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.

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.
 

When we were setting up my appointment for the RCT (shit, I love how that makes me sound as deep as those guys you see on telly) I was asked to sit down next to the lady that schedules the appointments (by the way, I meant guys like House). So we started going through the Book Of Secrets trying to find something convenient for me. It’s amazing just how many people need to see the dentist! (I didn’t mean Zach Effron(sp) or those other wusses on Grey’s Anatomy!) No really, if I’d actually known that dentists get all this action, I’d have rethought my career ages ago. I’d have studied harder and maybe I too would be looking down mouths and stuff. Rubbing teeth of the rich and famous and not their shoulders as is the case right now.
{quick question, do you really know anyone famous enough that you’d want to gaze longingly into their mouth? Me neither}

After a bit of back and forth we settled for an early Monday appointment. What better way to start the week? I mean, it’s a given that I will probably have a shitty Monday any week, why not make this thing legit?There was the promise of a phone call reminder type thing and the threat of drinking myself silly to the point that anyone coming into the premises after I’d been, would get instantly inebriated. Good times!

It was all moving along smoothly until Saturday. We were supposed to go catch up with a couple of pals, then head home. The amount of time spent out was not going to go beyond 2 hours.

It did. I got home pretty late… or early depending on how you look at these things, and spent the bulk of Sunday in bed. Not so good times!

I don’t know about you, but from previous experience, sleep can be a bitch! The way sleep and I interact is such that I can only get involved once a day, or like there are rations and stuff. Which means, if I sleep during the day time, my slumber will elude me at night, no doubt looking for some other hapless individual that failed to get some earlier. Also, because of sleep’s bitchy nature, it’s likely that it will simply elude me and go out for a night on the town with comas and stuff instead of visiting some deserving person.

Long story short, I was awake for the pretty much the whole of Sunday night and forced myself to go to bed at about 4am,Monday. I suppose it is only fair that I point out now that my appointment was for 9am, Monday.

At about 8 something, the call to remind me came in, but I was in the throes of passion with slumber.

I would have probably gone and had the RCT (someone give me a lab coat already!) done, but a report on the internet claims that being asleep during dental procedures is the leading cause of subsequent dental procedures. Plus, I wouldn’t want to give the dentist the wrong idea. “Oh look at me! I am not afraid of pain. I can sleep through the procedure! Do your worst ‘oh-surgical-mask-wearing-mortal’. “ That shit is not good for PR.

My teeth hurt like a bitch last night so I am seriously contemplating getting the silly things removed. Everyone says there is no such thing as a permanent Root Canal thingy, and though we are pals, my dentist and I, I would much rather run into him at social gatherings and not when the environs have all this gadgetry making angry noises.

The RCT is this Thursday…. coincidentally, so is BHH.

Oh, lest I should forget, The Maurice Kirya Experience is on tonight at Rouge.

Lucy will be there doing her thing, show some love.

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 -

I’d love to say I’ve been very busy. That life has been hectic and as such I have failed to do what I love doing, but that would be a lie. I’ve been lazy mostly. I’ve also done my fair share of procrastinating. However, life being what it is, you can only drag your feet for so long. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to look in the mirror and if you’re lucky you’ll not be too crazy about the guy staring back at you.

You will realize, as I have that some sort of change is needed. It will be pretty messed up though, because as many before me will attest, change doesn’t come with a snap of a finger, a click of a heel or a twitch of the nose. It would be pretty neat if that’s how stuff worked, but life has other plans for us…and it can be a bitch.

I looked at myself and looked within. Wasn’t too crazy about what was happening, but I made my peace with the fact that what’s done is done. I can’t do much to change it, but I can do something now so that when I do the whole soul searching thing a few years/months/weeks/days from now, I’ll acknowledge that this is where it started, this is the beginning. Change is coming.

And now, if it’s all the same to you, I will close that window. You can only peer into the soul of a person for so long before you fall into the void.

I still want to get a tattoo. I have told people this so that I don’t need to explain myself when I finally get it done. There’s probably nothing as annoying as having someone go like, “You got a tattoo? I didn’t think you were the kind…”

So, yeah, I am the kind. I want to get a tattoo and its going to take lots to convince me not too. Your argument better be way better than the one given to me not too long ago. It went something like this…

“No! Do not get a tattoo”

At which point I, as you probably would, asked, “why not?”

His reply, “No, no, no!”

I don’t mind the Destiny’s Child jam, but it better make sense when you spring it on me in the middle of an argument, so- STRIKE ONE!

“Why shouldn’t I get one?”

I actually want him to go all self-righteous on me. Tell me if I get a tattoo I will go to hell…and listen to music by Mariam Ndagire. See, if he had done that, I would have told him about some New Zealand tribe that does it as a rite of passage and all. Then I’d ask him whether they too would be resigned to an eternity of listening to Mariam Ndagire’s excuses for songs.He doesn’t…

“Those things are for mad people.”

Are you kidding me? This is the big argument? Mad people have tattoos! I rest my case your honour! STRIKE TWO! …and then to seal the deal, “Me, I wouldn’t get one!” STRIKE 3!

Bet you said the same thing when peeps were lining up and getting lives.

Listen, I am not being all defensive or big headed (I was born that way, so that comes quite easily to me, the whole big head thing…) but if you want to reason with me, have the decency to come at me with something sensible. Shit, I will make an allowance, your argument can even go thus…

“Why shouldn’t I get a tattoo?”

You- “Just!”

I appreciate a “just” once in a while.

And the annoying thing is, you can’t seriously expect to sway me with the argument that our forefathers have been handing down since forever. It’s as old as the “I walked to school” schtick. I feel for you and your feet, but pick up a calendar dude! The times, they have changed.

That’s not to say that all the arguments against have been crappy. Some made sense. Like how it can cost you a job.

Piece of advice appreciated, I will make sure it is in some hidden location…or wear clothes to work depending on how I feel on that particular day.

The thing that vexes me about this whole skin painting business is the fact that I am not a light skinned individual. Its going to be pretty hard to show off the damn thing.

“Look, look, I can has a tattoos!”

Where?

“There, look harder!”

Is that a birth mark shaped like a spider…?

“Huh? Oh yeah, now look below that!”

Is that a scar?

“NO! That is the tattoo!”

In other news, I got bounced from Club Silk’s Lounge section. I have a theory involving my cousin and a “bouncer”. It’s not sexual in nature, so it’s probably not worth putting down on this blog…or any blog for that matter.

How it went down.

I got in with my pals and barely five minutes later, this dude comes over and says I am “needed” outside. Note the use of the word “needed”. He didn’t say, we don’t want you in here, come with me if you want to leave!” None of that, which means that, contrary to popular belief, these dudes do have some grey matter in that structure resting on their shoulders.

Upon going outside, they asked me for some form of identification. I regret not having whipped out my NSSF card seeing as it shows that at some point in my life I contributed to building the nation and as such consider myself worthy to partake of whatever it offers…in skirts short and glasses transparent.

Having failed to present required ID, the “bouncer” proceeded to use words I am certain he has been dying to use ever since he left “Bouncer High”. “Management Reserves The Right of Admission”

I respect management, and I proceeded to tell him so. All I wanted was an opportunity to speak to Mr. Management and be told why exactly I had been singled out for this.

It soon became apparent that the grey matter I alluded to earlier was on loan and he had returned it after pulling me out of the club.

The conversation the back and forth kind wherein he insisted that Management Reserved blah blah blah and that Management was not there and then that he was in fact the management. I’ve had CDs that skipped less than this dude’s conversation.

Anyway, I settled for Silk Royale which was pretty boring that night…

I told you I went to Kigali, right? No? Well okay, here goes, shortly before I brought Dorothy back (see previous post) I was in Rwanda.

I was pretty psyched about this trip because I figured it would give me a chance to unwind with total disregard to what people may say given that I would approach a simple, “I don’t know you, I don’t care” attitude. Plus there was the draw of the WOMEN!

One of the people I went with insists that the only reason I thought they were sooooo hot, was because I was in a foreign place and new things are always awesome. That is not true. I really doubt that I will get turned on by Club Pa Lui or Sway anytime soon.

Kigali has its beautiful parts. The city, I mean. It’s kind of a shocker when you get there by bus though. See, when you arrive at the bus park and look around its kinda slummy, but when you move further into the city, it’s pretty decent.

But it’s COLD.

Or at least it was while I was there. What I find pretty annoying is the fact that I asked before leaving about the country. None of the advice I got prepared me for the cold.

“So I’m going to Kigali for like a weekend, what do I need to know?”

• Shit is really expensive… carry loads of money
• It gets boring; carry something to amuse you, like an Iphone. Or a picture of Straka…or, if you’re really ambitious, carry a picture of Straka on your Iphone…if it will fit.
• Do not step on their grass!

Notice how no one pointed out that it was cold that side? I realize it may not be as cold as where some of you are, but for ****’s sake, this is Africa. People come here to escape the cold!

Is it just me or is there something very wrong with going to the nightclub JUST to work up a sweat?

Yes, it is true, stuff back there is a little pricey. The cheapest stuff would be cigarettes and beer. Speaking of, there’s an Ofwono beer! And it doesn’t come in a brown bottle!! Awesomeness just!

Also, the drugs (medicine, Cheri!) are a tad overpriced. You know something is not right when Charcoal Tablets actually have neat packaging. Someone actually went out of their way and branded charcoal! What gives?

Its also true that it gets boring. Life is a little slow back there, so yeah…

And for crying out loud, DO NOT STEP ON THE GRASS! … This should say something, right? People get rushes of adrenaline by stepping on the beautiful grass in the city…Lovers declare their undying love and prove it by stepping on grass. Cows get shot for eating grass…I think. I didn’t actually see any cows while I was there.

I feel obliged to explain the title of this post…

I had loads of things to say so I harvested the ideas then combined ‘em into this thing that I’m sure even Dennis Matanda will think is too long.

BITE ME!