6 keys from the edge…

Welcome to Uganda. It’s a tiny little country in the Eastern bit of Africa. Almost everyone that comes here falls in love with the place. To date, the only person that is not too crazy about this place is John Amos. Remember him? He is the dude that starred in Roots as Kunta Kinte. It was a nice movie, but when he got back to his roots. John Amos figured, screw this shit and left. Not cool.

Our people are a friendly bunch and are exceedingly interested in your feeding habits. All too often, one of us will be heard asking, “what is your favourite food so far?”. This is a harmless question. We will not hate tourists if they respond with an answer that is not matooke. Sure, it is way easy to pronounce (mah-toe-kay), but it is all lumpy and it is all yellow. Scientists have suggested that the bulk of Matooke is actually water. Scientists are dumb.

Ugandans are not dumb and they will always find a way of showing it. For instance, the Ugandan Boda Boda guys are always trying to redefine negotiations. A typical boda boda conversation will run thus; (subtitles provided)
He: boss, let’s go
You: how much?
He: How much do you want to give me?
You: *silently* I don’t want to give you anything. *loudly* My fare is usually four thousand shillings
He: *silently* LMAO. *loudly* you give me six thousand.
You: *silently* screw you! *loudly* its okay. I will find someone else
He: *silently* oh shit! *loudly* okay, give me five thousand
You: *loudly* I usually pay four thousand

The boda guy will give in. But, at the end of the journey, he will shy away from the money and you will practically beg him to take his money.

While we are still on the subject, just because he has red/brown eyes, it doesn’t mean he is drunk. And the smell of cheap liquor emanating from his sweat/ tears should not sway you. In fact, I find that this particular brand of rider is more reliable. It is very likely he figures he needs to drop you off, get paid and then continue with his activities

The average Ugandan is fascinated by all things foreign. No one knows why this is, but no one has really bothered to conduct any research.

We are also haters. We will rubbish someone for the smallest thing.

“That guy feels like he is the shit, but he is not. See him. Wearing CNN jeans. I bet they are not even his”

We are possessive. We like to attach the word ,’my’ to titles of respect and reverence. Studies conducted point to the expressions,’ my boss’ and ‘my man’

I’m sleepy, I’ll finish this later.

I have never really considered my vehicular illiteracy (inability to drive) a big deal. The way I saw it, if I learned and there wasn’t a car readily available, I’d probably get pretty frustrated. It’s like my mentor once opined, “…like a kid discovering sex and then having that taken away from him”

Nuff said.

However, lately, I’ve had the words, “I wish you could drive” thrown at me regularly.
At first, i thought nothing of it. Hell, I shrugged and smiled sheepishly. Now? I get pissed. I don’t like that I can’t drive. I find myself rolling up into a ball and screaming, “WHY!!!” and then the answer comes back to me like a torn 1k note. “you didn’t want to learn!”

But now I do. Seriously. I don’t care that the opportunity may not present itself. I am just getting tired of all the wishes. I am also getting particularly pissed off at myself for scrolling through my phone book to find, not a cab driver, but rather a boda boda rider. I need to upgrade me!

As such, this year will be the year I learn how to drive…and with any luck drive even after the lessons. Of course there are a few things about driving that scare me.

Sexism

Have you ever noticed just how sexist drivers are? If the person driving in front of them does something that is a tad wrong, they will instantly say it must be a woman driving. The funny thing is, even women seem to get agitated and express the same opinion. What usually happens is, the driver will then proceed to overtake the car in front of him, and whilst doing so, sneak a peek into the other car. His findings will then go through a gender insensitive process that will have him say either one of these;

• I knew it. See. Its a woman
• A man? I can’t believe it. he drives like a woman

Sudden Loss Of Solidarity

Smokers have a bond they share. A stranger will walk up to you and ask you to ‘light him up’ and you will because you know what he is going through. There’s a kinship centuries old that you don’t want to mess up. Drivers on the other hand don’t give a shit. A guy behind the wheel will seldom care that you are also behind a wheel and need to get to place X at a certain time. Sure, once in a while (s)he will let you go first, but that won’t be before uttering a silent prayer that little elves wielding nails come to your home late in the night and puncture your tires and while they are at it, turn your number plate wrong side up.

Road Rage

Drivers, as a principle are generally not the happiest people in the world. The smallest things will upset them. A nun crossing the road will inspire feelings of animosity. A child asking for a buck will cause a driver to cast him a look that, in the days of old, would turn you into stone. Now the look makes you pee in your pants and walk away saying you probably deserved it…oh yeah, the road rage. Everyone that is driving is an idiot, moving to slow or should be incarcerated for being too dumb to use an indicator.

Superiority Complex

I’m okay with boda bodas at the moment, however that will likely change as soon as I learn how to drive. I will probably figure (rightly so) that I am too cool to use a boda boda. I will delete all those numbers I have now because I will be above that sort of thing. I too will get agitated with the way they swerve recklessly. I will, in a word, become a SNOB. I will move into Animal Farm mode, declaring to anyone that will make the mistake of listening to me, “To wheels good, Four wheels freakin better!”. I will then be forced to re-evaluate my priorities. When I first evaluated them, i wanted an Ipod and sneakers. The second evaluation will likely slide the need for a car somewhere on my hierarchy of needs.

Dependency Issues

I will want to do everything with my car. What’s that? I’ve run out of credit. Shoot, let me DRIVE down to the shop and buy some. Huh? Supper will take a while to prepare, I will DRIVE down to a fast food joint and get somethin. What? I locked my bedroom keys inside? Dang! Guess I will sleep in the car. I have no date for the prom? Looks like its just me and my wheels! I think I am downplaying this. it will be an addiction.

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Somewhere along the line I will also be elevated to the class of people that know how much gas costs, that are constantly asking pedestrians for ‘proggie’. I will become…a driver…by the end of March!

I promised myself I wouldn’t milk the whole “Happy New Year” message for its worth, but yesterday I found myself telling someone I hadn’t seen him since last year. He thought it was funny. I hated myself for it. It is, in my opinion, in the same place with “Happy Christmas, Merry New Year”…the 70’s.

In these trying times, people still have the gall to deposit coins in the offertory basket. I would know. I’m one of them. How do we expect the priest to do the Lord’s work if we are dropping coins. 500shs won’t buy fuel for his car. What do you think he is driving? A lawn mower? I think some practical steps should be taken to put an end to this sort of behavior. We should have ATMs in the church.

I’ve been down with writer’s block. And you can tell it’s the real thing seeing as I couldn’t even bring myself to write that I had writer’s block. I didn’t know how I’d phrase it.

Isn’t local music the best thing ever? I mean you don’t even have to know what the artist is singing about to enjoy it…that said, when is Bobi Wine going to run out of juice. I’m not being a hater, but dude’s all over the place. Akon did that shit last year and to be honest I was waiting for him to pop up in one of Mesach Ssemakula’s songs, however he has cut down. Bobi is still going strong. It’s gotten to the point that I pray the song I’m listening to and loving is NOT by Mr. Wine. I hate myself for liking that song where he tells his woman he would do all sorts of cool things for her if he had the money. Sell one of your Escalade’s car tyres you jerk!

I’ve got a couple of posters on the walls in the room I type this stuff out from, and my sister figured she’d pitch in. The latest addition to the wall is a ‘Panic At The Disco’ poster. Yes, the thought does count for something, but the poster kills the whole testosterone thing that was going on. I don’t have naked women on the walls, but the collection includes;

1. A murderous barber (Sweeney Todd)
2. A pissed off spartan warrior (Kratos: God Of War)
3. A dead rapper (Tupac)
4. A basketball player (Shawn Kemp)

Then when you look at the right side of the room, we have a group of lads with eye shadow or eye liner or whatever makeup is used to create the impression that you just left a fight with an opponent whose main focus was dealing damage to your eye. Then again, I suppose it makes the room a little more habitable for members of the fairer sex.

What is it about graduations that gets people so excited. Sure there’s food and drinks en masse, but why should I be dying to wear the gown? Isn’t it like some ugly dress? When did it become cool for guys to wear dresses. And it comes with a sash thingy. And a cute little hat! Come on, you guys (yes, specifically the guys!) why is this super exciting?

I’ve been told it’s the ceremony that is exciting. Let’s think about that for a moment. there’s lots of insane traffic. You need to wake up early. You have to dress to the nines. You have to sit next to some random stranger for about four hours while some old fart goes on and on about how you have achieved the unachievable. How life can be difficult. How he too graduated at some point in his life… and then Mr. Sun graces the occasion knowing full well that your clothing is not conducive for his effort! Why is this supposed to be the best.day.ever?

I was browsing the web the other day and came across “vegetarian shoes”. Go to the skechers site, you’ll see. How did that happen? How did Vegetarians manage to get custom shoes? Did someone walk into a shoe shop one day and say, “I can’t wear that, do you know what they do to the animal so you can get that shoe? Do you care?”

A teacher somewhere is banging his head on the blackboard because he can’t argue with the kid at the back of the class who, when asked what shoes are made out of, answered, “cabbage”

Have a great week. . .

A story is told of a time long ago, when a carpenter and his wife brought to the fold, a young one that was to be the savior, the Messiah, if you will. The stories is eons old, but sadly that is not the story you are about to behold.

A few months before December 25^th, a young lady met a man.

He had a message for her, our dear lady Marie. It was one that her man Joseph would not be pleased to hear. Come to think of it, even she was skeptical and she let him know as much.

“What do you mean I’m pregnant? I’m a virgin. I am a member of the True Love Waits club, even Pastor Ssempa can vouch for me!”

“Calm down,” said he, “it will come to be. Just let Joe know. I will also tell him. That way, when he hears the same thing twice, it won’t be such a big deal. It’s like when you heard that Boyz II Men were not coming.”

So that’s exactly what happened, Joe was hanging out, trying to make a buck, make ends meet, when suddenly, he received a message from a number that wasn’t saved in his Nokia’s phonebook, “Jo. I’m going 2 hv a kid. It’s nt yrs. L8r.”

Joe Michaels Musisi was gripped by panic. So he sent a message of his own, “Who dis?” and awaited a reply.

He didn’t have to wait long, “Sry, wrng number. LOL!”

Elsewhere a gentleman called Jose was forced to buy a newspaper by an aggressive vendor with no change. He chanced upon a headline which, seemingly proud of itself, declared, “CARPENTER’S WIFE PREGNANT”. It seemed an odd place to put such a story. Such things are usually the fodder of the Red Pepper, he thought to himself. Then he read the story that followed and realized that it actually had substance.

Then a guy flagged him down. Thinking he was a traffic officer who had opted to dress up casually, Jose acquiesced.

“Man! I am so glad I caught up with you. I’ve been trying to reach you, but some lady kept picking up and saying you were not available at the moment, please try again later. Her politeness notwithstanding, I find it appalling that she kept referring to you as ‘the subscriber’.

Jose could not understand what this had to do with his driving, so he let him know.

“Oh, sorry. I am not a traffic cop. Do you see me wearing those cream uniforms?”

Jose felt compelled to point out that the uniforms were white, but he had more pressing issues to deal with. The lady in the picture that accompanied the carpenter story looked a lot like his woman.

“Yeah, anyway,” not a traffic cop continued, “Marie is pregnant!”

Jose was, as you would expect, taken aback. How did this plain clothed traffic officer know his woman’s name? And did he just say she was pregnant?

“Oh man! She hasn’t told you yet? This is awkward. Tell you what. Beep me when you get home. Actually, an hour after you get there. Peace!”

And like that, he was gone.

So too, is the rest of this story.