Here, I write my wrongs

Does anybody know it’s BHH*.

I realise that this will likely scamper off to Facebook and impose itself on the masses as a note and I apologise for that, but I really can’t go and change the settings right now. Too much work and all that.

*BHH is Blogger Happy Hour. A one of a kind, once a month event that sees bloggers converge at a bar in the middle of Kampala and engage in intellectual discourse. Topics covered during previous BHH gatherings include Darlyne’s camera, Dante’s Iphone, Bahati’s bill, The President’s Finger, Rappers, Brown Summers, Monsoon Visitors, The Wrath of the ‘Pop and talking Basicx.

It has been attended by several bloggers, sometimes all at once, at times, in intervals. It has also featured it’s fair share of well-wishers (*cough* gatecrashers). Notable attendees appear on the list over at blogspirit.ug.

There is always something to learn at these gatherings, one blogger remarked in earnest, “Man. I will never do those Happy Hour Cocktails.”

It’s an opportunity to hang out or get hang over!

Initiated in the last decade, BHH has mutated into a Pizza Happy Hour, An Effendys Happy Hour and the very elusive animal, “MEGA-BHH”.

3am.

He has been awake for a while. It doesn’t look like he will be going back to bed anytime soon. Thoughts plague him. One particular thought actually. The accident. He hadn’t seen it himself, but the boda boda rider had narrated it in such detail. It felt almost as if he had been there as it happened.

All he had seen was the abandoned lorry and the crowd. He couldn’t forget the crowd. As the bike moved closer, so too did the crowd. A menacing advance punctuated by screams and insults. One sane voice almost drowned in the madness as the man with a helmet shouted that vehicles were not allowed to use the route that lay ahead.

4am

Sleep continues to elude him. No matter how much he tosses and turns it is beyond his grasp. So far away, he can’t even feel it. For lack of something better to do, his thoughts begin to drift. Further and further until he is back on that boda boda. Listening to the rider’s tale. ‘Seeing’ it.

Apparently some young people had opted to use that route to beat the traffic. It is possible they were overspeeding. What was not open to speculation was the fact that they may have been inebriated.

Along with the mangled flesh that was pulled out of the wreckage, were shattered bottles of beer, some sachets of cheap brew and a pack of cigarettes; almost empty.

The driver of the lorry, for whatever reason came hurtling down the road with reckless abandon. He was sober after the accident. Sober enough to run away from the scene.

One of the victims had his fist tightly wrapped around his phone. The collision had caused the two to become one in a nasty fusion of skin and plastic. Not even the hardened lumpens that no doubt had collected, had it in them to take what didn’t belong to them.

7am

The alarm goes off. It doesn’t make much of a difference. The hours leading to it have been spent sleeplessly. He lies in bed a little longer. A sense of dread filling him for a few seconds. As soon as it comes, it leaves. He slowly climbs out of his bed and starts to pick out his clothes for the day.

He takes a bath and gets dressed. He feels a little bothered. A sense of foreboding seems to be nipping at him, but he brushes it aside as he settles down to have breakfast.

He checks to make sure he has everything he needs for the day and starts to leave the house. He sees his pack of cigarettes and hesitates before picking it up. He has been trying to quit, but his nerves could benefit from the nicotine.

10am

Work seems to be moving at a place that suits it, which infuriates him quite a bit. He glances at the pack of cigarettes and makes up his mind. He tells his co-worker he is stepping away for a bit. She smiles knowingly. He wonders why he even bothered to make excuses. Why indeed. Its not like he feels ashamed of the habit and no one has given him any flack for it. The debate raging through his head won’t let up, he finds a spot and lights up.

His thoughts go back to the accident. The person with the phone. Was it the driver? Was it a passenger? What thoughts were going through his head before impact?

4pm

The pack still has some cigarettes. It’s an achievement of sorts. He stares at the clock, willing the end of the day near. It takes its sweet time. Looking through his diary, he sees what he expected; no entries for the day. It has been a slow day and it simply won’t let up. Just one more hour left. 60 minutes that stretch into many more than that. It feels almost like…

His phone rings, startling him.

“What’s the plan?”

He doesn’t feel up to anything at the moment. He is still shaken from what he saw yesterday.

“Maybe a drink may help. Staying in couldn’t have done anything to help”

That is true. Maybe a night out may soothe…but it should be tame.

“You know that’s how these things always start out, but fine. We will keep it local. There’s a decent kafunda near your place. I’ll holla”

7pm

For the second time today, he finds himself staring at his watch. It is not a hard stare. His eylidss are heavy, laden with sleep. The sleep that had previously played hard-to-get has come home. He muses on the thought as he feels his eyelids close. He lets them.

His phone doesn’t.

“I’m at your gate”

He mutters something under his breath. It is not polite.

“Sheesh. Were you asleep?”

He doesn’t offer an answer. He hangs up and makes his way to the gate. As he locks up he remembers the pack of cigarettes and goes back and gets them.

10pm

The night is on an uphill swing. Thoughts of the accident long gone. He is truly having a great time. This place, though has become boring. A change of location is necessary. He turns to his friend and makes a suggestion that meets no resistance.

“Let’s pass by the supermarket and get cheaper booze. I mean beers”

The second part is offered as a means to reassure his friend. In the past, they have experimented with all sorts of cheap alcohol. The ban on ‘sachet’ alcohol did nothing to slow down their pace.

He looks at his pack of cigarettes. He has enough left to keep him going.

11pm

They tire of drinking from the parking lot in the supermarket and get into the car. They met one of their friends and he came bearing gifts. Sachet alcohol.

They set off with no idea of where they will end up. They spy a jam in the distance and they opt for another route.

He begins to berate his friend over his weakeness for sachets. He in turn is called a chimney. He is offended and says he can quit right now!

There’s laughter in the car, none of it his.

He looks at the pack of cigarettes and wonders why he can’t stop. Then and there he decides this is the end. He will not light another, never smoke again.

His preoccupation earlier on had not afforded him a chance to call his girlfriend. Ignoring the late hour, he pulls out his phone to call and check on her.

Around the same time, the car starts to swerve. The friend driving seems to have lost control. Panic spreads in the car.

Up ahead, he sees the bright lights of the lorry…

I suspect this is the part where I wish you and yours a Merry Christmas. So here it is, take it and enjoy. MERRY CHRISTMAS.

This is not the post I wanted to write. I’ve been procrastinating for a bit with that one. I wanted to write something from the point of view of my lung. If you’ve seen the movie Fight Club, I’m sure it rings a bell. Something like;

I am Ivan’s once collapsed lung. I am okay now, no thanks to him, but God loves this kid. I sit  here and chill, manipulated to do the bidding of other organs that he abuses. They don’t have the guts to take any course of action, but I do. Actually, it was not in my plans to have Ivan admitted, but the thing is, the liver kept whining on and on about how hard it had it and unable to put up with it’s spiel I opted to move. unbeknownst to me, the air that makes the rounds in the body is, contrary to popular belief, eager to stay in. It thus assumed that I would not be coming back and it took up residence in the right quadrant of the rib cage. I’m a fairly decent organ, you see, so I didn’t think much of this…but a few month’s later it was getting greedy, pushy even. That’s when I thought to myself, “screw this” and…well, you know the story from there.

What I’m trying to say is, I’m fine, really. You don’t have to worry about me. More importantly, I want you to know that what happened could have happened to anyone. Alcohol was not a factor. That usually goes after the liver, but that’s a story for another day. Not mine.

Till next year, I’ll be here. Hanging around.

Yours truly,

Ivan’s lung

Like I said, something along those lines… I would have loved for something more poetic, something that would make you think. Something that didn’t look like  I found it floating in my drink. Something that would make you meditate, send you on a journey and levitate to levels unknown unseen. Something kinda cool, kinda mellow. Something awesome, something wholesome. That would move you, that would prove that there’s a groove in the midst of all the text, a lyric that would flow, that you would carry everywhere you go, but no, all I have is this. no more, no, ho, ho, but I do wish you a Merry Christmas.

Have I ever whined about some chest issues that were bugging me some time back? Bugging me so bad, the pain extended it’s reign of terror and flooded my arm and my back? I saw a series of doctors back then, none of them my classmates, who offered different diagn…theories. Turns out, what I had was the beginning of something none of them had considered. So, the week before last… I think, I got some stupid pains and I felt compelled to go see the doctor. Who am I kidding, I was hurting so bad, I didn’t have a choice.

After a wait that must have 6hrs, I was finally summoned. I suppose it is worth pointing out that the guys at Doctor’s Plaza have a loyalty scheme that basically won’t allow the newbies audience with a doctor any time before midday.

A couple of tests later, the doctor told me it sounded like my lung had collapsed. It sounded sort of fancy and I suppose in some twisted way, it is one of those things that people earn “ooh”s and “aah”s for. Not me. I was freaked out. This is the lung we are talking about, not the friggin kidney. If one lung is down, the other lung won’t look on and think, “shit, lemme up my game” and proceed to double up in size and do the other lungs work. Lungs are selfish that way.

The doctor was not too sure, and figured an X-ray ought to clench the deal. He told me I could use the clinic’s which was somewhere around the dreadful waiting area from earlier on. What a kind guy!

After some back and forth, I was informed that the “fluid is finished” and as such the machine won’t work.

And so began the hunt for a working Xray…and the mother of all spontaneous showers (from the clouds, not a bathroom)

This thing is dragging on, so…

Long story short:

X-ray confirms that lung has attempted to hurl itself to its death in the recesses of my gut. Doctor tells me to go to Mulago for a minor procedure. I go home, upset. I sleep. I wake and go to Mulago.

Doctor (who turns up about 7 hours after I get there) asks me whether I’m ready to be admitted. Considering my state of sobriety, I think I’m not. I am admitted anyway.

Lady is there for me. I try to downplay the prospect of being a tenant of Mulago Heights. I fail. Lady rocks!

Doctor comes over with his bag of tricks which comprises syringes, tape, gauze, anaesthetic, blades (surgical blades, not the vampire hunter haha?) a pipe that could comfortably be laid out from here to your place to transport fibre optic cables…

I try to be macho again by speaking on the phone as they inject my chest. I figure the worst is over then the doctor begins his running commentary with as much excitement as a guy juggling his…

Blade meets skin. Makes the first move. Skin responds by letting blade in. A hole is exposed. Skin lets pipe in. Other end of pipe goes into a beaker, but first end is stuck in chest. It’s a prisoner!

There are bubbles in beaker. I soon start to hate these bubbles and its a while before I look at Sprite the same way again.

It’s Tuesday…day 1.

The title borrows from a lyric in one of the late Christopher Wallace’s songs. I suspect, he too borrowed it, but that doesn’t matter…didn’t, he was NOTORIOUS and could get away with whatever…till the end. That caught up with him. I mention the Biggie lyric not so much because I was a fan (seriously though, I preferred him over ‘pac), but because, it sorta feels like that’s what we were caught up in; a dream…or a fad. I had a chat with someone (name withheld) who felt that blogging had gotten too mainstream, and as such he opted out. Well as out as he could, the thing is, if you like to write, or have an opinion to share, you will find yourself drawn back to your blog, twitter or facebook account. It’s like a dance with a cruel partner that continually taunts you, “you’ll be back”.

Lately though, I found myself wondering whether he may have been on to something. Mayhaps he saw something I didn’t…something I didn’t want to see. After all, ‘twas he that noticed that there was a new generation of bloggers, flourishing as the old timers took a bow, sat in the sidelines and pitched in with a morsel when the opportunity afforded, a gem when inspiration hit.

I kept wallowing in the marsh of denial, assuming that I was overthinking things.

Then the blogsphere expanded. We had a new blog spring forth every so often. In a frequency that managed to hide the fact that some of the other blogs were slowly fading into obscurity, with the bloggers putting their keyboards down for whatever reason. However, the newbies kept coming, and we, would keep on announcing the discovery of each, promoting several along the way.

Then came blogspirit. A brilliant move from the node six crew. With it, we could keep up with our favourite writers, we could see what was going on in our “friends’” lives. It was all good. Let’s not go into the issues of navigation that some may have had, it kept on evolving and with each phase in the evolutionary cycle came improvement.

One thing though, that also came with blogspirit was clarity. Clicking on a blogger’s link would show you when last he or she posted, and you’d notice the diminishing frequency of posts (DFoP).

Out of..guilt, boredom, inspiration, we’d have random posts that served as a reminder that, yes, the blogger still existed. still held his or her readers with some regard, but just wasn’t up to writing…not yet.

Is it possible that, as blogs got more and more exposure, the pressure was pumped and bloggers felt that they had to live up to readers’ expectations, failing that, there was no point in writing?

Did bloggers feel that the privacy they once enjoyed, jotting down their thoughts on the internet, had vanished and as such retreated into the shadows?

Was it all a phase? A fad that ran its course and now we have facebook, twitter and cheap sms to turn to?

Is this all just part of evolution and only the strongest survive?

Or maybe we got too busy. We got jobs and they pulled us away, sucked us into the corporate structure that had us so burnt out we could not put our thoughts online.

To those that fell along the way… just a few more steps, to those that are still in the game, the struggle continues (or contunes, if you will)

I once wrote, “we do the write thing”… I’m not sure anymore. The flames that once burnt deep and strong seem to need some fanning, some petroleum, a rebirth maybe, but one thing’s for sure, certain sections of the blogsphere (in my opinion anyway) could do with some Ignition…

inspired in part by this post

I was asked to write an article concerning sex addiction. I’ve been told it will run eventually, but as of now, one of the higher ups is not too keen. Her reason? There’s a lot of stuff concerning sex in it.

I write for the Kawa section in Sunday Vision. Anyone that has read it will tell you it’s light, lay back and kick off your shoes type stuff. I don’t mind not being famous like say this guy , but someone somewhere figured that a security conference and exhibition was right up my alley. Why am I making a big deal out of this… well…

• I cover leisure pieces and under circumstances beyond my control, relationship stuff
• The area of the paper I write for is, strictly, laid back leisure piece oriented

So, yeah, I can’t see why someone thinks I would like to look at padlocks and laser technology. I love gadgetry, sure, but come on…

You guys thought you would go to a baby shower and that would be it? Okay, some of you (ERIQUE) decided to skip the thing, but that didn’t change a thing. The buns in the oven said, “you will see!” As of 7,er something this morning, the first blogger babies emerged. I’m told they looked around and said, “dang! let’s set up our own blog!” Nalongo(Chanel) is doing fine and Salongo could not be reached for a comment coz he was running around like a headless chicken…guy, ‘mobile phone’… MOBILE… Names are being guarded like money under a bed, but we will find ‘em, and we will share em.

Congratulations Chanel and Magoo. In our geekish delight, we welcome the twins to the fold…(funny how they made it in time for BHH,eh?)

This PC responds pretty fast. You know what would be really cool… if the internet was loading pages with the same resolve. But then again, outside the blog-sphere, what else am I going to surf? The gadget blogs are taking their sweet time to update. And even then, I log on with some preconceived expectation that never yields much. I have a rough idea of what portable media player I want (Zune HD, santa!) and what kind of phone I’m after (Nokia’s X6 or X3…or Sony Ericsson Aino, santa you red suited so and so, are you listening? Are you reading?) so why do I bother to keep checking. It only serves to confuse me further. I’ve harboured lustful thoughts for HTC’s Pure, but I suspect it is just a phase…

What sort of doctor’s are you guys consulting? It used to be such that I’d go see some graying old man with what may or may not have been whooping cough and then left after getting my diagnosis. In fact, I could comfortably say that I looked forward to these visits with about as much anticipation as an animal about to have its ****icles removed without anesthesia… lately however, I go see my doctor and it’s like I’m visiting an old friend, not an old fiend.

Then it got interesting (with a shade of weird)…

I’ve matured to the point that the doctors I go see are peeps I went to school with. And I don’t mean that in a “what school did you go to, I was there 30 years ago, where you even born’ sort of way. These people were either my classmates or a year below. I never seem to visit doctors that were a few classes ahead, which is just as well, coz I wouldn’t trust the guy that asked me to go and fill his bottomless cup with sugar from my ‘grab box’. Dude may ask me to fill his bank account with similar qualities…

The thing is…

I’m not comfortable relaying issues confidential to people I went to class with either. It’s not so much that they will be flappin’ their gums the moment the opportunity arises… but shit, what if?

I don’t want to be meeting peeps in social circles and havin them cast the sympathetic eye my way and saying, “Ivan” sigh “Man, I’m sorry, but that shit goes away…”

And for all I care, the peeps in the lower classes may have a score to settle. What if they prescribe something that elicits the following response when the ‘moment’ arises (I was going to say, ‘when the moment comes’ but that would have been much too easy’)… so when the moment arises, “stop playing, where’s the rest of it?’