where i write my wrongs

an abandoned post

Ivan — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 10:33:34 +0000

The fastest thing about this place was the way Microsoft Word opened. Not much else could rival the speed with which Gates’ popular word processor sprung to life, blank page in front of you begging you to have your way with it. Were I a painter and this before me, were my canvas, I’d be pleased. Alas, I’m neither a painter nor is what lies before me the canvas I seek. My current engagement with the application that’s graciously permitted me to place thoughts on screen is borne out of a previous engagement with what may very well be the slowest internet in Uganda.

Previously…

I had sworn off internet cafes. I don’t know where this pride, nay, arrogance was born, but it had been hatched and there was nothing I could do stagnate its hasty maturity. One minute you’re going to internet cafes and marveling at pages and porn, the next you’re filled with derision and scorn. Just. Like. That.

Present day…

So I wandered about, trying to figure out how to kill time. I thought perhaps a conversation with a stranger may work wonders. It didn’t. It was over almost as soon as it begun, possibly even sooner.

“Hello…” said I, my voice friendly, my demeanor affable.

“You’re not allowed to sit here…” was his response, delivered with the sort of precision reserved for striking a stubborn animal.

The conversation didn’t stand a chance.

So I made like a wise man and wandered about, hoping inspiration would snake its way into my life and think to itself, “I like it here.”

And that’s how I ended up in an internet café. Actually, hang on, that’s not entirely accurate. I opposed the idea of entering that café with every fiber of my being, but I saw a foreigner hunched over his computer working hard. I thought to myself, ‘foreigners have standards, so this café must be the best café in the world’. It is very possible that if I’d bothered to look again, perhaps even closer, I’d have seen that the hunchback-of-net-ré-damn was crying, suffering silently and asking his maker why he’d let him stray down this path… I’d have seen that, but I didn’t. THAT’S how I ended up here.

The make shift poster on the wall screamed that the establishment charged 20/- per minute. My fuzzy math told me that that wasn’t a bargain, that I was being ripped off, but I didn’t care. Perhaps I’d make a friend in here.

I didn’t.

So I sat my ass down and opened the browser window, navigating to gmail. . .well, trying to. My internet connection was not having any of that and assumed the stagnant position. I hit the enter key and then the net decided to have some fun with me, asking that I re-enter my password. I did, then hit the enter key again.

This time, the internet did something different. It moved forward…into the past. The page it pulled told me that the browser I was using was no longer supported. This, for me, should not be an issue. There are people we no longer support, but they still seem to be working.

Nonetheless, because I’m a patient guy, I figured I’d play this silly game and proceeded to download google’s chrome browser…or tried to. The download window told me I’d have to wait for about 5 hours before the file agreed to set up shop on my computer…

That’s when I hatched the idea to write this and pass time.

Chrome’s download window has sort of styled up and now it’s asking me to wait for about 20 minutes, but I’m sure that’s just another game that the net wants to play with me…the bastard.

Sure enough, it’s gone ahead and changed its mind. I have to give it another 3hrs…

With love,your Hangover

Ivan — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 07:19:25 +0000

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.

The android diaries; The meeting

Ivan — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 14:23:32 +0000

You hear a lot of talk about different phone operating systems and think, "who cares, a phone is a phone. all i want to do is text and call"

For a while that's true, then you develop a nasty case of touch envy and you keep going home to your little corner, sit on the floor hugging your knees close to your chest and mutter, "a phone is a phone".

As you rock yourself back and forth, you think, you're cured, then you go back to the office and as luck would have it, you are one of those gadget fiends, so quite naturally, you will run to the nearest gadget weblog you can find and, wouldn't you know it, the battle of the phone OSes is still raging.

But what's this, it's not enough to just think OSes, not as long as Steve Jobs is around, you absolutely have to get a touchscreen, mbu who uses buttons anymore? 'The bastard' you think to yourself as you start to bring your knees closer then suddenly remember you are at work and the last time you got away with the excuse that you were trying to choke an intestine may have been just that, THE LAST TIME.

Then you catch word that there's a new phone in town, and what's this? You won't have to sell your workmate's car tyres to pay for the damn thing.

So as you sit there, a series of changes start to take place. You suddenly realise you can become part of the touch screen elite. The chosen few. You can finally be one of those people that bellows, "AH CRAP, FINGERPRINTS, why can't people just be born without them" like you're noticing them for the first time.

You see the ad in the paper, MTN introduces… you ignore the rest because, let's face it, all you are thinking about is the cost and the fact that you can touch, touch and touch some more.

That chic at the bar that asked you to take your hands away from her like she was worried she'd catch some strain of the Brazilian Flu is going to see now. You'll show her.

That guy at the office that thinks his phone can clear the Ntinda traffic, yeah, he'll get what's coming to him.

In an ideal situation you'd be fumbling with the box, eager to yank it out. But in an ideal situation, if you fumbled and dropped the phone, you'd be able to replace the buttons with pieces of wood, a pebble or a piece of rubber from your flip flops.

Here, you slide the box ever so gently, like the meaning of life lays in there. Then again, loser that you may be, it probably does.

Then you see it, lying snugly in its little cradle, you pull it out gingerly, no point in rushing this, it's not high school, you're not hiding at the back of the library with that girl from that school. With any luck this is going to last a little longer than that encounter…

…and reminiscent of that encounter, you pull it out…

You stare at it lovingly, the way John Bobbit probably did when the doctor's handed him his equipment and said, "we can fix this".

You turn it over see the word Google stretching from top to bottom like an overzealous tattoo. No matter. It also doesn't matter that it's got a yellow back. Probably an MTN ego thing. What matters to you at this point is that you have a touchscreen phone that sits snuggly in the palm of your hand without inviting glares and stares and proclamations that it's huge… or your snarky retort that everything you hold in that hand is HUGE.

Playtime is over, you reach for the button at the top and wake it up. It stirs, then vibrates then you remember you should have charged the damn thing, but that can wait, let's see what this baby can do…

Elections were held…now what?

Ivan — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 16:30:23 +0000

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.

REVISIT: Because Big Brother is coming back

Ivan — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 09:43:45 +0000

Sorry people, couldn't come up with something for BBA, but hey, we can walk down memory lane, right? Okay, let's shoot this puppy.

This is Big Brother, Munya, please report to the diary room. I repeat, Munya, please report to the diary room, er, pretty please with a cherry on top.

Munya: Hi Big Brother, what’s happening

Oh, I don’t know, what’s up with you?

Munya: Er, well, the task is a bit of a bitch really, nuh’mean? But we are trying

Big Brother doesn’t want to know about the others, Big Brother wants to know what’s going on in your life. Like, you know, what’s up with you and Tawana?

Munya: She’s just a friend. She tells great stories. Bedtime stories from old women with short hair make me horny Big Brother

Big Brother wants to feel you, er, feels for you. So, are you, you know, into older chics and stuff, or is it just Tawana

Munya: Nuh dawg, I just felt her then. When I went to Finland, I was with a younger gal, man!

F**K!

Munya: I’m sorry?

Big Brother said thanks. Big Brother appreciates your openness. Big Brother would like to know what you think of Big Brother

Munya: Well that third person shit is a tad annoying

GET. OUT! Seriously? Big Brother apologises. It won’t happen again. Are you happy?

Munya: A bit

Would Munya like a foot massage or something. It’s really no trouble. Big Brother likes Munya

Munya: Nuh, biggie, I’m cool.

No, really, Big Brother like totally LIKES Munya. Does Munya want Big Brother to tell him a bedtime story…did I mention that big brother has no hair?

Munya: Hehe, Biggie, you got jokes, haha.

That’s not all that Big Brother’s got…and Big Brother wasn’t joking… you have hurt Big Big Brother’s feelings…you bitch!

Munya: Damn, bro, calm down

Leave the diary room! And call Ricco, no, I’ll do it myself. Don’t do me any favours!

<<>>

*sniff, sniff* This is BIG BROTHER… Ricco *sniff* report to the diary room!

Ricco: Hey Big Brother

Hey Ricco, how’re you doin? Biggie noticed you started wearing a shirt around the house.

Ricco: Well, er. Once in a while. Biggie. Were viewers complaining? Hehehe

Big Brother wants Ricco to know that its okay for him to walk around without his shirt on. It’s a free country and whatever

Ricco: Thanks Big Brother

Call me Richard.

Ricco: Er, okay… Richard.

Big Brother also wants Ricco to know there’s absolutely nothing wrong with walking around with no pants on… Big Brother winks at Ricco

Ricco: Uhm, why is Biggie winkin

RICHARD!

Ricco: Why is Richard winking at me?

Coz, you know, we like mates and stuff. You must be really lonely seeing as all your girls have been taken. Is Ricco lonely?

Ricco: Well, you get used to it, you know wha’ mean?

Surely you want someone to, like, sleep with and stuff. Big Brother gets lonely too. Big Brother feels your pain. Big Brother is pained.

Ricco: I’m fine Big… Richard, really.

Big Brother admires your courage in the face of loneliness and would like to reward you. But Big Brother is still sad. If Ricco will make Big Brother happy, big Brother will make Ricco happy.

Ricco: Oh yeah, now you’re talking, are you sending in a stripper?

No, you big silly… go to the glass house and welcome you newest housemate

<<>>

Hi Ricco, how about you lock those doors and make Big Brother happy…