the couch

The three moves that will shake…

2007-03-22T06:50:00.000-07:00

…my personal life!

I opened the door. While laughing heartily at my silly joke she stepped in. Then suddenly she was laughing no more. Something made her stop. I looked over her shoulder…

“Oh thaaat, argh, you know today morning I woke up earlier than usual and I didn’t quite have time to fix the mess.”

Nervous laughter as I quickly pick after my mess. Mama had warned me...

(Flashback)

“(THWACK! THWACK!) Next time (THWACK!) when I tell you (THWACK!) to clean and make (THWACK!) your bed you will do (THWACK!) so. (THWACK!) You hear?

Well I heard, but didn’t listen. Classic case of in one ear right out the other. That’s another painful flashback. Not today.

I feel my sorry a*** as I remember the day and I float back to the present day.

She masterfully steps around my mess. I knew why I liked this one. Check those legs. NGGGG! She has nice legs, and unfortunately an even better nose. And so do I.

“What’s that smell?”

SNIFF! SNIFF! Oh s**t. It's the ugali I cooked last week and forgot to wash the sufuria.

“Oh thaaat. Hehe. Bana that is…the neighbours. I’ve always warned them about that sewage.”

She’s about to swallow my vibe when she walks into the kitchen to meet not-sparkling-clean kitchen. Ugali sufuria of last week. Sukumas of that same date. Cups with expired tea (the expiry date on the Ketepa pack said June 2008, the hoaxes). I can’t begin describing the mould we found on the plates…let’s just say, Hulk would have been incredibly jealous of the colour. Glow in the dark!

No guessing that my points tally had quickly dipped. I was in relegation zone. Even Juventus suffered an easier penalty.

Quickly I fetched water form my mtungi and quickly flooded the mould silly. Minus marks coz the crib has no running water. Bonus minus points coz the mtungi had something growing in it.

“Well everything is herbal. Colgate Herbal, Fair n Lovely is herbal so now si this is Herbal Water.” I joked.

The only laughter that could be heard bouncing off the plain walls was mine. She gave me such a serious stone face for a moment there she blended well with the wall.

I was now very well in Div 2.

Kitchen was sorted. Wasn’t actually but…for now. Peace reigned.

We finally found my seat, the Matrix seat, after I had finally gotten rid of the smelly socks and filthy yet wearable-another-day jeans. I call it the 'matrix seat' coz it reminds me of that scene when Morpheus was chatting with Neo (telly ni ya wanga kidogo). Minus marks coz she never liked Matrix, so she didn’t quite understand my love for a seat that had been rained on and has been a maternity ward for kittens. (Bantuts, I have your cat’s birth certificate).

She had cooled down and after thirstily scoffing down the juice (don’t ask where the water came from, she didn't, so why should you) I turned on the telly and sat on the cold floor to relax. I have only one seat remember. Relax though I couldn’t. Those bloody cats (Bantuts!!) that have made my roof a by-pass, were using my aerial to scratch their backs and sharpen their nails again. So for 30 minutes or so I was on the roof setting the aerial. I ended up connecting mine to the neighbours.

My lyrics must have been tight. Not once did she dare mention leaving. Well, the fact that it was getting late and she lived on the other side of town helped. (Guys, get a mama who stays millions of miles away and their mathrees end early) Bonus points for me…in my head of course. Bado mchezo was Div 2 lakini I was leading that table.

Speaking of table, supper was kuku sama na njiva (as the ad says). I got pity points coz I was hip and kept with the times. Most of her pals ate at Kenchic. (Oh, guys, if your getting a chick who stays far, don’t go tooooooooo far.)

Supper was done and a fake yawn later I declared it was (YAWN!) time for bed.

But first she wanted to freshen up.

“That’s okay with me. The bathroom is just there. Follow the sm…(sniff. Sniff)

There was no smell today. Phew! The day before there was water so I had flushed away my ‘baked beans’ and chapad ka-freshner I bought on one of my many successful trips to Nakumatt (unlike others)

“It’s just behind that door.”

I have those fitness loos where you must squat if you want to ‘squat’ (Kukata weight yaani).

“It’s okay. I’ll hold.”

She wasn’t fit and ‘lost appetite’ to use the bathroom. Needless to say, I also lost so many points that I found myself in Div 3.

Luckily, however, my bed helped my points tally. The low-rider pimped ‘dream ride’ with four inch ‘wheels’ was well received…plus it’s a strong ‘ride’. Coz after the midnight ride, oh yeah, I was back in the premier league.

But anyway, to cut the long story short, I was given a similar ultimatum that Abramovich gave ‘Maureen the whore”, improve or else. And since I want to keep this one…

(Flash forth) What do you call the opposite of a flash back?

Mr and Mrs Modo (bliss) with the little Modo (oh crap, not that brat) I return to reality panting. Ain’t no way I’m bringing a smaller version of me into this world. Not now anyway, I have to finish my karate classes first.

Okay, so I won’t keep this one, but the next perhaps.

Hence, my first move. In two months or less time I’m moving house. To a place with running water. And better loos. A place near a kiothe so supper can be there, therefore avoiding mould on ugali. A place ‘she’ (whoever she be) will continue laughing at my jokes even after walking in.

…my career!

“Excuse me sir, I have some sad news.”

“Why Modo? What’s wrong with you”

“I’m resigning”

“Oh come on. Bull****! Sit down man”

He goes back to his laptop to recover. He’s the boss he can’t lose his cool like that. Not in front of all people, me.

He types nothing for ten seconds, then he looks at me.

“Yes Modo, tell me, are you unhappy?”

Oh yes I am terribly unhappy. You have redefined the meaning of peanuts with what you pay me. I don’t like my creative director. He hogs all the work. Do you want to hear more?

Well, of course I didn’t tell him that. Hell, no. I gave him a speech about how I’ve been here for too long and I needed to move around and gain experience.

“Is it the money?”

YES!

No, sir, it’s not about the money. It’s the experience.

“Come on. It’s about the money,” he insists. “Then why don’t you go for the same amount we are paying you here?”

They have more peanuts than you.

I can’t, I tell him.

“Or why didn’t you go for 5k more?”

Come on.

“So you see, it’s about the money.”

At this point I had given up and just resigned myself to looking at him babble along. In my mind I was busy thinking of other important stuff.

“Come on Modo, think about your career…(should I now get a 29 inch TV)…don’t just go some…(now I can impress that chick next door)…those other places are useless, man, we…(oh no, I can’t impress her, I’m moving out soon)…this is the best place you want to…(now should I SMS her…hold on mr. boss man is talking, let me listen to him)…we are a secure company. We could send you abroad, if you’re tired.”

This goes on for like 30 minutes, but I’ve already made up my mind. He dismisses me, with a “this is not over yet” and I agree and say we’ll see.

After many days of trying to convince me to stay, it finally sinks into his little head that this dude when he makes up his mind, it’s set in fast-drying long-lasting cement.

So yeah, at the end of the month, Modo will be posting from a new place. Where the grass is greener, the honey is sweeter and the milk is richer than Tuzo or Brookside.

...the blogosphere!

Yes. I’m moving my couch to a new digs. I too am packing my couch for WordPress. I’ve been experimenting there for the past few weeks and soon it will be my new home. Come over for a taste of the couch at http://modoathii.wordpress.com/. Tengeneza that link.

So, new digs, new job, new blog…but it's the same ol’ me. Modoathii, son of baba modoathii and mama modoathii. Sister to my brother's sis. And brother to...yes...him.

BYE BLOGSPOT! IT'S BEEN REAL!

Like the famous dirge...Till we meet again!

Uganda Exposed - the final episode

2007-03-21T07:37:00.000-07:00

I come to the close of my very short career in photography with these pictures of the Bungee place in Jinja. (Still can't remember the name)

Well I didn't bungee but I did binge. Later.
First up is this route map (ish) to Egypt via the Nile. Actually, it's a board where the guys who feel mountainous but can't get to a mountain come and test their spidey skills. Nick/Nik/Spidey will love this.

This is just in case you can't handle the bungee jump or the rapids of the Nile. You can call mummy dearest.

There's the 'launch pad'. 'Bladders' are fungwad kwa mguu and you jump all the way....down! and dip your head in the waters of the Nile.

That's how it looks from below! Notice the Nile beer bottle. That's the bungee for the drunks. Bungeee(hic)eeeeee!

That is where you dip your head. Are you seeing that little blue boat (on the left)? That's where you collect your 'remains' after a successful bungee.

Yours untruly 'down there' chapaing a pose for the camera. I was actually looking at the deadly view of the Nile from there.

Cheki that view msee. If you threw an empty Smirnoff bottle, it would get to Egypt after like a few months. I think we were told a couple of months. SIKUMBUKI!

Up theeeere, is the place we binged.

This shot made my day. I placed the camera preca...pre-c-a-r-i-o-u-s-l-y on the blue boat/raft/canoe/whatever and skipped back up like 30 steep steps to quickly pause for this shot. Then I had to rush back down and retrieve the camera before it wound up in the Nile and eventually Egypt...on a date like today's.

More views from the 'ground' level.

These were from up above.
Kuleeeeeeeeeeeeee, ndio Egypt msee! Can you see a pyramid?

Look at the bumble bee...ding'oing'o for others. And for the ladies, how cuuuute? woishe!

Sun was setting and it was time to hit the road, and I manged to beat some nice sunset shots. Ideal for closing this show of mine and leaving camera work to the like of Easy Going Man (LOL) and Mocha and..and...yes you hapo. Usiangalie nyuma...wewe...

Normal, wordy posts resume soon. I'm done with UG for now. I did TZ the other Dec but nilikuwa masikini sikuwa na kamera, so memories are in my head.

Verdict.

1st Place - Kenya...like duh!
2nd Place - Tied, Ug and Tz...like duh!

In all honesty, every place has it's own uniqueness. Example, when it comes to landscapes and peeps (despite everything I love our people) Kenya tops. When it comes to parrey harrey and constant fun things to do cheaply, Ug tops. When it comes to a place that's easy and relaxing...I'm definitely heading for Dar.

All in all, EAST AFRICA TOPS!!!!

Just as long as I can get a place to take my madness to, I'll love it.

Uganda Exposed - Episode 3

2007-03-13T07:48:00.000-07:00

Previously on Uganda Exposed, the beaches and the b***hes.

Today on Uganda Exposed, the Tanzanian exposed! TZ's greatest export. (Mazee alafu ikuwe ni blogger fulani....si atanihanda mpaka ni-die)

Plus the source of the nile in all its grandeur (WEEEEEUUUU! BIG WORD ALERT! BIG WORD ALERT!)

It was a nice nyummy morning...let me say afte coz guys woke up late as usual. Club Silk had shikad the night before. So first stop was GC (Garden City). This my people is like the Vilage M of ours. Kumbe all shopping malls are the same during the festive season.

I couldn't get a clear shot of the 'City' itself coz...see for yourself,
That's as much as I could get a shot off. That is the main gate entrance. Nakuambia there was always a jam outside. Wale wadhii wote wanataka kuingia huko...tsk. tsk. tsk.

Here's a shot of how it looked like inside...outside.
Okay, the picture that showed the packed parking lot ili-lost. But just check at the base of the picture you may get a hint.

That's the skyline you see from GC. We had to take these chap chap kabla bouncer atucheki.
The impressive Stanbic Building.

We stocked up on our aspirins, panadols, hedex, tumbex etc and we were off. But first we needed to buy more film so we passed by Shoprite. I stayed in the car this time and boy did I have a little fun on my own...

Any guesses where this is? The power of boredom mixed with kidogo innovation and a camera fully loaded with film in hand.

Alafu nikaangalia mbele nikamuona huyu...

Are you seeing the angles I caught her from? Don't joke my camera can see round corners. EGM you may have skill of panoramic/paromaniac shots lakini chunga, try periscopic shots.

Oh, nimepata hiyo picha ya GC parking lot.

Tuendelee.

Baada ya kuburudisha macho we hit the road. We were rendezvousing (eish...even typing it was issues) with the Ugandan guy and the two chicks. The Ghanaian and the (drumroll) the (thank you), the...(thank you, you can stop the drum roll NOW! Thank you!) and the TZdian.

Tulikaa masaa...
Tick tock went the clock.

We linked up with our buddy and the goodies (still unseen to me). They were in another car. And we were off.

If this was in Kenya, i'd be reading "you are now leaving Kampala. Safiri salama." messages. This is the landmark that informs all tourists they are now entering Kampala. But we were leaving so of course you can't see the message.

We kamatad that road (Jinja Road) and there was no looking back...
Unaona vile kamkono kangu kameparara?

Looking ahead...

The road to Jinja has lots of views and excitement. Like the Mandela Ssssutadiooom (put a jang' accent)

Then we found ourselves behind this 'airliner'
Check out the 'Mash Auto' graphics.

Then we had to concentrate coz of the speed limit...
Is it any surprise we missed the bus.

We needed water for the trip so we made another 'pitstop'
Check out the weapon. Dude, you buy ngata in fear...if your Kenyan that is, me in particular.

Now the landscape was breathtaking.

This is the (for the lack of a better word) bushy stretch between Champara and Indinda. Somewhere along this stretch is the 'grand prix' stretch where those with roho clean out the cobwebs in their speed-o-metres.

And indeed we fungukad. The guy we were driving with clocked a cool 180. DUDE! and DUDELETTES! Roho ilichapa like it has never chapad before. 144 beats per 30 seconds. After I recovered I checked where the other car was...
Ndio wale ukoooooooooooo. Uko uko. Kuleeeeeee. Remember objects in this mirror aren't as close as they seem.

The view of this church was breathtaking. It stood all alone, lakini I was so mesmerized by it, that I remembered too late to snap it. But to compensate...check out the mandinyos. Nice eh?

Then finally we arrived to the place where this jungu called "Owen" kept falling. The locals eventually called it Owen Falls.
The car infront is always a Toyota. And in this particular Toyota rode beauty and the b....Tanzanian (sijasema kitu).

Waters from 'the source'.

Hyacinth removers.

Power plant.
Some 'villa'. Here I was chezaing with zoom.

Now this is a good example of a bad shot. I put camera on auto focus. Kumbe now Mr. Minolta (me camera) was focusing on the meshwire fence. My eye on the other hand was set on the view.
That's nice meshwire though.

Between where Owen fell and the source of the Nile was bila drama. Until we landed...
Goofers, doofus and the what-the-F! mtized. That's my boy, me and yes, the TZedi, at the source of the Nile. Sisemi kitu. (na isikuwe ni mmoja wenyu)
That island there is actually the 'true' source. Mzungu fulani alichoka akaangalia left na right akaona duuu! Hii ndio source. And the villagers gave thunderous applause. Makofi ya stima!

Beyond there is Lake Victoria.

That's the 'cabin' near where we set up our table and drowned the local tanyes.
On the way to the 'pinting' spot.

Then we tried deciding which was the best spot.

Once settled I took in the surroundings.

Then later after a few taskwinjes and pilinjes we got on a boat. We wanted to check out the source for ourselves...That's us. Of course I was the happiest child. This kaboat had only three life jackets. I grabbed the extra one. But honestly cheki how well fed those guys are, they'll float. Us skinny balinskis will cut the water like knives on butter.
Beauty...

And the...

Yet again.

This is one peti that amused me. The logo is Einstein's formula. The boat kumbe was sponsored by them.

Below are the sights we encountered. Plus you will observe I made my first step towards a career at national geographic.
Hukoooooo ni Kenya.
The tour guide told us the names of these birdies lakini akili was on taskwinjes. I gitched nada.

We were now standing at the source.

There's a bird in there somewhere...THERE! Umeiona? It must have flown away. No it's still there.

There's another bird here too. Angalia vizuri.
There.

Citi Hoppa ya maji huchukuliwa hapa. Lake Hoppa.

We were informed this is 'robben island' of ug. Somewhere there is a prison.

No, these are not inmates. These are mongos who were crossing to the other side. They don't take the 'hoppa' they have a private ride.
Speaking of which, check this. A guy had pimped his ride. Can you really call it a Land Rover anymore? Water Rover!

Dinosaur Mkali! No wonder Sailing Club closed. You can't let outdated creatures run across your compund like that. You scare all the kids.

From whence we came from
Closer...

On our return trip, we snuck up on these impressive eagles...sneak......sneak...
WOOW! Check out the wingspan. I was so thrilled. And how cool is this. This was the last exposure. Can you ask for a better way to end your film? National Geographic, my number is seben seben sigisteen, fortey nine, sigisty fortey holla.

So, it was back to enjoying my pint, that was between a rock...And a...er...hard place?

Till next time, it's been real. Ug was real.

Next episode, the BUNGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! that wasn't.

Disclaimer, any resemblance to anyone alive or dead, blogger or not, is purely incidental. It wasn't me.

Uganda Exposed - Episode 2

2007-03-04T23:09:00.000-08:00

Previously on Uganda Exposed...the trip down (or up) with it's ups and downs.

This episode...Of Beaches, B***hes and a Paparazzi's shamble' abode

These were taken on my trip to Ebb. I must say the view was worth every shot. However i got too much exposure for my 36 exposure film. Can somebody make a 72 exposure film please.

Is it a bird?

Is it a plane?

No it's modo...

And his crib...

(Check out the pimped ‘dream mobile’. Low rider with 4-inch 'wheels'. So when I come home high, i'm still low) Plus in case some dude decides to come home and frolick with my wife, he can't hide under the bed.

Haiya after that short commercial, let the show begin.

This is a building block kule watoto wa Makerere hupiga makelele. We made a detour to pick my pal's chick who is a 'riot-abiding' student.

This building also in Makerere reminds me of the 'patch' primary and the duke of gloucester (sp) school where I attended to 'chase' away my ignorance. I didn't have a tour guide as qualified as I, so sijui ni nini hii nyumba.

Now this structure is...er...is....si mnajua ile iko kule Uni ya Nairobi? Basssss! Hii ndiyo ya Makerere sasa. I have no inkling of a clue called an idea what the crap this is.

The clock tower. Quite impressive. But from the back seat of a coupe I couldn't quite get a 'character-building' shot. Yap the chick was in the front seat and I was relegated to the back.

The road to Entebbe isn't ati 'paved' with breathtaking view liiiike that. But i managed to sneak in one, or two... no, one shot!

The Beach...

Finally we arrived. If you look straight ahead you see...

We were discussing how we will buy that and make it our private island...just before global warming checks in.

Notice the benches in the water. I thought it was a cool idea to have seats in the water. My pal corrected me by telling me that, it isn't a design. When the seats were first put there wasn't any water, but the 'tide' checked in later. O-oooh!

To your right...

There's a train coach kule juu, mnaiona?

Hii! Okay my 20-20 vision has issues so now can you imagine through the camera. Like camera like owner.

To the left, to the left...there wasn't much view to die for...(okay I lie, kuna vile hiyo negative ilitoa, well, a negative picture. So instead i give you this not-very-to-the-left picture...

Now that I had gotten acquainted with the beach, time to know the rest...

I like calling this the monkey boat.

This guy is the resident paparazzi. When we sauntered in he sniffed choomz and made small quick steps towards us but when he spotted the camera I unleashed (National Geographic quality) he kunjad sura and hopped away. He couldn't measure up. LOL!

Can you see that bird? There's a bird. Honest.

Aaargh! Sawa! Then check out these paparazzi moments with THEE birds.

They walked in one by one...

They walked in, two by two. Others were already 'two'...

I'll save you guys the commentary now.

Okay, Ugandan ladies pride themselves with proper dressing and the like, but after seeing this 'mama' I beg to differ.

And for the motherly there was this little indianese toi flying all over the place...

And then I was busted.

It wasn't me.

Then I was about to attack the many 'fish in the sea' when I spotted this...

DARN!

The only fish I could now attack with gusto (big word alert! big word alert!) was finger-licking good.

YEI!

And that was that from Ebb. Oh, the guy happy with all this is THEE Ug homie.

Next episode, the TZdian revealed and a career in the making.

Commercials (we have to pay our bills)

(visit Milo for more ads)

Sights (bila sounds) of Uganda...the beginning

2007-02-20T00:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, people, after sleepless nights, not scanning, but raving i have finally managed to get the pictures. This post's pictures are for the journey to Uganda. Since the journey was at night and i was camera happy, most shots were night shots (which of course you won't see because it was too dark to see anyway. I managed only a handful of them.

I thought it would be appropriate to start off with a picture of the explorer...

That's me on a typical working day. On this day i had no clean shirt. The only clean one was this one and it was attached to the trouser. Didn't have a choice... Huko nyuma you can spot a Smirnoff Black Ice, here we don't have ten o'clock tea. And i tried blocking off the numbers on that ka-paper on the comp tower. So sitaki kusikia ati kuna mtu anaitwa sijui bantutu ama wazimu mwingine milo ama madame kama jade, wanja the like, on the line for me.

The sun came up just before we got to the border. This was a tricky shot. The sun was behind us so i had to point the camera behind, cross my fingers and click away.

When i awoke from my slumber i saw this...I was shocked. I was wondering whatever happened to the kid who was on that seat. Mtoi ali-change nini?

Ah, beautiful Uganda. I had enough of these snaps lakini some crazy arse guy at the photo studio decided to tolesha only the ones he thought looked best. Idiot. He thought he was doing me a favour by not printing the rest. Did I say idiot before?

I thought this was interesting. Here is a business that would save a bundle on advertising. The name says it all.

This was one of the few many police check points we passed. What amused me is that cops here dn't stop you. The sign says "STOP" doesn't it? So stop. Sio kama huku Kenya guys pita mbio almost running over the cop. Oh, and ati if you refuse to stop, the dudes chase you. Na hutaenda mbali. Their motis have twin tanks, so...do the logic.

Boda boda tera dala kampala...The first of many encounters with these 'buggers'.

I landed safely and guess what the first stop was? Teremsha tembo kitambi kitokee...Malt these sides is known as Tusker, period. And yep they do have Pili. What amazed me was all pints were served chilled. Sio kama huku unaletewa moto (??) kwanza. This was my first pint in Ug at a place called "Car Wash". (The vodo i crossed over with doesn't count)

This here is the 'morgue' for flies. I don't know how it operates but flies always found themselves there...DEAD! Na hakuna cremation. This 'thing' is to be found at the Car Wash. Mnaonaje hiyo power of zoom? Eh?

The houses on the hill. This shot i took from the balcony at the crib where i would hibernate (and later cook myself a mess). This is Naguru, one of the seven hills.

Aaaaah the power of the zoom. I had to remove the other picture coz there was someone in the bafu.

I was just getting used to the camera here. As you will see later, they improved.

How to avoid seeing red this Vale's

2007-02-13T23:52:00.000-08:00

Of all the three hundred and sixty something days, no other day causes grief like 14th of Feb. Even Christmas ain't this nasty. Even anniversaries are polite.

So we at 'the couch' devised great plans to avoid the Valentine's blues.

Plan One.

One week to Valentine's I always start a dome with mama, that way on 14th bado 'tunafuriana' kama ndao. then come 16th like this, we make up. It's cheaper kwanza, coz now on 16th not only have chocolates and roses teremkad bei but they are now on BOGOF (Buy One Get One Free).

It works for me. So well that every year I have a new mama.

Plan two.

The Magegania Bridge Racer Drink this on 13th jioni and wake up on 15th with a hangie but without a "headache".

Plan three (for the guys on the hunt)

If you are looking for a chick, always wait for after 14th Feb.

Before i could continue giving more ideas I was busted by the mathare attendants and i'm now in a red padded cell in a strait jacket with chocolates sitting invitingly on the table.

I wonder...

What will happen at dinner today considering arsenal are playing? I wonder. Will the arsenal fans have a 'ball' during dinner? Woi alafu washindwe. I pity their mamas. Kuleni dinner mapema.

The author operates a Make Up and Break Up Clinic during his off-the-couch hours. His advise is real and so are the resulting breakups.

Interesting read...

2007-02-13T03:21:00.000-08:00

Jana i was kept waiting at a reception by a guy who instead of looking at his watch looks at a calendar. Since when did the duration of 30 minutes become 2 hours?

While waiting i grabbed this book and started flipping through. It grabbed me for like 30 minutes. And i still couldn't get enough of it. Funny thing is I'd always seen it but never gave two hoots about it. One day I saw another guy reading it, oh how i laughed. Little did i know until I too started reading it. Much to the amusement of the receptionist. We never appreciate this book yet it contains some vital and insightful information. Information I only discovered jana. And it's free. You don't have to go to NuMetro to get it. Though they do have it of course.

Kudos to the publishers. Kenya Postel.

Home Alone – Uganda Series

2007-02-08T03:44:00.000-08:00

(mc clauclockcluklin – whatever – eat your heart out)

Home Alone 1 – Kamikaze Chef

On 28th December my pal, his chick, his pal and his chick traveled to Kabale (pronounced Kabare, the Ruganda people are the Kuyos here). They were going to do a couple thing huko by the deepest lake in Ug (I stand to be corrected….anyone? I thought so). Since I was flying solo, I couldn’t accompany them. Despite the constant whining of the gals and a few half-hearted full-bass requests from the dudes, I wasn’t about to prove that theory “three’s a crowd” right. In this case it would have been ‘2 couple’s company, 2 ½ couple’s an inconveniencing crowd”.

Now I understand why the boys were half-hearted. Can you imagine, the jamaas have ‘hanjams’ then the chileys start saying, “What about Modo. We can’t leave him out here in the cold.” In my fantasy world...conversation would continue…”let’s invite him for a threesome…us first, you guys later”. (I slowly drag myself out of the gutter…)

So I didn’t go with them. Now I had the whole house (and four uncooked drumsticks) to myself. Before I went back to the apartment, I chilled a while at the gate and saw this fly chick walking my way.

I straightened my shirt, made my hair, which proved almost impossible considering I’m giving Medusa compe. Then I pulled my best bounce. I should have listened to one guy who told me when I bounce I look like an oboho.

That will explain why my intro line and punch lines left me reeling from ‘the hand’. When did you Nnyabos of Ug learn the hand? My strike outs were piling worse than the victims of RVF.

I walked into the house dejected but at least I was able to paparazzle her photo.

Let me tell you why I was excited about going back to that digs. Jana, my boy had shangazad us, including his chick, with some nyummy delicious (understatement) chicken. After being told the secret (verbally) I was determined to make my own ngwoks (sio gwok…so you jangos stop kunjaing your faces like that).

So I dashed into the kitchen, marinated the ‘legs’ (as he told me to do…actually this I read on the packet of marinate). 15 minutes later I was warming the fat in the pan. Next, first drumstick takes a hot swim.

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

I step away from the cooker. Fat is flying everywhere. Second, drumstick is thrown from a distance. We don’t want to mess this supuu hands.

“You put the kadhalikas pole pole as the kuku fries”

Was part of the mke nyumbani speech I was given by my pal. So kadhalikas start checking in one by one like passengers during off-peak.

Houston. We have a problem!

Mazee, this chicken is nowhere near resembling what was served yesterday. And I haven’t put in all the ingredients. Shortly, the kadhalikas now are like passengers during rush hour. Na hakuna jam. Pepper, coriander, sim sim (??), black pepper, all are making guest appearances in the pan. But si you know a movie with all the oteros usually has drama…welcome to la mujer chicken backfire.

Chicken huko is turning black, huku viunzi are refusing to co-operate. And pale marinate water is waiting to join in the circus. Circus indeed, coz when I ‘serve’ the, er…meal, I’m Rolling On The Silly F Floor Laughing My Silly Messed Up Arse Off.

To compliment the ‘meal’ I burn the rice. So now I’m having deep fried brown rice and chicken with thick oily soup of floating tomatoes, onions, coriander, you name it.

How I survived to go out that night only the angel of the stomach knows (he must have been briefed by the angel of hangies).

Home Alone 2 – Kamikaze Chef, the revenge

Day two alone. Two drumsticks down. Two to go.

I wasn’t about to let a part of a dead bird stress me like this. Today’s menu, fried chicken dipped in bread-crumbs. NYUMMMY! MMM! Even at the sound of that saliva had no choice but to tafuta a way out of the mouth.

So I grabbed the packet with the golden breadcrumbs. Twende kazi. I even grabbed a worn out apron and swung it around my waist. I mean more business than yesterday.

1. Boil the chicken for fifteen minutes.

Boiling the chicken. Check clock on cell phone. Fifteen minutes.

2. Warm pan with oil.

It is so warming it hurts.

3. Take glass bowl, beat egg, pour breadcrumbs, dip and osha the chicken.

Now here is where I was to get problems. Early in the morning at around 11.59 I had kunywad full continental breakfast. Eggs, ham, sausages, loaf, juice…okay since we were out of juice, Bell Lager would do.

Bottomline, I had no eggs.

Chicken had boiled.

Pan was hot and ready.

What to do?

Ala, mtajuaje mi ni bachelor?

I grabbed the breadcrumbs and poured them on the chicken directly. No egg to nicely envelope the thigh. I was so desperate I almost used saliva (Easy, I didn’t. honest. Does sweat count?) Like I said no dead bird was gonna humiliate me. I told Modo in the mirror. Who am I?

“You are Fucked! He replied.

Indeed I was. So I threw in the two remaining legs of chicken into the pan with the same finesse as yesterday. Maybe I need to change that tactic. That’s what’s messing all my chickens. The Kenyan finesse doesn’t work here.

Needless to say, I was scoffing down the evidence of a horrible meal, a few minutes later. And again angel of the tummy was working overtime (mnajua watu waliniambia nimenona baada ya kutoka Uganda? Ni hii kuku wasee)

Mke nyumbani would have been oh so embarrassed of me.

That evening my pals from Kenya landed and it was time to quit chefdom and change ‘careers’ to tour guide.

Home Alone 3 – Guest Tour Guide

Have you ever seen a guy who’s stayed at a place too long he became a mwenyeji?

Theory was simple. I had stayed longer than anyone checking into Kampala now so I became more of a mwenyeji than them. I had started getting to know the area kiasi well. So well that when my pal and his chick rocked in from Kenya, I became their tour guide.

“To your left we have…er, excuse me, ssebo, where is that? Wandegeya? Okay, thanks. To the left we have Wandegeya.”

That was me. Tour guide supreme.

Never once did I lose them. We did everything I had not done with my boy (the one who went to Kabale). I boarded a boda boda. JESUS! Those mongos ride those things like crazy. A guy is fighting for space with a taxi (matatu for Kenyan folk, dala dala for the T-zedians). I have ridden a bike and been a pillion on bikes in Kenya, but none had me tasting my heart like these dudes. The boda boda, first, was springy. Bouncing castle is polite. DUDE! I was bouncing left, right and centre on the bumpy roads. But I maintained my cool. You should have seen my knees knocking when I alighted.

I also had my first…(drumroll)…ROLLEX! (with that glitterati that danced in the air when Barcelona won the champions league) Kumbe hii ndio rollex? Chapo tu with egg rolled with kadhalikas. The highlight is that it is made roadside in five seconds..okay, minutes. Next to the rollex stall is the ‘kenchic’. Here the chicken is mutilated to the tiniest of pieces. Ni kama unakula njugu. The rollex was hot when I bought it, which was by the way at 5.30 in the morning, but when I got home the boda boda ride had cooled it off beyond a fridge’s ability. Oh, how I enjoyed this rollex. NYUMMY!

Next, adventure was on the taxis (mathrees banaaaa, mnataka nirudie mara ngapi?). Now, Kampala is interesting. The mathrees are bila numbers. And the touts shout the name of the destination, but two things, they’re not easily intelligible and two, they are calling out places of names you’ll only hear in Kampala. But the routes are simple. All mathrees are on one circular…ama squadi. The mats to the important places go round like number tisa. So just hop into one and sooner or later you’ll find yourself in Ntinda, Kira road, Kololo, Wandegeya, tao. And the fare is reasonable. 5 sok. (do the math, you unmathematised people) To places like Garden City, the Village market of there, you would have to take a boda boda. Good luck!

Oh, did I mention I was actually going into town for the first time, after like 6 days? The only place I knew in tao was the Steers. Lakini Kampala town is tiny, ukipotea unafaa upigwe makofi ka fortey. This is the only place where I didn’t earn my money as tour guide. But I got away with it.

Mnaona kuleeeee?

Eh?

Hapo ndio mwisho wa Kampala town to your left.

Okay.

Na mnaona kuleeeee?

Eh?

Sasa huko ndio mwisho wa Kampala town to your right.

Kweli.

Haiya. Mnaona nyuma yangu?

Eh?

Owino market. (like I had even graced it with sight from even one eye)

Ehe, kwa mitumba?

Correct. Na unaona kule mbele yangu? Hiyo barabara inaenda ile Serena mpya.

I only knew Serena was that side coz of booking an Akamba bus. But they were thrilled. I then showed them to Steak Out (with the help of our cab driver who didn’t know where that was anyway) and I was so used to traveling at night for a moment I closed my eyes and saw (?) the way.

We did Steak Out, Rock Garden (again), Silk…and at all these places we were on my favourite…ice dipped in vodka and coke. BLISS! (I behaved myself for the sake of my buddy’s chick). We also did the beach. But not the one in EBB proper. This beach, I should call it water-front or shore, is where the broke arse dudes come to (no disrespect intended). It’s a place for those who don’t want to fork out the 3k at Royal (that’s the beach proper), or for those who put 50 bob ngata in their cars.

Much respect! Will the Ugandan ladies please kneel down!

It was here at Ssese G Beach that I saw the much-famed Ugandan respect. There was this guy and his family whiling away at the beach. This guy was a typical man. Gazetti mkononi na hakuna kumsumbua. Bibi is over there watching the brats, and trying to strike conversation lakini the fathe is busy digesting his Daily Monitor. Shortly he gets up abruptly. Wife rushes after him but she returns. Kumbe hazi isn’t abandoning them, he’s off to the little boys room. Minutes later, his pals rock in with their families. Now, do you know how bibi says ‘wassap’ to his pals? She pigas magoti and won’t look at their faces. SHOCK!

I look at my pal’s chick and go like “niaje?”

“In your dreams.” That’s the difference between Kenyan women and Ugandan women.

It reminds me of when my pal, where I was staying, left for his mboch a Christmas bonus. You know how you leave for the mboch money on the table so she can pick it? Well, this one didn’t. She knew what her salo was, and this wasn’t hers coz it was too much. She actually left it on the table for like two days. It was when my pal told her it was hers that she dropped on her knees and said her many thanks to end a year.

That’s the difference between Kenyan mboches and Ugandan mboches. If you don’t wachia a Kenyan one tip, she’ll pass with your CDs.

“Kana dhani yeye ni nani?” she would say to herself.

End of a career!

Before I could blink it was time for my pal and his chick to return to Kenya. But not before one last adventure on New Year’s eve…

Dotting...

2007-02-07T22:48:00.000-08:00

Question, how do you know you dreamt you were hit by a car?

Answer, when you wake up to discover your left sock is missing!

Life’s a beach!

2007-02-07T04:55:00.000-08:00

Uganda is a landlocked country but that does not mean they ain’t gon’ have no beaches (by landlocked I mean, they can’t hepa their country without at least one neighbour knowing)

Today (one of the many days) we woke up at 11. Okay, I woke up at 11. My boy as usual woke at around 1-ish. And as usual with his hangie and mine (nilimsambazia). He found me chilling on the sofa with a terribly cold sprite. Nothing goes down more sweetly in the morning than a cold sprite after a rave-nous night. Yaani, my pal has a hangie, mpaka I can hear his head throbbing. He sits down. Grabs a smoke. Lights up. Complains of his hangie. And goes to kamata a pint he had left in the fridge.

“Boss, si umependa pombe. Grab aka sprite and see how it feels.”

He grabs a sprite and for the first time I hear the thumping going down. The boy smiles.

“Na wewe, mbona huna hangie?” he asks.

Last night we were out parrey harrying all night long…wiggling it, just more than a little bit (song in head, wiggle it)

That’s why my boy is wondering why I don’t have a hangie. I’m wondering the same.

So anyway, today after, we dedicated it to going to EBB (Entebbe) beach.

The history behind the beach is simple (sijui how true). There was this Indianese character who imported sand from sijui Mombasa and dumped it at a corner of lake Victoria and opened it to the public. So Ugandans pay a few thaos to have sand get stuck between their toes.

Now this character had a brilliant idea lakini while shipping the sand he should have chunguliad and taken note of the colors of the hotels around the coast. Coast hotels and the works are usually white or sometimes a daring orange. Lakini this msee, had chapad it a nice thick layer of blue Crown paint. Bana, now this colour wasn’t geling for one second.

That was the only sore sight (to me).

We checked in here, my pal, his chick and yours truly…kama kawaida, solo like the number one. But it was a good thing I came solo. The mamas in that area were YIKES! plenty. Wengi kama mchanga iliyo letwa kutoka Mombasa. My neck had started aching coz, left, right, centre, forward and back was full of ladies. Ladies. Ladies. And humans don’t have the necessary mechanism to allow swiveling of the neck. In any case, my thinogio (kuyo accent) fluid had kwishad.

This beach is nice. Okay, it’s noy uour usual coasto beach but close enough. And the idea behind it is interesting. Tables and chairs are spread everywhere. When I walked in I saw tables and chairs in the water and I went like…

KOOL!

My pal looked at me and said.

“Nothing cool there dude”

Those chairs I saw in the water weren’t originally intended to be in the water. The water level was low when they were made. Now the water’s back.

O-O-OOOOOOOOH! Okay!

Nothing much happened at the beach. Just downing a few (many) pints and watching the rear views of the many nnyabos who sauntered by. I actually dedicated a full roll of film to these documentable (sic) moments (but along the way mother-nature unleashed other beauties so not the full roll is dames) One interesting ‘little’ highlight was when the resident beach photographer (huyu chali ni mdogo kama pygmy wa mtaa ya west Uganda kule karibu na Rwanda) like a hawk swooped down on us hoping for a Kodak moment. Shock upon his little arse when he spotted my camera of strength (direct translation – bantuts saidia wadhii) on the table and quickly walked on disappointed.

After a few many hours on the beach we headed back to champara for a house party…JEEZ!

Dudes, the guy had all the pint you couldn’t think of. Beers. All the spirits Uganda could offer minus the holy one. So we teremshad till late in the night or early in the morning depending on your point of view. Before leaving I had a full glass of sijui which nasty drink. The host put an ultimatum to me…

“Banaa, you can’t leave a full glass of such fine drink. Take one sip/gulp/whatever till halfway then you can leave.”

Mimi nani? Halfway gani, I chapad that glass till 1/8th bakiad.

WEH!

My glass now was more than half empty and my head…likewise. From then on, auto-pilot was switched on. I was as skunk as a drunk.

Didn’t know when I reached home. All I know is I woke earlier as usual, grabbed my sprite, fiddled with my camera and watched my pal wake up again with my hangee.

I love Ug!

(the pix are in. so now comes the laborious task of scanning them. I can never trade my camera for a digicam…no way)

Sad state of affairs

2007-01-30T03:08:00.000-08:00

i've broken from my tradition, and my oath, to never talk of social ills, political circuses, et al, on my blog. it's just that i saw this on the net and, i don't know, it touched something. i have seen it before but this time it was different.

bear with me.

The river and the source...

2007-01-25T08:05:00.000-08:00

(we're back on air)

The trip to Indinda was a whole UTAKE-G affair. Following my impressive strike record, my Ugandan boy brought me a present. (oh, how I hoped it is the Ghanaian)

Right. Okay.

Observations (plus going with what the guy said) tell us this is a chick. She had, what’s that, mosquito bites? No, I believe they are, noooo, pimples! That’s a bra msee, so those must be, boobs. Yes, boobs. (don’t read it out loud coz speaking it means, if we put it relatively, her boobs were big. Just whisper). Her figure, hmm, I’ll give her a one. Okay, eleven, and that’s because she had two legs…sticks. She has these blood shot eyes that can chill blood in a lab vial let alone the veins. Let’s not talk about arse. When she sits down I bet she feels like she’s sitting in Pastor Wanjiru’s first church with those benches we fondly called ‘fomu’. Let’s not talk about the ‘book cover’. Just know it’s those ‘titles’ that don’t entice you to read the book.

Yaani, if anyone had missed the bull’s eye (and the dart board entirely) when trying to imagine my dream gal it was this guy. He hooked me up with a human. And ati she was from TZ. Now the ladies I encountered while in TZ were, eish, way better than what was standing in front of me now. And the stance she is giving us isn’t very feminine. I’m not surprised when she says she’s a black belt. But I take a step further back. (Yuko kwa picha moja ngoja mtamuona mniambie). Then she starts giving us lectures about drinking and smoking. Her smoking lecture is in detail, that the smoker around us lights up and purposely puffs in her direction. End of lecture. I ask her if she drinks and she says, “yes. Just like everyone” Aargh. Tanzanians! You must be specific. “Do you F**king drink beer?” “No.” “Thank you.”

So that is my situation when we go to the source of the Nile.

Oh, the Ghanaian in our company is none other than the official girlfriend to my Ugandan pal. Will it surprise you if I tell you that this guy who has game-plan A-H also has girlfriend one to I think three? And they all look similar. One day I almost confused number one for number two. You should have seen the look that was burning my face on the right side.

That’s our ‘posse’, two Kenyans, a Ugandan, a (it pains me to say this) Tanzanian and a Ghanaian, on our way to Jinja in two cars. The Ug, the Tz and the G in one car, us local boys in the other.

Uganda is a very beautiful place and needless to say I manage to exhaust two 36-exposure films on just the ride to Jinja. Between the two towns is this amazing forest that is just a pleasure to drive through. And more so for the driver. There are two spots where any dare-devil driver can finally get rid of the cob-webs found on the other end of the speed-o-metre. The end where 160-200 is found.

My pal does just that. He cleans out the webs. If it isn’t for that ‘stopper’, the speedo I assure you is about to do a 360. Meanwhile, I can taste my heart, I’m about to break the lens on my camera because of the tight grip, my arse has managed to grow hands and grip the seat, yaani, even in case of an accident I was never in danger of flying out any window (I had belted up).

One minute after the ‘ride’ I finally find my voice. My boy is quite excitedly talking about it and we check behind and discover either our Ug boy is bila balls ama the gals have grabbed them. He’s doing only 100.

After being mesmerized next by the Owen Falls dam we are then traumatized by the potholed road that leads to Jinja.

Because of a confusing session of hand-gesturing between the two drivers we start off the Jinja tour with a trip to the source of the Nile.

“You’re Ugandan. You hear.”

Okay, I know I’ve gotten into the groove of the Ugandans but I am surprised by this statement made by my boy. I’m about to ask what he means when I notice it.

It’s the board welcoming us to the Source of the Nile and informing us that Ugandans pay a measly fee while international tourists pay a humongous fee. And in Ugandan shillings it looks scary.

This is where I did my ‘first’ felony. I ripped off the Ugandans of their cash for growth. But somehow I doubt my cash would be enough to fill in a pothole, let alone line someone’s pocket. Mine is loose change. Nunua njugu nayo.

The source is deadly (‘nice’. ‘Beautiful’ for nature freaks).

We settle on the banks and enjoy more pints. Malt as usual. If I had tried waragi, the source would have been my end. Baadaye, rather between the pints, we had the local delicacy. Fulu na njiva. Fish and chips (sounds British). But chips aren’t ati chips. Some potato cubes treated like chips, which was served by some lady who was slower than .....(this is an interactive blog where you get a chance to fill in this space with whatever you consider slow).

The Uganda service industry sucks more than their DJs and their dancing combined. Have you ever seen a waiter who is taking your order and gives you that look like “why the fuck did you guys come here? Especially here? Over there is a better joint but you decided, noooooo, to come here…matusi in luganda.” Then she smiles, “how can I help you?” Our order makes her grimace like we just staked her heart.

After a laboured 30 minutes, our food arrives and we scoff it down mercilessly. The fish is huge and fresh. Poor fish. “You were warned not to leave home by your wife, especially during the festive season, but you had to go hanya, didn’t you? Now look at you. Mama watoto will mourn your loss. Wait, that looks like her on the plate at the next table.”

Next up, a boat-ride to the source.

If you’re expecting an arrow pointing into water with a sign that says “Start” to suggest this is where the Nile starts, you’re wholly mistaken. The source is just a spot where some long-dead Livingstone-type character looked at, mused at and while pulling on his Tipis moustache sagely suggested to the Luganda folk around…

“In the name of Queen sijui who, (who is busy being kulwad by King somebody in England) I proclaim this to be the source of the Nile.”

Mad clapping from the followers. But in the distance a Luganda fellow who has seen the lake ever since he was born knows that ‘bleached’ fellow is pulling everyone’s leg. He chekas and ends up being chased out of the village. Ati he’s the village madman. (Iwaya, your ancestor?)

Our guide then shows us where the locals believe to be the true source. Somewhere in the water is an underwater ‘spring’ where water seems to be flowing from. I put my Tusker down and squint. And squint. I’m not exactly sober, so…I just agree.

The boat takes us around the lake and we see some terrific sights. Birds (our guide gives us a long educational speech of which I gitch nada), local ferries to cross the lake, a land rover boat (picha iko), the Robben Island of here (jela) and a spot where some local Wanjiru comes to cast away demons. Honest, there’s a cross in the middle of the lake, rather in the river.

After that ride on the lake with ‘death’ jackets plus a missed opportunity to have my picture taken with Gandhi’s head, and a quick stopover at Jinja town to restock on film we go for…

BUNGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Yaright! Didn’t jump though. Two reasons. There was no one operating the elastic thingy plus I was low on funds. I’m going back. I definitely have to air my balls and frighten my heart a little and thrill my brain a ka-young one. I have to check if my adrenaline still rushes too. Labda ililala kitambo. Kuna vile.

It’s while here at a place I can’t remember the name (nakuambia I have issues with names. This a place for white-water rafting) that I try the Niro. Nile beer.

YEECH!

I reiterate my statement; Uganda pint is crap (except waragi). I labour through my Nile and head off with the ladies to the bottom of the cliff to where bungeed guys end up. If that TZ mama was fly, I would have got freaky. (LOL. I tickle myself. Me? Freaky. Mimi ni mtoto mzuri. Na pia huyo mdame ziii). The guys warn us the stairs are steep and we may suffer. Nani kama Modo? Piece of cake. I eat stairs for breakfast. (Sijawai choka hivyo. You should check out the squoks I got).

The sight here is tremendous. The rapids (they are called that aren’t they?) et al. Woe unto us. Before we can sit and enjoy the view it’s time to head back to Champara.

Aw man! This has been a fabulous day. And of course, later we go out to some rave and dance and drink the night away. The sun god busts me with a pint in hand. As usual, the guy who dishes out hangies, gives my pal two doses. He wakes up at three the next day. Me? I woke at around 11 and I’m now watching Superman playing baseball with planes…

Commercial break! From the archives. A drink to die for

2007-01-25T01:48:00.000-08:00

It’s late in the afternoon, our hero here has been running his skinny legs off in the hood with other little brats in the hot sun. He rocks in home thirsty. He knows he can only quench his thirst with the waters from kanjo. (This was way before maji of nai became mud of nai. Hakukuwa na keringet hizo enzi. Kwanza mwenyewe sidhani alikuwa amezaliwa)

So anyway, chemical formula H20 is the only thing available. Juice (Treetop or otherwise) never existed in our house. We only saw that coloured commodity when we went a-visiting or when visitors came home (I never needed to be told twice this statement “modo, run and buy juice”).

I walk in and check the fridge. Don’t know why. I already know all I’ll find is nothing more than bags upon bags of boiled githeri waiting to be unleashed for the next 15 suppers and lunches. I also know I’ll find the occasional nyake and fathe’s soup in a twisted old juice plastic bottle (compe ya Treetop). Twisted, because my fathe had this habit of putting hot soup in jerricans and replacing the cap before it can cool. Of course, laws of physics would apply much to the chagrin of my mum. (Hizi juice bottle lakini zilikuwa zinatoka wapi? SHUVAAA NA NDEVEEE! [remember this homie?] Hmm!)

As I lazily browse through the contents of the fridge I notice another juice bottle. This one isn’t twisted (like Wambui’s, a chick of mtaani mzushi, knickers) and like the one next to it with fathe’s liquid gold. In fact the contents don’t even look anything like soup.

Could it be? Oh boy, it is.

JUICE!

My heart beats at 144 beats per half second in excitement. I close the fridge door quickly and open again sloooooowly, thinking perhaps I saw my own things. I breath hard. I open the door. Heavenly music plays. A glow of light (it’s only the fridge-light, lakini…) YES, it’s still there.

I listen for any movement. Nothing stirs. I know mathe is upstairs asleep so I must be quick. If I’m busted, I’ll be caned close to high heaven with a stick I’ll be forced to go get myself.

I quickly dump the NCC waters in my glass.

James Bond music checks in.

I open the door stealthily. Sean Connery eat that. I grab the juice bottle, carefully, like in those movies with jewel thieves. I open the cap. Pssst! I cough to mask the noise. Palms are sweating. I listen for noises. Nothing. I then proceed to put a generous share of juice in my glass. I replace cap. (Cut me some slack. I was still a toi and anyway I was behaving like James Bond’s villains who never think far, I didn’t think the level would be noticed. Who cared? So long as nimekunywa juo. I’ll be beaten while happy)

I return the bottle pale pale. I even wipe away the fingerprints (CSI Nairobi, eat shit).

I then bound outside and for five seconds admire the drink in my hand. Any second longer and you never know who will pop in.

I smack my lips.

I then proceed to take the hugest sip (if I’m busted at least I’ll have onjad like half)

Here I am readying my taste buds for the sweet sensation that is about to follo__

WHAT THE FUCK! (ok, I didn’t say “fuck” coz those days it was punishable by death with the cane/belt)

PTUUUUUUUUUU!

I spat out that s**t faster than I had gulped it. What crap is this?

I then remember my mathe’s words. (I’ll translate coz not everyone will understand the tongue spoken…mother tongue…hehe)

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

It repeats itself in my head.

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

My mathe had the night before boiled some mwarubaini (neem) leaves given to her (by some herbalist) because of her sickness and her well-being. Goodness gracious.

YEEECH!

My head spins but I can’t faint (it’s a health-drink)

I wash my mouth with water. Nothing. Soap. A bit of hope. OMO. Now that removed all the madoadoa.

THAT, was the worst drink I had ever tasted in MY LIFE! YEECH!

Wachana na kina sijui drink gani mnaita health drink, that one could kill anything creepy, crawly and unwanted in your body. One sip, kwisha.

I was through with taking coloured drinks not served at neighbours’ houses or in the presence of visitors.

BOOGIE WONDERLAND!

2007-01-19T05:17:00.000-08:00

Note: all these clubs were visited on different nights. And Iwaya said Ugandan boys don’t know what to do with their female colleagues. I beg to differ. What I saw…

SMOOTH AS SILK…

The first night out was dedicated to Silk. Right after paintball, (and after catching one-two at a kafunda) we headed for Silk. I must admit, I wasn’t ready for what I encountered.

First metal detectors, it’s like I was walking into a bank. Empty all the coins in your pocket, which were many (I felt like a slot machine). Then metal detector goes off, kumbe I forgot to dump my cell and keys. They do not have flimsy and ‘personal’ searches as the ones done in Kenya. This night we were like celebrity. I had thought only Kenyans like free booze, nope. This night happened to be the office party for WBS and Scanad people were there. We (the guys I was with) knew them so we got in saree and each got like eight beer vouchers. LET THE PARTY CONTINUE! Nilikunywa kama mjinga. And I danced like one too.

Before I over-indulged (I have a beer pot now), I noticed something I haven’t seen in a club in Nai yet. WALL TO WALL CARPETING! Kudos guys, your clubs are off the hook.

But…

Two things I must say, na wa-uganda msiniue. Just prove me wrong. Your DJs suck. To high heaven. Not once in that club did I dance to two consecutive songs, but I did sit down for two and more.

And the other thing, Ugandans are stiff like that stiff drink Ichiena proposed (sijui kuweka link). Never once did I see anyone who could dance (I should have looked in the mirror). The guys, were busy trying to forcibly dance with chicks (just like huku home) and the chicks were, well, rolling around like timber from a truck that had lost control.

Okay, it wasn’t thaaaaaat bad, I wasn’t that great either, but they were nowhere near great. Where are the dancers bana? (some did come out of the woodwork on new year’s day)

Meanwhile, the Ugandan we were with was busy darting chicks. All chicks. Yaani any chick who passed by was grabbed and was darted. Well, he had a high strike out record. But once or twice he did hit home-runs. (On another night, he tried chatting up Kenyan chicks who came a-visiting, lakini we all know how ngumu Kenyan chicks are. Okay, he had lousy vibe, one of the chicks whom I knew confided in me.)

I’m amused, the smoking section at Silk is called Oxygen.

We stayed there a while and headed for…

ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH!

Rock Garden! Now how do I describe this place? Hmm. Let’s see. F2, F1, Pango, eh. The guys introduced it to me as the F2 of Ug. All along I had thought Silk looked like F2. But this now had the people of F2. What’s the politically-correct name? Enter-tainment pro-fessionals? Commercial sex workers? Dispensers of favours you wouldn’t ask of your wife? Argh, THIS, was hoochie land. And they came in all shapes and sizes from different locations. Mostly Rwanda and Burundi.

(This is where I bumped into one of God’s rejects wearing man’s greatest inventions. The wonder bra. She wasn’t ati the greatest creation. Hell no. She must have been those ones that are thrown out and dumped at the back of a factory. Lakini, she was wearing this wonder-bra that gave her…well y’all know what. Lakini kumbe huko chini (don’t ask how I knew) bana, flat chested is better coz at least you are dealing with something that never was. But here, hers were like used airbags. Even a breast-feeding kid would ask for a refund. Hamna pumz.)

Evidently, I didn’t stay long. And then, incidentally while on our way out I bumped into a better creation. But the earlier one had traumatized me so much that all I could say was “hi and bye”.

Rock Garden also packed in a crowd. There was no room to dance well or otherwise on that floor, not that the Ugandans cared. Hehe. Okay, I’ll stop dissing your dancing.

STAKING OUT…

Another nice joint in Kampala is Steak Out. Interesting. It’s got this buffet park kind of feel. TO ME! I’ve been known to make lousy judgments. Look at my digs. Look at my choice of conveyance. Look, I’m single because…

Anyway, now here I find much more decent music. But there’s bila dance floor as such. Guys dance where they feel. Speaking of dancing, there is a show of improvement (all isn’t lost). My boy, the Ugandan, is on a roll. He’s chatting up chicks left, right and centre. At one point he actually pulls a chick towards him and starts unleashing hot vibe. Only problem is, he already has another mama he’s chatting up but he had forgotten. Chick number one flees, leaving behind words I dare not print (Fucking bastard guy).

Right next to us is this chick that’s fly and looks like she can groove. She’s cast the line (her shapely body) with the bait (eish, the assets) and the waters are right (music is timam), shortly fish is hooked (yours truly). I reel myself in. I start the chat up. She’s ingianaring. I’m thrilled. I give my boys a thumbs up, then, THEN, the line snaps. She’s from Kenya. Banaaaa! I didn’t cross Malaba border and get stared down by a cop and I didn’t risk my arse at paintball just to come all this way to talk to someone I can easily find in Nai. A Kenyan. The only time it isn’t thrilling to meet up with a local person in a foreign land is when you want to taste the foreign produce.

I was upset. Yaani, I risked and unleashed the smoothest lyrics I had saved up for Ugandans just to hook a Kenyan? I was tired. I was bored, but I continued entertaining myself with her while I cast my fishing line elsewhere. Of course, a fishing line can only get one fish at a time, so……

She was a wild and crazy one though. She’s from coast (Mombasa) and studying in Ug. Apparently, she had weed (which I so wanted). She promised she’d call the next day and we’d smoke like chimneys on a cold winter’s night. This chick, like most Kenyan chicks, was just downing her pint like water. I knew why. She confessed that she’s done ‘unga’ (coke, for the dandas) and other shait! before. I trembled in my open shoes. I only wanted a puff (many puffs) of weed.

Night turned out interesting though, her friend was into my friend and he was so sure amepata ka-take-away. Shock on his bums. The chicks hepad into the night. But my boy wasn’t bothered. He had plan B.

Who also hepad. Time for plan C.

Hepad. Unleash plan D, E, F. Hepad. Hepad. Hepad.

I, who only had a plan A (I never carry the whole drawing board) was just amused and jazzed. He was so pissed that he wanted to now buy pint like crazy. But the time was against us. It was 5. So as we were leaving he spots plan G. And yap, she hepad too. By this time I was laughing my silly drunken head off. I was laughing coz of two things. He’s never encountered a dry night before. And two, I had never seen a guy with so many plans before.

A MYSTICAL NIGHT.

The club that had me in awe was Ange Noir/Ange Mystique. Dudes, and dudelettes, three or more floors of again, wall-to-wall carpeted boogie-floors. Of course I never got to see Mystique coz I was inappropriately dressed in a tee-shirt. Bloody bouncer. I have just paid sijui 10-12k to ingia and anyway, this is my hottest tee-shirt (if you ignore the Dettol logo). The nerve.

Twendeni.

So we while away at Ange Noir. The place is kicking. It has dance floors all over. I like the concept. They have dance spots all over that look like boxing rings. Okay, that’s me and my drunken judgment again. Man, these guys know how to invest. Lakini, why don’t they invest in DJs. Like I said Ugandans don’t mind. By this time I was feeling more Ugandan than a Ugandan, Ssebo! So as they say, while in Rome…yap, so I was in the groove before you could say Tusker baridi. (huku hamna Tusker ya kawaida. Ni Malt and it’s called just plain Tusker. Sema “Malt” na watakuangalia ni kama wewe ni pastor kwa bar. And it’s always served cold. Sio kama huku ni lazima useme baridi ama moto ama warm.)

I had a blast here. I also almost scored. Lakini I was having a spell of bad luck I tell you. I think my ‘chick’ in Nai had paid Bakari the witchdoctor a courtesy call. She must have unleashed some charm on me. Kila dame naongelesha ni ukuta. Sawa tu. So my fun was restricted to just dancing with fly chicks. And the dick, sorry, buck stopped there.

AND THE VERDICT IS IN!

Ugandans know how to party. Again I’ll say, Ugandans like drinking, but Kenyans are drunkards. You know, never once did I encounter a staggering guy. Not once. Was I that drunk myself? Walevi hawaonani.

As for the clubs, they get top marks. Ange Noir, Silk top the billing. The others are just drink up joints. The Fat Boys, the Steak Outs, The Al’s bars and another which I can’t seem to remember the name (must have drank the most there). It’s no surprise that I went out every single night of my stay there. Every single night. Only two nights I didn’t go out. One, when my pal was dehydrated and the second night was on 2nd, coz I was traveling back.

Interesting also, never once did I rock home stinking of cigarettes (just cheap perfume, kama Kenya tu). Ugandans either don’t smoke much or the no smoking in public places has hit home. I’m trying to imagine, five minutes, FIVE, in ka-choi and I’ll be stinking of every cigarette from Rooster to B&H.

Plus, hawana Kenchic. I’m used to going home with a kuku quarter or a ka-choi burger. In Ug, it’s rollex and chicken fry over at Wandegeya.

All in all I enjoyed clubbing in Ug and I’ll be back to chafua. And no I didn’t hook up with a Ugandan chick. I already have enough problems domestically I don’t want international problems. (not with Tuju as the foreign affairs guy)

P.S. Roho safi, pictures will be seen them in Feb. Saa hii nimesota. Si mnaelewa Jan wasee?

Day 1. Gun-totting!

2007-01-11T04:37:00.000-08:00

My pockets are empty and I need some cash, so I walk many kilometers looking for a Barclays ATM. We finally locate one at Garden City. I’m rummaging through my wallet looking for my card when I look up and see a gangster with a shiny shotgun at the ATM. I freeze. But he beckons me to approach and remove money. Next to him is this guy who looks upset. He looks like he’s fallen victim to this thug and seems to be pleading for something. The guy notices me and gives me the try-your-luck look. I’m sweating. My hands are trembling. Needless to say I key in the wrong PIN and my card is vomited out. The thug eyes me. The other guy says, “you see”.

“Ssebo, maybe you need to relax.”

Oh great, now he also knows I’m nervous. It’s at this time that I look at him and notice his clothes. I burst out laughing. Nervously, of course. He’s not a thug. It’s a watchie with some faded uniform, but HE HAS A SHOTGUN!

Dudes, I have never seen so many guns in my freaking life. Jeez. Even in the cop station I never saw that many guns. Every watchie on ever corner, at every shop, at every petrol station and even duka, has a gun.

WA! I’m Kenyan and just those cops who accompany Wells Fargo with G3s freak me out. Now imagine my trauma. And these guys don’t have cheap-arse bulky G3s. A-AAH!

I recover and with a half-trembling hand and with half my jicho on this ‘watchie’ I successfully manage to secure a large amount of money…(pause, you’re in UG dude) Okay so it’s just a large number but the value is a twenty-fifth of that. Hesabu was ngumu and fractions split my head. So it’s like five minutes before I understand that I’m holding an equivalent of, one-two-three-FOUR ngwanye in Kenya money. Meaning I can stop my multi-millionaire swagger.

I get into the mots mortified and my pal quickly tells me that today, we are heading for paintball. Paint-who?

(pause again I’m shaggz material kiasi, therefore, fathoming what paintball is is hard. In fact, impossible, coz I have no idea whatthe crap he’s taking to)

All I get is that it involves ‘shooting’. More guns. Aw, man. These Ugandans have a fetish for guns. And the Ugandans we are with assure me that they do this for team-building. Ha!

But I’m easy and I’m down for whatever.

Now paintball is one of the best games you can ever play. In the beginning I was dharaoing the game. Some guy is telling us how he still has bruises from his last outing here. And I’m thinking. Wimp! Surely some small balls that look like, but don’t taste like, ball gums can’t be that painful.

However, I start getting worried when the guys running the show make us sign disclaimers releasing the-place-I-can’t-remember-its-name from any responsibility if we get injured or die.

DIE? Now hold on one dang minute. We’re going to die? Rather we could die? Bana, what game is this? The dudes laugh and assure me no such thing will ever happen. But injured we will be. Especially, if at any one time you remove your mask. Or if the opponent get you from a distance of less than five feet. I’m staying well away from y’all.

Before we start the game we are kitted like the SWAT team. Overalls, that are really short my ankles are sticking out like a stray dog’s willies. Gas masks, okay, masks lakini they look like gas masks, and as sure as hell am having trouble breathing…PANT. PANT. We also get these cool gloves and caps that are definitely not from the latest line of Milan. Maybe the garbage summer collection. Finally, we are hooked up with ‘bullet proof’ vests. Who’s the bad guy now?

“So where are the sissy guns?’

I’m eager to get blasting. This sounds easy anyway. We walk into a netted area filled with obstacles from tires, to crates to…what the crap is that? The guys tells us the rules, yada yada blah blah…MY GUN?

He unleashes the guns. Damn! COOL! He loads them with the paint pellets that burst on impact…bullets, man, bullets. Pellets are for chicks. He grabs one gun and tests it.

BANG!

This is followed by deathly silence. The silence found uniquely at the war cemetery…just minus the mathrees.

We all along had thought these guns are cheap stuff, kumbe…MAN, THESE ARE REAL GUNS! Shortly I start panicking. Maybe, enyewe, kuna vile tunaweza dedi. We split into two teams of four and the basic idea is to capture, without getting shot, the opponents flag. Right now, that word ‘shot’ is scaring me shitless. Can’t he use a safe word like ‘pelleted’? Anything above the waist, you’re dead and out of the game.

When we get onto the course proper and the ‘ref’ blows the whistle to start us off, I’m so tense and breathing heavily I manage to steam my ‘gas mask’ in two seconds flat. I can’t see jack, and right now where I’m hiding jack can’t see me either.

BANG! BANG! Go my teammates. BANG! BANG! Return the opponents.

Okay, I can do this. I peep round a tire…BANG! WHIZZ! I duck again. Oh my goodness, they want to kill me.

Come on Modoathii, you didn’t bring your sorry arse all the way to Uganda to hide it behind some worn-out Firestone.

YAAAAAAAAA! BANG! BANG! BANG! (x30)

I get up like Rambo and Schwarznegar (sp) combined and start firing like crazy. Well of course I hit no one coz first I can’t see and two the direction I’m pointing my gun will ‘kill’ nothing but a few molecules of air.

I duck behind other tires. I’m feeling great. I’ve finally broken out of my shell.

YAAAAAAA! BANG! BANG! WHISTLE!

Damn. Game 1 is over. So soon? Who won? Both sides claim victory. But apparently, the flags are still where they initially were. It’s happy chatter as we all troop back to the safety zone. Guys are excited, every one is talking about how they shot sijui who, who’s butt was exposed. Another is asking who shot him in the head. Man, it’s excitement all round. And I can’t wait to go back for game 2 up to 5.

We swap teams and the action is relived again. This time I do blast a few negroes and I do get blasted. But so far so good. No injury.

In the end, our team wins, because otero wowowo…that’s me, managed to secure the flag twice without getting shot by a ball gum. Okay, I did get shot once. Okay, twice…you insist, five times. But no injuries. Phew!

We leave the netted area and head for the chilling area happy like little children while sweating like horses underwater. After we strip we are given the next best thing to a cold tanye (tusker), vodoski for me. A towel dipped in ice cold water. My oh my. That’s sweet. After cooling down we settle to beers.

Something I never told you about Ugandans, they love pinting. Well, at least the crowd I was with. Every waking hour is all about drinking beer. Amka in the morning, beer. Take a walk to a…beer joint. Wash our cars while we…drink. It’s no wonder that one of us was almost hospitalized coz he had no water in his system, just alcohol. Si you know with alcohol what goes in must come out, so, do your math, he was dehydrated.

He’s given medicine, and what does he do, he teremshas it with, yes, a beer.

That was day one in Uganda. I had a blast (hehe) and it was the day I saw the highest number of weapons in my entire life. Na bado. And from that day on, after the paintball, I have much respect for our army brothers. During the game, we were ducking and rolling around like stiff commandos trying to avoid getting hit by pellets that only leave scars for at most one week (or one year depending), but in combat it’s real bullets, real death, real bloody injury. Msee.

The tour continues…

TRIPPING!

2007-01-08T23:43:00.000-08:00

“I’ve had enough. This is too much!” screamed the lady next to me in the Scandi.

And I agreed with her. I never knew but we don’t have a road after Nakuru. It was such a bumpy ride that at one point I was so sure we were cruising through people’s shambas. Not to mention I was seated where, the back seat. Yep! That was my riding style to Ug. Back right on a Scandi.

How you ask did I end up on an enviable seat like this? Here’s my story.

Me, being the Kenyan that I am of course went to book a bus at the last minute…bana, there’s more adrenaline rush that way (watch Crank). So I rock up and I find this gorgeous looking lady at the counter. By the way, when in need of last minute favors everybody is gorgeous, and you must let them know otherwise you’ll be on the hell ride. The bus was fully booked but this ‘gorgeous’ lady managed to get me space, not a seat, space. As for where I was to seat…

“Come at 11.30 jioni and we’ll allocate you your seat number.”

Scary. Eleven thirty clocked and I am there like Phileas Fogg with a bag that makes me look like a backpacker and an extra bag that’s carrying the camera, which was to take many, and I mean many, incriminating pictures.

The bus isn’t there yet, so we wait.

We wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I get up to go looking for my traveling drink. A vodoski cocktail cleverly disguised in a Keringet or Aquamist PET bottle (not Dasani). I must have flunked in camouflage class coz how do you pretend you’re drinking fresh mineral water when clearly it looks like coca cola? I always forget that I need to mix it with Sprite.

I come back and continue the wait.

And wait I continue.

And while waiting we watch a 1990 Man U game sijui on which channel.

Finally. The bus rocks in. We learn that the bus was actually coming from Dar. Now they tell us. Scandi? Na ni nyinyi mlisema nisiende na Akamba. Now see.

I board and get my seat number. Number 46. Now in other buses, seat 46 is somewhere in the middle. I smile. Not for long. I discover on Scandi the seat is huko nyuma. Nyuma. Nyuma kabisa. And much to my dismay I discover the seat can’t lean back. Meaning I’ll be sitting like a student all the way to UG. But, afadhali mimi. One passenger discovers his seat is both number 43 and 44. So it’s a 1st come first serve seat. And number 44 checked in first. Number 43, ended up sitting on number 45, next to me. In the confusion the original number 45 passenger is left behind. Scandi?

After much back and forth, we are finally off at 1.30 in the a.m. two hours late.

Nothing much happens on the dark ride to the border other than the moans and groans (no, not those ones) from the disgruntled lady next to me. She’s Ugandan and she’s making my day. Suddenly, we pass Nakuru and we say bye to the road. This must be a guy’s shakee. Someone I’m talking on the phone with assures me that we are lost. I check out the window and I see a cow and chickens. And for a minute i believe we may be lost.

Yaani, the road is so rough I feel every pothole and its relatives. Wote. The sufuria-holes, plate-holes, pan-holes, the works. It’s hard to imagine but we got so used to the road that we actually slept (I’m ashamed to say I drooled on the UG mama. But since I woke before her I was able to convince her it was a bird).

After what felt like 69 hours, we made it to the border, shaken but not stirred.

Malaba was another story. Me, and this lady, number 45, potead. But first at the Kenyan post, there was this cop who was eyeing me suspiciously all the way. I was in the queue behind like 5 other people but not once did his eyes leave me. He was stamping guys’ passports on auto. He wasn’t checking them, just me and suspiciously. When I finally reached him, he scrutinized my passport, page by page. Which is weird considering I have a temporary passport. It’s a one leaf affair.

After getting our PPs stamped by the Kenyan cops we started the long walk to UG. Man, no man’s land is so huge. Me, and number 45 wandered into the town in Uganda side before we realized we were on the wrong side of the fence. And without proper authority. We had to walk back. We then entered the immigration area but again we found ourselves among the trucks. Lost. We had to go back again. Finally we got to where we were meant to be. Malaba post is huge, but I must say the Ugandan side is so organized. I was impressed. Kenyans wake up.

And all the way from Malaba through Jinja (Owen Falls Dam) to Kampala, I saw the most beautiful landscapes and forests i had ever seen. Plus a few relatives (if you believe in Darwin).

But the moment we rocked into Kampala, the image of a clean, organized Kampala that I had cultivated in my head vanished faster than the boda boda I saw carrying two huge mamas.

The potholes.

The jam.

The mayhem. What was going on here?

Everyone was on any side of the road. Traffic that was going up had a car going the other way. The bodabodas were zooming past in all directions like busted ants. For an inkling of five seconds, I was traumatized. But all in all…I WAS IN KAMPALA! I had seen worse during Nairobi’s shame days so I recovered quickly. But…I WAS IN KAMPALA!

And the ladies? WOOOOOOOWIIIIIIIIII! (Did I mention I got a little naughty on the bus and started clicking away at fly chicks traveling with me?)

The bus checked into home base and my boy came to pick me up…and began the first adventure…

Chikati....

2007-01-04T00:53:00.001-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

i made it back in one piece, and maybe a few extras..hehe.

man, UG was a plot. lakini bana you ug bloggers desserted me. kina iwaya, kina baz (and baz i got your book lakini you was nowhere to be found. how i wanted an autographed copy), eddie aliogopa nitamhanda. they all left me on my own. nilijinunulia rollex, country boyi alinipromise lakini akahepa. nyi ni ma-hoax.

eddie, don't panic. don't panic. it seems you is a huge hit in ug.

let me get my thoughts in order and i'll be posting soon.

i'm back in the office with my mind still in uganda-mode. so you can imagine the hangii. i had to get tablets that whenever i feel i miss uganda i pop some in my system.

it's a good year (i have a good feeling about this one), james bond's year...007!

laters.

NIMEFIKA...

2006-12-28T06:28:00.000-08:00

NINAWIKA... NINAJIENJOYYYY!

(i know i should be saying hi in luganda, but i was taught that word at a bar...silk, where music was at decibles higher than usual, concentration was hard considering the number of shapely ugandan ladies waltzing past, plus i wasn't exactly drinking water you know)

i arrived safely in uganda (many days ago). for all y'all skeptics (sp) akamba does actually get to ug safely...though i do know coz we overtook it along the way. i was in a scandi baby...

will write about the experiences later...plus, yes i finally managed to get into a cyber. my pal has got the wounds to prove it. that's another blog...

meanwhile, i have a martini in the house waiting for me...oh faithful vodoski, i havn't disowned you, it's only that i know what you and me can do together. and i don't think uganda is ready for that.

laters, but if you's in uganda drop me a line and i'll take you round. (i know this place like the back of my ex-chick's hand...huku ni home, daddy) i'm on celtel roaming, though loading a cardi is as hard as it's easy to get pranged on a bodaboda. my number is...

+254 734 313164. (don't worry, this line will self-destruct when i return to nai) now let me try and load this damn card...

"let go of the martini...okay, now drop the tusker. no don't pick the drambuie, pick that coin yes...the 500 bob coin, now gently scrat__ i said gently! gently scratch that area...now key in the numbers...okay, dude, concentrate...i know you are seeing two numbers...close one eye and key the number...what you're still sing two? try man. ...that's the remote....argh, here, let me help you.

you're welcome!"

holla.

Do not adjust your blog...

2006-11-28T04:53:00.000-08:00

Abnormal services will resume shortly…

Finally!

I’ve managed to buy my way out of the institution for a few days…okay, until next year. I paid a lot of money only to be informed by the maintenance guy that my couch was due for its annual service anyway. A normal couch is due for service after every 5000 thoughts or every one year, whichever comes first. But since mine are thoughts from beyond, service is due every two months.

Destination?

Uganda. (I’ve been told there’s a couch with an impressive thought mileage in Uganda). So all you bloggers in UG please stand up. I’m headed your way. Iwaya. Country boyi. Baz. Cherie L’amour. Minty, and the lot. Chungeni.

It would be great to meet y’all. Then later after the intros you can get down to showing me around that lovely place o’ yo’s. I wanna see everything.

YEEEHAH!

P.S. I’ll have to kill you guys after. My identity cannot be compromised. I’m in the OMSS (On Mathare’s Secret Service). I’ll be around scouting for potential ward mates in Ug. People like Iwaya have an undisputed visa and reservation. Countryboyi, I had to fight for you, they were giving you permanent status.

Song in head…John Denver’s

All my bags are packed
I’m ready to go
I'm standin here outside…

Okay from here it gets mushy and…er, yah!

Cause I’m leavin on Akamba
I know when I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go…ya right!

I’ll be in UG till next year, that’s if I manage to avoid deportation.

Suit me, not

2006-11-23T01:56:00.000-08:00

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so crazy about that place
Even your emotions had an echo in so much space

I woke up feeling invisible. I wasn’t here. Yet here I am. I check in the mirror and I scream. There, staring back at me is, me! But why did I look so sad? I’m feeling happy. My heart is dancing with joy. But I can’t move my legs. I step into the shower and hope that the water will wash away the sadness away and leave instead in its place my happy inside.

And when you're out there - without care
Yeah I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much

Bliss, I’m out. This is me. Happy. Happy to death. I’m walking on the road. Everyone’s hooting. Everyone’s staring. I wave. No one waves back. I heard this is a friendly society but no one seems friendly today. I try a different tactic. I raise a finger. The finger that signals that what you think is bothering no one but you. No one notices the finger. Everyone is busy looking elsewhere.

Does that make me Crazy?
Does that make me Crazy?
Does that make me Crazy?
Possibly

Everyone thinks I am because I don’t have my sadness on. Sadness bought from a stall in Nairobi. Sadness my girlfriend said makes her happy. I’m not happy. My happiness stands in the closet. More of my happiness is soaked in a basin. My best piece of happiness fell victim to the sharpest pair of scissors in the unforgiving fingers of she that I thought cared.

And I hope that you are havin' the time of your life
But think twice, that's my only advice

My moment of happiness is over. You caught me. Thanks to the cops and the well-wishers. You are now shouting at me. You are still shouting at me. You take a break when we get there. Enjoy the evening. Mingle. Parade me like a trophy. Your friends like what you’ve done. My friends don’t. Clock strikes twelve. No Cinderella-type antics. I look down. I’m still wearing your happiness. My sadness.

Come on now who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you
think you are, ha ha ha, bless your soul
you really think you're in control

We are on our way home. You continue with the shouting. I look at you and I smile. They told me you were the captain wherever you went. You said and it was done. You still say and I do. Will continue doing. Until the day I look below the sadness and see them there, hanging like lazy sacks. They also told you about me. They said I couldn’t be changed. But you proved them wrong. They also told you I was a pretender. They said he’d do what you want but he’d rebel. You laughed.

well
I think you're Crazy
I think you're Crazy
I think you're Crazy
Just like me

Yes you are. But I won’t clothe you in sadness. I won’t clothe you in my happiness. I don’t picture you walking around feeling sad and looking happy. I picture you looking and feeling sad. Coz you’re not like me. You can’t look one way and feel another.

My heroes had the heart to put their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinkin' I wanna be like them.

Levi and Lee worked hard. They laboured. They sweated. Until finally their break came. Rivets to hold it together. That was the day happiness was born. I’m now working hard. I’m now labouring. And finally I will get my break. My happiness will be reborn. And I’ll be wearing the happiness created by those two. I’ll be wearing my happiness.

But maybe I'm Crazy
Maybe you're Crazy
Maybe we're Crazy
Probably

Maybe I don’t like what I’m becoming. No, I know I don’t like what I’m becoming. What makes me sad makes you happy. Maybe you like what I’m becoming. No, you like what you think I’m becoming. When we’re both happy we are both sad. Is there a common ground? Yes, the abode with them padded walls. Let’s meet there. Though you do know there’s nothing to discuss. Can you leave me be with my jeans torn and unlaundered and I’ll leave you be with your suits pressed and dry-cleaned.

Probably. Probably not.

the best bond, james bond?

2006-11-20T02:57:00.000-08:00

i'm in some serious blogger's bog. so while i was searching for inspiration i came across this...don't want to take couch 'tato's jobo lakini, who made the best bond? now time for my "shaken not stirred".

Worse than confucious...

2006-11-15T07:25:00.001-08:00

Dear Couch,

Hi?

Can i sit here? Where no one can dsturb me or my thoughts? Can I let my thoughts wander off?

Fly thoughts, fly! Be free.

Here is the result of a wandering mind. A mind with no direction. A mind with 'clouded' judgement.

It's a short mystery story. A mystery that had me mystified too.

________

BANG!

Being so close to the highway one could not tell if it was a tyre burst or a gunshot. But if you were one of wisdom you could easily distinguish between the two. Only problem was, it was both. A tyre burst and a gunshot.

Coincidence? The shallow-minded would have thought so. But for Inspector Dick Jesse this was no coincidence. Because, in the middle of the road lay a notorious mobster. Knocked down by the speeding car that now lay in the bush having lost control after its tyre mysteriously burst. Or was he dead as a result of the bullet that went through his heart. Witnesses were split. Those who saw, say he was knocked down. Those who heard, insist he was shot.

To add to the mystery, the driver was a known assassin of notorious repute and he lay dead in the car. His death caused by the impact of the car, which after crashing through several saplings, finally rested snugly on the bough of the oak tree. Or did the bullet that had gone cleanly through his head cause his death? Again witnesses were confused. Those who saw, say he died on impact. Those who heard, insist he was shot.

Whoddunit? Or more intriguingly, howdtheydoit? One ‘bang’, three causes. A tyre burst and two gunshots. Two deaths. The assassin’s and the mobster’s. Four likely causes. Two bullets – one through the head, the other through the heart. And two accidents. One knockdown and one crash.

For a mere mortal it would have confused them shitless. But not for the legendary Dick Jesse. This was a simple case of observation.

In the middle of the road lay a nail. Apparently, it was put there by the mobster in the hope that should he miss his shot, the assassin would run over the nail, the tyre would burst and he’d lose control of the car and crash. The assassin’s intention on the other hand was to knock down the mobster. His would-be killer. If he was going to die, he was going to take him to hell too.

Both succeeded. Both lay dead. But who shot the mobster?

Most importantly, how did Dick Jesse know the mobster had placed the nail on the road? Was it because of the nails he found in the mobster’s coat pocket? How did Dick Jesse know of the nail’s purpose? Was it because Dick Jesse had a brilliant mind? Or was it because of the tip-off he got 30 minutes earlier?

One bush held the answer to the mystery. And only one person knew.

In a bush from whence the bullet that shot the mobster came from were prints that would have solved the missing part of the mystery. Now the owner of those prints was seated in a brand new Toyota.

And that was that. Dick Jesse declared it a dead case. Now he was seated comfortably in a new Toyota happily puffing on a Cuban cigar. He had managed to get rid of the two headaches in his career in one sitting. The notorious mobster and the merciless assassin. And without anyone knowing.

Except of course, for the one who financed the whole deal. The one who sat in the back seat of Dick Jesse’s car laughing. King Din. Dick Jesse was also laughing as he pulled off his face. Underneath was the face of King Din’s top hit man, Smiles.

So where was Dick Jesse?

Just before the accident, Dick Jesse had walked out of his precinct office in protest. He had tendered his resignation and was planning to retire to the mountains. Where no one would miss him. And they didn’t.

The car that crashed into the oak tree suddenly exploded. It would be weeks before another detective, as keen as the legendary Dick Jesse, would discover another charred skeleton in the trunk.

Case closed.

______

I'll accept the pulitzer now.

I laugh hysterically.

Later Couch ol pal, the weed levels have gone low.

Thanks.

Watching a movie, from behind ‘bars’…

2006-11-08T01:20:00.000-08:00

Here I am at the theatre hall.

Popcorn in one hand, hotdog in other hand. Soda in soda-holder. And pissed-off chick in the next seat.

It’s not my fault I’m late. Come on!

Being a ‘kawa’ Kenyan I blame it on the jam, the mats, jobo, the rain, the cops, anything that’s blame-able, just not me.

And anyway, the movie hasn’t started yet. Get over it.

So here I am about to watch a movie I’ve never heard of. Never seen a poster of. Never read a synopsis of. For the second time (the first was when we watched “Rollerball” with the boys. Never forgiven that boy since), I’m about to watch a movie I have no inkling of a clue called an idea about.

Besides, it’s the chick who picked it so it can’t be that bad. She usually picks “pinky” movies. Yaani, girly girly, romantic movies about high school teens with supercharged hormones. (jeez, I need a new movie mate). Basically movies whose main colour scheme is pink. They are boring but bearable.

So I’m seated here prepared to get bored out of my wits by this movie. It’s called ‘Grudge 2”. Never even heard of or knew there was ‘1’. My popcorn-filled brain, with kidogo space left for thinking about my fly (pissed) ‘mama’, thinks it’s a movie about a teenie in some Ivy League campus who was dumped and now holds a grudge.

How wrong a synopsis.

The first logo appears on screen with some deep bassed soundtrack that has me thinking. But it’s the next logo that gets me REALLY thinking.

It’s opens on a keyhole. Camera peers into the keyhole and a skull jumps into view. Popcorn flies about. Then the name “Ghosthouse Production” appears. A chill runs up or down (who cares) my spine.

Ghost what?

I’m still drunk with popcorn, but not too drunk coz I look at my mate. I give her the what-crap-movie-is-this look.

She doesn’t answer. Instead she stares straight ahead.

Opening scene.

A ‘zombie-like’ lady is making burnt bacon (or something) for a bitching husband. She serves him the bacon. He continues bitching. She walks behind him. Looks at her pan. He bitches. She looks at her pan. He bitches. She looooooks at her pan. He bit__

She turns slowly. Pours the contents, which is hot ‘Elianto’, on the husband’s head and hits a ‘home run’.

TING!

Husband is on the floor giving his last kicks. Wife is seated enjoying the breakfast. Bila feelings.

It’s now that I really look at the chick. This time I voice my concern.

What’s this?

“I don’t know. Si you picked it.”

(In mother-tongue) I almost knock her senseless.

It’s then that I understand why the movie hall is empty. Everyone, except me, knew what “Grudge” is all about.

You can ask movie buff (?) or couch ‘tato to write the synopsis because I still can’t tell what else went on in that movie. I watched it safely from behind my fingers. Nusu nusu.

The only thing I heard throughout were mournful screams, shrill screams (a higher percentage from my companion) and a statement that made my evening.

“I have a headache.”

‘Mama’ kumbe is scared shitless too. Mpaka kichwa inauma.

Epilogue.
Movie ended but not my popcorns. There was nothing to enjoy. And I peed most of my soda.

I WANT MY MONEY BACK!

I don’t like horrors. Never have. Never will. I’m a wimp like that. I get scared like fifty tois. And since I have an active imagination my thoughts are very disturbing. Not to mention the dreams. And I will never ever, EVER, go watch a movie I don’t know about again. Ama one she has chosen.

ZIIII!

Man overboard!

2006-11-06T01:48:00.000-08:00

“Captain that’s the second in one week.” I say sadly to the captain.

He puts his father-like hand on my shoulder. He has lost many men and since I have been with him all along he expects that I have gotten over it.

He then looks me straight in the eye, and just like all good captains, he says,

“Get the f**k back to your station. And by the way, when are you going “overboard” yourself? You’ve been here too damn long. Jeez!”

I am shocked. But truth be told I indeed have been here too long. A little too long.

I remember the day I “cast off”…

It’s a day like any other. The sun rises. The officious cock crows. The smell of breakfast wafts deliciously into my bedroom. I stretch. I rub my eyes…I’ve been doing this for the last 19 years.

And just as usual I expect to walk down to a table overflowing with breakfast. Black tea and toasted bread. We are a family of many, and we always expect to have a family breakfast on a dinner table that sits four. As always, he/she that wakes up last makes good use of his/her lap.

But today, it would be different.

The table is set for three and two are already seated.

“Good morning, son?”

That’s my mum. My dad, a man of few stinging words, just looks my way, nods his head, sinks his teeth into margarine-less toast and buries his head in the news-full newspaper.

But not for long.

Mum clears her throat. It must have been a threatening gesture because my dad without looking at her quickly puts away the paper.

Something's not right.

I cautiously take my seat wondering why the rest of the house isn’t coming down for breakfast. My mum walks to the door and locks it.

“(censored) modoathii (censored) (censored) (censored),”

When my parents call me by all my names I know things indeed are thick. Thicker than the porridge my mum used to make.

I begin to sweat. I shift in my seat. Do they know about the weed? Or maybe, the neighbour’s smashed car? Perhaps it’s the missing video deck? The missing thao? Or what I did to Ndirangu’s sister? Maybe what I did to Ndirangu himself when he caught me with his sister? The list is endless and so, it seems, would the pain.

“It’s time.”

Much to my relief, I discover the lecture isn’t for what I did but for what I am meant to do from now on.

In a nutshell, I’m told, informed rather, there would be a “ship” passing by our house loaded with many of my friends. Friends who have also gotten the same lecture from their parents. Friends who are in it for the same thing. Fishing. And it would be a good, great idea, if I got on it.

Our parents are sending us on a 'fishing' expedition. But get this, they don’t want nets filled with fish. No. They want us to bring back one fish.

Parents.

One fish!

What kind of fish, anyway?

(I’m beginning to sound like those Japanese movies/stories ama Samurai Jack where some Kumamoto kid is sent to hunt for the mysterious and magical Nokosodi that will set him free, etc)

Life on this ship proves to be fun from the word go. Parties upon parties. No worries. No duties. Plus, lots of fishing.

Some days the waters would be calm and all aboard would be merry. The other days we would be in turbulent waters.

Nothing extraordinary happened the first couple of years. But one day, we lost our first mate.

This day is a stormy one and we are drifting close to some “sirens”. To me these so called ‘sirens’ are just some bunch of noisy meddlesome creatures. But to my buddy Sam what they are singing is melody he has never heard before.

Shortly, before we can say “superkalifajalisticexpialidocioustrypanosomiasis” (sp)…

MAN OVERBOARD!

We try calling him back but to no avail. He swims like crazy to this one siren who ‘swallows’ him whole.

We on deck look across at him helplessly. He waves at us gleefully. We wave back and lift our champagne-filled glasses and give a toast. Then the party begins.

Before the party can really take off we hear…

MAN OVERBOARD!

Another. As we were celebrating no one noticed Denno eyeing the ‘siren’ next to Sam’s siren.

The party doesn’t stop. There’s no need to. It’s now a double celebration. Beers are flowing like we are being paid.

As the years and the journey wear on, we lose many good men. Johnny, Ero, Jere, Paul, Peter. Some try to get back to the ship but it’s not the same again. Once you’ve taste the ‘murky’ waters you never get to be treated the same. You get kitchen duty and you are never seen on deck or at any party again. Even if it’s a “man overboard” party, as we now call them.

But our “ship” is loosing men at a tremendous and worrying rate. Just last week, we lost Brian. This week, Sammy. Next week, I know I’ll lose two more.

I can see it in their eyes already. Once someone listens to the song of the ‘sirens’, something happens to him. And I can’t stop them. If anything, I’m helping them overboard. Yet, I am busy trying, unsuccessfully, to traumatize my captain into changing course.

I approach the captain. I ask him if he will ever go overboard.

“Dude,” he says, “I’m going down with this ship.”

Sure enough this ship will go down eventually. It’s old, worn down and with a skeletal staff. What he says next scares me.

“Kijana, listen. I tell this to you and anyone who dares listen. I’ll go overboard eight months after you go overboard.”

It’s then that I realize that this ‘ship for singles’ still has many cruising years ahead.

to the crazy ones...

2006-10-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

i've found something that drives me...

it stares at me everyday. and i stare back every other day.

dear couch, this poem defines who i am...a bit.

it's an ‘apple’ ad.

TO THE CRAZY ONES!

Here's to the crazy ones
The misfits
The rebels
The troublemakers
The round pegs in the square holes
The ones who see things differently

They're not fond of rules
And they have no respect for the status quo

You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify them or vilify them.
About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.

Because they change things.
They invent. They imagine. They heal.
They explore. They create. They inspire.
They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you stare at an empty canvass and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?
Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?
(Or stare at a screen and see a blog?)

We make tools for this kinds of people.
Because while some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius.

And it’s the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, who actually do

THINK DIFFERENT!