displeasure to me and I do not understand why people are crazy about it.

Listening to this shit brings dishonor to my ears.

 I’m sure someone will offer his expert take on the matter with, “Oh, it’s the instruments and the way they are arranged”. Whatever! Seriously, why would anyone want to listen to a song that goes on for thirty minutes?

THIRTY!

Does anyone know what this implies?

It means, in Shoe-terms that One song is enough to wear off some part of the sole on your shoe.

It means that by the time you’re through dancing to say, I don’t know, three songs, you will be BADLY dehydrated.

It means that if you bought a radio cassette like back in the old days, you’d only have two songs on it, with each filling either side.

I don’t care that the words do not make sense, I’m cool with that. I respect artistes. I listen to Ray C don’t I? Well, actually no. I just watch her.

 

For no reason at all other than 7 being a fairly decent number (the kind you’d take for drinks and let your daughter marry), here’s one more thing;

Uganda Waragi is my Kryptonite.

 

This tag made possible by the malicious actions of Carlo-ryn

 

Tag! You’re it;

Mr. B2B, Tandra, Kissyfur, Dark Legend, Tumwi, Dee

 

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

1. Link back to your tagger
2. Post these rules in your submission
3. Share six things/habits/quirks/whatever about you in your submission
4. Tag six [random] people at the end of it
5. Tell each taggee via comments that he/she done been tagged