Life

She keeps describing her dreams, her future. You keep listening. And the more you listen, the more your feelings take a bashing. And slowly, but surely, you start to realise the one shot you had at feeling something real is slowly fading away, if not for good.
For the more she talks about the plans for her future, the harder it hits you that her dreams are way too big for you. For you can already notice how the path has been set. Some day, along that path, she will forget about you. And deep down, you already know this. It’s something that you try to come to terms with every time she texts you, every time she leaves you with blue ticks. Because you know that one day, you will slip out of her mind just like an idea not written down. It will be on that day when this will happen…
You text and she asks, “Who is this..?”
“Jimmy.” You reply.
“Jimmy who..?” She asks. Your heart skips a beat.
“Jimmy Bones..” You hesitantly reply with the nickname she gave you all those years ago.
“Umm…..sorry, but this must be a wrong number…”. This is the moment you have been preparing for ever since she told you about her dreams. the moment you have continuously armored yourself for all this while. But no broken bone, no stab wound, hurts as much as that moment. You suddenly wish, and beg the heavens, for the chance to ignore her that very first time you saw her. You look back at the phone, swallow that lump building up in your throat, and manage to text back a feeble, “I’m sorry. Thought it was someone I knew…” when all you wanted to really text was, “Just saw you on TV. I’m really proud of you!!!”
You toss the phone aside, already contemplating deleting her number, and that lump builds up again. You turn back to the TV, and there she is. Just as gorgeous as you remember her, but all that much prettier. You manage a teary chuckle, shake your head and mutter to yourself, “Oh Life…..”
Indeed. Life

Advertisements

The Rugby Player

The story so far: Our hero, Lwasa, has decided to take on the game called rugby in the hope that he will get bigger in size. After all, girls love mugged guys….

So It was no surprise when I decided to join rugby players (Rugby had just been introduced recently by a chap who had been expelled from SMACK. Let’s call him Wolverine) in their training. I needed to get stronger, and fast.

This is where my size came to be an asset. Being small, I was hard to tackle. And I found out I was quite fast on an open field. I was hooked. Since I had a basic understanding of the game, I caught on fast. And just like that, Wolverine made me scramhalf for our class team (we were in the same class). Finally, I could play without being benched.

Now, in all schools, there are rivalries between classes. Ours (S4’s) was with S.6’s. To us it was all because they ‘stole our women’ (any guy who has been there knows what I’m talking about), to them it was all because we were kids who had big heads. So naturally, we set up a game to settle the score, once and for all. A date was set, and the ads (cleverly drawn posters all over the school showing blood and broken bones. Of course, my memes inclusive) started. Threats were made, rumours spread about who will make it out alive and who won’t (which was me), boots were stolen and names were written on latrine walls. By the time D-Day arrived, the whole school was buzzing.

It was a sunny day as we walked onto the pitch. It was an uneven field, tilted towards the swamp where the school cows usually grazed, so the place had mounds of cow dung as well. We set off like any other rugby match, with my team performing a Haka of sorts (we couldn’t resist making a pretty vulgar one). The S.6’s just shouted a bunch of Swahili words and the game kicked off.

The violence. My! The violence! What do you think will happen when you give a bunch of testosterone driven teenagers a chance to go all out against each other? Madness, I tell you. Madness!! It was slaps instead of hand offs (some opted for punching), knees instead of tackles, flying kicks, swinging, everything you can have in a free for all, was on that pitch. And Wolverine was having the time of his life. Well, so was I. Dear reader, you should have seen me on that pitch. I was a Neo dodging tackles. My side-steps would have given Messi a headache. And I was a pro at the tackles (If we can call hitching piggy-backs from the opposing players tackling, then I’m good to go), putting down more guys than I could count.

My chance to score a try came in much sooner than I expected, late in the second half. I had pushed one of the S.6’s, some tall lanky Kenyan, off his feet close to our try line, and I managed to scoop up the ball after he dropped it. I could already hear my name being chanted by the girls on the sidelines. It was my time to shine!!

I set off at once! Running so fast I could have sworn everything was a blur.

“LWASA!! LWASA!! LWASA!!” The girls chanted my name. I could already see myself being congratulated by the Headmaster, getting kisses from all the girls, and the caterer awarding me with more chicken at the kitchen. For that moment alone, just for a moment, I thought I was flying. I was so high in the air I could touch the clouds. Unfortunately, I had been tackled.

See, I had been running so fast I had not bothered to look right or left. I was running along the part of the pitch closest to the swamp, therefore the lower part, so to speak. This huge Tanzanian fella ran all the way from the upper side of the pitch, and with all muscle and bones, rammed into me. The impact sent me flying several meters off the pitch, and where else to land but in the swamp?

The one thing I do remember before I hit the swamp was some girl screaming, “I told you he would die!!”

After the disorientation wore off, I could make out a few of my team mates around me, and more running towards the swamp. Wolverine was helping me get up, and that sure cleared my head. I was drenched from head to toe in muck, and I smelled like something sort of a toilet ventilator. But I didn’t care. I needed to bounce back!! I jumped up and down a few times, assuring those around me that I was fine. Laughing it off as we walked back, I couldn’t help smiling as I saw the girls cheering me on as they also ran up to me. However, the smell stopped them a few meters away. I walked on to the sidelines, waving to the referee to tell him that I was good to go. That’s when I noticed my left arm was bent at a weird angle. I was not the only one who had noticed.

“Isn’t that arm broken?” I heard someone ask. That’s when the pain kicked in. Let me tell you about the pain of a broken bone. It is unlike any pain you will know. It is deep, and weakens you immensely. There is nothing on your mind but pain. And for a moment, you are between reality and something entirely different. But it is all pain and nothing else to it.

I was in that kind of state when I was escorted back to the dormitory by a bunch of guys and some girls (yes, they were allowed to escort me up to the dormitory), and later on the nurse was summoned to check on me after the crowd had left.

That evening, the headmaster himself drove me home in his Mercedes. Ah, the crowds of girls who were there to see me off, no wonder the S.6’s hated us.

What I learned from this? Girls love dolls. Tiny guys look like dolls to them.

The Basketballer

For most, High school is pretty much where the best memories about school come from. For others, just mentioning ‘highschool’ in a conversation with them earns you looks of disgust. Then there are others for whom it’s a mixture of both. I would say I can fall neatly into that category. My worst moments in highschool brought about some of the most enjoyable, and the vise versa is pretty much true to the decimal. Allow me to tell you a story about one of my best (or worst, depending on the perspective of you, the reader) moments in highschool. No. There will be no giving away names of schools and or dates to this particular event. I’m no snitch.

After I was expelled for vandalism (I made memes of teachers in the School Magazine. No. I’m not joking) from a prominent school, I was taken off to one much closer to home, which by then was not such a big name. However, I have come to terms basing on the time I was there that there is no such thing as a ‘big school’ and a ‘small school’. There is just school.  It is the individuals within the school who may make it what it might or might not be. Also those snobby kids from ‘big schools’ who can’t wait to come up with names for your school after they come over for sports tournaments and conferences just because they had never heard of your school until then. And that it is located next to a swamp. Maybe also it is located in a village (Aren’t most schools located in villages anyway???). Anyway, back to the story.

I was in my O’ Level, a naïve kid who had been handed his first ever dismissal from a school just because he did something he thought was fun. But I got over that pretty quickly when I heard stories from the students who had been expelled from other schools. You would too, if someone told you he had been expelled because they found out he was the actual father of his Literature’s teacher’s kid.

62a13b25ef718213118bd7fc9de1fd23eeea8693f3c169fbfff073e8e236291d

This school put an emphasis on sports, mostly basketball. Since I had been playing the sport in my previous school (but never got to play because I was the smallest guy in school), I quickly hit the court. You probably won’t believe me when I say I made the school team, but I did. I actually got to even play some games. But of course, the best part was usually spent on bench. I wasn’t the best player, but I sure was the smallest. I was the Sean-Wright Phillips of my school team. I looked like Kevin Hart standing with a bunch of Yao Mings whenever I was with the team. I was so tiny the school jersey top actually went past my knees whenever I wore it. Don’t let me get started on the shorts. Let me just say I was given special permission from the coach to wear my own shorts. The only problem with that was the jersey somehow managed to peep from under them after I tucked in (I solved that problem when I acquired a pair of shorts with those sewn in underpants). So as you can tell, I was quite the sight whenever I stepped on court. Till now, I sometimes wonder if I was indirectly being used as the team mascot.

My size made me even more determined to excel on court. Therefore, I ate more (About two heaped plates a sitting. No lie), trained more and did all I could to stand out. But well, my hormones just refused to step up. So it was no surprise when I decided to take up another game, rugby, to help me even up things. But that, dear reader, is another story.

What I learned from this? My hatred for tucking in as an adult comes from the discomfort of finding the bottom of my jersey wet with sweat after playing a game. Also, sewn in underpants can’t ride up your buttcrack. But they sure like to expose one buttcheek….

These Girls

I seem to have completely lost faith in people. And somehow that is not about to change. I have had it up to here(points to ceiling) with you puny humans. All you do is talk and talk. About this and that, and about this one and that one. Monday to Monday. Often,  I will deliberately tell a small lie, just to see how far it will travel. And more often than not, I am never disappointed. Usually the lie comes back to me more distorted than the alimentary canal during a bout of diarrhea. And most of these times, It has had a woman behind it. Allow me to tell you about the most interesting one I have had yet…
A few years ago I met this lady(Girl 1), who I kind of got to talk to, sharing this and that(I swear there was no sharing of body fluids), and often talking a lot of nonsense. She was the kind who would rather call instead of texting(WINNING!!), and had a laugh that kind of gripped you by the bladder. Time went on, and as usual, I decided to drop a small lie. Don’t judge me. I always do it to you humans. But never to cats.

One bright  day, when she was all trying to get me to share my deepest darkest secrets,  I told her that my bums are so hairy I have to shave every weekend. After her laughter died down, I made her SWEAR not to tell anyone. Not even the people in her dreams.
Fast forward 2 weeks after I told her that, we are at some random bar with a few friends of mine. I see her with a bunch of her friends in some corner so I go over to say hi. A few of them give me curious looks, and this sets off warning bells in my head. After we exchange pleasantries, I head off to where I left my beer. Several drinks later I see one of her friends walking(actually staggering) towards me. And the first thing she asked me was,
“So how many shaving packs do you use up in a week for your bums?” At first I couldn’t actually relate, then I remembered what I had told Girl 1.
“Just enough….” I replied as I led her back. I gave Girl 1 the most Bane-ful look I could conjure, and walked away.
Here is probably what went down:
Girl 1:”Gwe, I have serious jazz for you!!!”
Girl 2:”Eish….don’t keep me hanging girlfriend…give me some hot gossip!!”
Girl 1:”Lwasa has hairy bums.”
Girl 2:”LMAO!! LOOOL!! *tear emoji* Are you for real???”
Girl 1:”Eh eh, gwe he told me he shaves his bums twice a week.”
Girl 2:”Are you serious??? Gwe hold on…let me even tell momo…”
Girl 1:”Hmmm…this gossip is too hot. Post it in the group”
Girl 2:”LOOOOL!!! Kyoka that ka guy was even vibing vibing me…smh. With his hairy buttocks.”
Well, to those of you reading this, the story might have been twisted and turned so many times that it is highly likely the version you will be getting now probably says I have dreadlocks in my buttcrack, or on my bums, or as pubes. Whichever version you get, remember, DO NOT TRUST THESE GIRLS.

Also, whichever girl wants proof about my bums, please drop your phone number in my DM for pictorial proof.

Idle at an awkward hour

Being a guy, a slightly less than normal one at that, I have often had moments where I question the decisions I make, but only too late. Too many times I have pondered what sort of demon had burrowed into my head to make me do something that ended up landing me in a truckload of trouble. I would have a hard time picking up which particular one was the worst, but a few do stick out to memory. A few who were there would say the time I tried to pee while on a fast moving boda was the worst(No. I was not intoxicated. I think…), my family would think otherwise. The time I decided to draw superman on the sitting room wall certainly more than sticks out, it has a few cracked ribs to memory. But this time, I will tell you, dear reader, about my one night in Mukono.

It started out like any other day. Birds chirping, chicken soiling the compound and the usual sounds of my neighbour Kyasanku’s radio blasting away Paul Kafeero’s ‘Dippo Nazigala’. It just so happened this particular Friday had dawned after I had made a decision to quit drinking. My 1st, and unsuccessful attempt to quit the troubled man’s ‘baby bottle’ had won me less phone calls and text messages(by then we did not have whatsapp messanger) and numerous appraisals from my Christian friends. But I wasn’t really one to care. I was doing it for me.
The day dragged on with me getting more apprehensive by the hour. I knew the text messages would start trickling in at around 4.00pm, and I was going to turn down the majority, which was going to earn me some descriptive terms from the asking parties. ‘Boring.’ ‘Docile’. ‘Sleepy’. These were terms I was used to hearing and reading, but of course, I didn’t really care. I was happier off finishing the food at home anyway(insert sarcastic laugh).
At around 6.30pm, after rejecting a number of offers to go ‘laugh at the liver’, I received my first phone call. A friend I had not seen in a while had just arrived in Kampala, and he had plenty of money to kill his friends’ livers with. As usual, I went through the routine of telling him how I had quit drinking. He was shocked.
“Dude, like seriously?? No more empire???”
“No bro. I gotta watch my health.”
This was followed by a listing of all brands he knew I would never pass up, detailing how much he had stocked up for us. But I was not about to be derailed. No sir!! This went on for a while, him cajoling, begging(pakalast things munaye), and I standing firm with my decision. Until he mentioned the ‘B’ word. Babes.
My attitude changed immediately, almost like the way a bored hyena would react after seeing a limping deer, or the way a shark would turn after a few drops of blood hit the water. My mind was raided with images of breasts, legs, skimpily clad maidens that kept chanting my name in throes of drunken passion and whatnot. I could hear him smirking at the other end. He had got me in, hook, line and sinker. The next few hours somehow became minutes, and I was soon at the party my ‘friend’ had set up. He was already drunk, of course, but like he had promised, the party was loaded with lots of the female species. The first I had been to where the girls outnumbered the boys. Patting my pockets to make sure my 13 condoms were still intact, I set off with a mission to get lucky.
Three hours and maybe 13 unused condoms later, I noticed Harold(For the sake of his identity I shall call my ‘friend’ Harold) had disappeared. I was a bit worried. I dropped my skirt chasing and embarked on finding out where he was. Fortunately, he had not wandered off into the road. I found him seated on the toilet, his eyes closed shut and mouth left ajar. I knew there and then my night was not going to be a splendid one.
I was the one who had known him longest, and was the sober one, so it was wordlessly decided it was me to take him back to his place in Mukono. Sighing heavily, I half dragged, half carried him to the nearest taxi stage and boarded a taxi to Mukono. The journey was not that eventful as I kept thinking about how many skimpily-clad babes we had left behind. All because of Harold’s drinking.
A quick boda ride from Mukono stage, ten flights of stairs and Harold was dropped on his bed. It was 11.30pm, my phone said.
“I just might make it back in time!!” I thought. Didn’t really have a clue what was in store for me.
When I was about to reach Bishop’s Mukono stage(I was on foot, hadn’t even seen a single boda), I heard what I thought to be a boda coming up behind me. I turned to stop it. Instead, it was a police motorcycle. I turned back, minding my own purpose. To my surprise, the motorcycle slowed down.
“Alo! Wot are you doing ‘ere??”
I turned, we were now at the stage so I could see it was a traffic policeman. He was wearing a jacket on top of his uniform so I could not read his name tag.
“I am going home.”
“Where is ‘ome??”
“Namugongo.”
This was followed by a loud jeer from the officer as he stopped his motorcycle.
“Alo, are you saying dat you stay in Namugongo? What are you doing in Mukono?” He was now standing in front of me, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes were so bloodshot it was like I was looking at a pair of black dots where his eyes were supposed to be.
“Are you not a iron bar man??” I was torn between laughing at his lousy grammar and rebuking him for asking useless questions yet I had clearly stated I was heading home.
“Do you ‘ave a ID card??” My heart sank. I explained how I did not have an ID(wallet was stolen, blah blah), but it was clear this very ‘competent’ officer had other things in mind. I carefully stressed how I was from dropping a friend and I needed to get home.
“Ah ah! You jus’ come with me!!” Given I am not one who likes causing a scene, I followed him quietly.
“Alo, so ‘ow are you getting ‘ome?” By this time I was irritated.
“Umm, I don’t know, probably fly there since you made me miss the last 3 taxis?”
“Hehehe!! Fly? You sink we ‘ave a chopper ‘ere?” My sarcasm had clearly been missed.
“So you ‘ave transport? ‘Ow much?” I had seen this coming.
“Just enough to take me home.” I answered.
“No extra extra?” He had slowed down as he turned to the left.
“Nope.” I leisurely replied. He nodded as he ushered me into a room that had been hidden by a tree trunk. It was a police station. I was now racking my brains for what a traffic officer would be doing taking a pedestrian to a police cell.
There was a police officer seated at the desk in the room, one of those who wear the bluish uniforms.
“‘Alo, I found this one being idle” the officer who had brought me in said to the one seated. I was taken aback.
“But I told you repeatedly I was going home.” I countered. This was followed immediately by the mother of all rebuttals. The traffic officer that was piling accusations on me then was quite different from the one that had asked if I had enough transport home. I was speechless. It all happened so fast I am still puzzled at how it happened to me. One moment I was hurrying to go chase some skirts, the next I was having my shoes, belt and wallet taken by a traffic officer. The most animated reaction was when he came across my pocket contents.
“Eh! Thirteen condoms?? ‘Ose daughter are you going to wire?? Even my wife does not allow 3 rounds!!” Each item after that was extracted amidst loud ‘Ehs’ and little snatches of ‘Thirteen condoms’. A few words were scribbled in a tattered book at the desk, and I was asked to note which items were written down in the book.
I was then ushered to a corridor that was bolted. Peeking inside, I noticed a few women seated on the floor. I had expected to be put somewhere worse, so I made to sit soon as I was pushed inside.
“Eh! eh! Now I see ‘y you ‘ad thirteen condoms! Eh eh! Wot do you want to do to these women?? Eh eh!!” This he exclaimed while pushing me ahead. I then noticed another bolted door at the other end of the corridor. This one had no light whatsoever behind it. That’s when it hit me, I was going to spend the night in a Mukono cell. I was hastily shoved into the room, which was quickly bolted behind me. I was soon to find out why.
The room had a strong pungent smell, the kind of smell that you find on goat farms. If that was not enough, the room was so hot I felt little beads of sweat start to form as I tried to get used to the darkness in the room.
“Wewe unataka nini??” A voice rang from a corner in the room. This was followed by loud shuffling as Swahili phrases were tossed back and forth in the room. I then found out the reason for the smell and heat.
The room was already full. The little light seeping in from the door exposed numerous bodies lying next to each other in the tiny room, and more standing. Immediately, I realised the room was too small and the occupants within weren’t pleased to have more individuals added to the crowded room.
Funny thing is, I was not scared. I was actually surprised that I was in a police cell. A hard slap on my buttocks was what shattered my surprise. My heart obeyed gravity at a speed only Kal-El could match. It blew up within my feet as my bladder prepared to give way. I had heard the stories, watched the documentaries and read some not-so-fancy books about the subject of being butt-raped in jail. But none had prepared me for the moment of having a fellow man caress your buttocks and thighs.
“Uyu hakuna na kitu!” The one ‘fondling’ me exclaimed.
My knees almost gave way with relief when I realised the touching was just him searching all my pockets for anything of value. The Swahili continued as I stood in the middle of the room, I knew they were deciding what to do. Eventually, I was pointed to a corner right next to what looked like a jerrycan. On close examination, it was a jerrycan with it’s top cut off. The smell as I made my way towards it told me about it’s contents. Yes. I spent a night seated next to the cell ‘toilet’. Every time one of my ‘cell-mates’ was urinating, I had the best view on the house. Also the best sound system. Thank God though, no one was allowed to do anything more than urinating in it.
The night was not as bad as I thought it would be, apart form that one drunk chap who was brought in after me that got a beating for resisting being searched. We even got to share stories about why we were arrested. One chap had been arrested for stealing ginger. Apparently, the sniffer dog that had been been deployed to sniff out the victim’s garden was hungry and instead sniffed out the mukene that he was drying out in his house. It settled to eating his merchandise as he was tossed onto a police truck.
Another guy, who had been in the cell for three months then, had stolen a car. Two guys had been arrested with him for raping an old lady while she was in her garden(but Mukono!), four others had been arrested for kidnap and murder(they were a pretty mellow bunch though), and they actually told me they had done it. The assortment of crimes within that smelly cell was both comical and worrying. Numerous murders, a few rape cases, plenty of theft and one who was caught preparing to go for his iron bar duties. I was laughed at as I narrated how a drunk traffic police officer had been my only ‘crime’.
Morning dawned quickly and we were paraded outside, shirtless, to meet the O.C of Mukono and answer to our cases. We stood up as our cases were read out loud from the tattered book that had been at the desk all night. It was a different police officer this time.
The O.C was quite a jolly man, making numerous comments as each case was read out loud, drawing laughter from all present, law enforcers and law breakers. This continued happening until my name was reached. My full name is quite a mouthful, and it will give any person quite some difficulty at getting it right. So it turned quite a number of heads as the officer reading it out took it left and right and through whichever loops further distorted it. I saved him the trouble by standing up.
“His case?” the O.C asked.
“Idle at an awkward hour.”
My mouth flew open. The O.C looked at the officer reading, then back at me, and then the officers around him.
“Idle at an awkward hour?” his eyebrows were now one thick line below his forehead, “I mean, how..? Who wrote that??” he asked looking at me directly.
“I didn’t get his name. He was wearing a jacket” I answered, my most innocent face displayed for all. I then went ahead to explain exactly what had happened, leaving out the part where it was a drunk officer and where he had hinted at kitu kidogo.
Long story(a very long one..) short, the O.C ordered my items returned, and I was a happy man who walked back into the station to retrieve them. Unfortunately, I found only three condoms from the thirteen I had walked with.
In a totally unrelated story, I bought me a half Uganda waragi as soon as I got home, which i finished off in record time.

A Bar brawl

Bar brawls in Uganda are one thing that clearly never seem to happen. And by brawl, i mean it in a sense where it’s every man for himself. Not the usual altercations between two men over whose woman the two timing wench that came with a pot-bellied minister to the bar, only to meet her two other boyfriends, or between two women over who is wearing the best weave, maybe also why they are wearing the same weave. No. I don’t mean any of these. I mean the bottle-tossing, chair smashing, drunk humans tossed in air kind of brawl. The kind that separates men from scared little children. In my puny life of various escapades, I have managed to be a part of such a brawl.
It was a Friday and I had managed to get home early. The weekend had reached, and what better way is there to celebrate the arrival of a weekend than with a beer or two? Maama Naka’s was my destination after I took off my shoes. Pocketing a few coloured pieces of paper in my pocket, I proceeded to go and make war with my liver. Two or four beers would ease me into the weekend. Unfortunately, the place was closed. I felt suddenly drained of all happiness. Maama Naka had bailed on me. Fortunately, there was a new bar that had just opened that week. So my spirits were revived as I made a bee line through the various shops littering the roadside to the bar.
The bar looked neat. A few well shaped waitresses weaving in and out of tables placing bottles of frothy liquid on tables occupied by shouting individuals painted a busy picture. I made way for the counter and sat on a stool, the bar attendant quickly attending to me. Sipping on my beer, I turned towards the TV that was placed in a corner high above, the noise in the bar drowning out whatever little the character in the movie I was watching was saying. Occasionally, I would look around, measuring up a few people’s wallets by counting the number of bottles on their table. This went on for about 2 hours.
Where there is alcohol, commotion is bound to follow. Mid-way my forth(and last) beer, an argument broke out at the pool table. Apparently, one of the players, obviously drunk, had pushed one of his balls(and I mean pool table balls.) into the pocket – with his hand. This had caused a massive uproar from those on his opponent’s side. A scuffle ensued and before I knew it, someone had swung a cue at him, straight into his forehead.
The sound was carried over the noise, a sounding crack that had the cue reduced to splinters, and the victim flying over the pool table, face in the air and hands reaching for violated part by reflex. I watched him from my bar stool, his body landing a few meters after the pool table, into a table whose occupants weren’t prepared for the ‘surprise’. Bottles placed on their table were tossed to the floor, their contents poured out in explosions of glass as they were replaced by a thrashing human, his hands now covering his bleeding face.
The owners of the beers were just as surprised as the rest of the bar. They looked at the flailing human on their table, then turned, in unison, to where he came flying from. On the other side of the pool table stood the assailant, weapon of choice now a useless piece of wood but deadly weapon in his hand. Then all hell broke loose.
I have no idea who it came from, but I suspect one of the battered player’s friends hurled it. A bottle, at insane velocity, crashed into the culprit’s face as he held the broken piece of cue, sending him back into the crowd he was seated with, bathing any one close in beer and glass. That was when I knew I was going to be caught up in something wild.
There was a mad rush for he who had hurled the bottle, and then for the one who had used a cue. In that sudden movement of people, it became a free for all. Bottles were picked and tossed, like stones thrown at mangoes on a tree by village kids, only that this one was level. People were suddenly wrestlers, engaging in vigorous gripping and shoving, flying kicks, punching, biting, pool balls were used just the same as bottles, smaller participants in this mayhem were suddenly battering rams and or boulders thrown at the enemy. IT WAS GLORIOUS!!!! It was like a carefully orchestrated mess. The kind where you just watch in awe at the vile disgrace of creation they call a human. It was violent, people tossed from one end of the room to the other, bottles crushed under bodies, the distinct smell of beer in the air, with a hint of human body odour and sweat, punches thrown into already bleeding and swollen faces, those who came as couples trying to use their bodies as shields for their partners, the more daring abandoning them and charging into the mayhem. I was all so violent it was almost perfect.
Soon, the loud sound of a siren was heard and believe it or not, the very same people that were moments ago beating the snot out of each other were helping each other escape! Tugging and pushing at their drunk selves through the nearest window, those that were on the floor groaning in pain tossed onto shoulders of the more able bodied, and then passed to those waiting outside. It was quite surprising to see all these drunkards suddenly unified under alcohol with the sole purpose of making a getaway. The bouncers themselves, who were moments ago beating up anyone they could lay hands on, be it weave-wearing human or pool table, were now shoving drunkards through windows. The bar cleared out in a matter of minutes. As I made a run for it in the dark, I heard the faint ‘click’ as the bar attendant locked up, obviously he didn’t want to be put out of business after his first day.
Where I had been in all this mayhem? I dived under a pool table as soon as I saw the first bottle flying into the guy’s face. Don’t ask me how I fit under there. I also don’t know how. But I had the best view in the bar.

Rambo gets licked.

As a growing child, action movies were pretty much my only obsession, or hobby, along with many of my age mates. The kung fu movies were a regular topic among the kids, and most youthful adults around the neighbourhood. Snake In The Eagle’s Shadow, Drunken Master, The Big Boss, you name them, we had them by lip and heart. Often you would find us acting them out in someone’s compound, kicking the snot out of each other, trying to sound as kung fu-ish as possible. To one passing by, it sounded much like a bunch of stray cats were having a go at each other. And we loved it. The agonising pain of getting a ‘flying kick’ in your stomach, or a well calculated ’round kick’ on your backside, or the pleasant feeling of exerting revenge on the perpetrator of those body pains.We loved it all. Our only problem was the commando movies.
We never could get one chap to act as the commando, and the rest of the participants in the game as the enemy. Everybody wanted to be Chuck Norris, Schwarzenegger and Rambo (we never referred to him as Sylvester Stallone. We never cared for that name) so we always had a dilemma of too many Rambos. This always led us to opting for the kung fu movies instead, many of us eventually going home with plenty of bruises, both ego-related(after a smaller guy thumped you. But i was always the smallest anyway.) and physical. But it was fun.
It was one of such days when i felt like acting out a commando movie. Having just recently watched Rambo at a ‘rich neighbour’s’ place, i felt the adrenaline rush that comes with the need to be a hero. I had to go rescue some prisoners from the Vietnamese!! The garden at home was a good enough place to go and wreak havoc upon the enemy(banana plants, in this case.) I dashed home, picking up sticks here and there along the way, those shaped like guns were shoved into the hem of my shorts and the rest pocketed.
The garden was quite wide, the banana plants all menacing with the ‘captives’ they held calling out to me for help. I got to work. felling a few paw paw stems, i made my weapon of choice. A machine gun with four muzzles. This and a few ‘pistols’ tucked away in my pants. Plus my gigantic knife, and then i went off to my ‘mission’.
The enemy fell in great number. I was shooting right and left, tossing grenades, setting booby traps that they stupidly fell into, i was kicking, i was blowing off their heads with bomb-tipped arrows, i sent shivers down their spine with my war cries, made them pee their pants, they ran, they blew up, they cried for help, they were at my mercy! I was a commando! Even when ‘captured’, i was hard to crack. I was so tough that the ‘electrocution’ i was put under didn’t phase me. And when i escaped, boy did they pay! Necks were broken, legs blown off, heads split like water melons with just a punch! I was a one-man unstoppable force of full-blown commando justice! I was Rambo!
It was during this ‘escape’ that the inexplicable happened. One moment i was unleashing a barrage of punches on a banana plant(one of the vietnamese), the next i was flying about three feet into the air. For a moment, i actually thought one of the ‘vietnamese’ had used a grenade. But that little voice called reality had me turn around mid-air. I was wrong. It was no vietnamese, it was the old lady! This was a fate far worse that what the real Rambo experienced in the movie! There was going to be a murder!
Mid-way my journey through air to the ground, i managed to get my feet going. The way you will occasionally see Tom’s legs propelling before he chases down Jerry. I had to get away! All pretense of being Rambo thrown aside, i ran for my life. The old lady was having none of that. Having landed her flying kick squarely in my back, she had managed to latch her iron-like grip on my shirt. Running was futile. As soon as my feet touched the ground, i was back into the air, flying from my intended direction towards her clenched fist. The velocity with which my stomach met that fist cannot be remembered, But i do remember the air in my lungs carelessly abandoning my soon-to-be lifeless body. My mind was saying one thing. Run or Die!! But my body was too busy trying to organise itself to listen. A sudden appearance of sparks in my eyes let me know that the old lady had now opened her fist, and my face was receiving the wrath of an open palm strike. Commonly known as slaps. At this, my body finally reacted.
I turned, my small legs turning into engine pistons, ploughing into the firm garden as i set off. Over trench, under barbed wire, through kraal, through hedges(the thorns i plucked out later let me know i didn’t bother jumping it), in short, i was running as fast as my legs would permit. And hot on my heels, breathing fire and curses for ruining her banana plants, was the old lady. In my head, i could see my grave being dug. We were running through neighbour’s backyards, into their gardens and their cheers at seeing the old lady’s intention to skin me confirmed my fears. I was going to be killed. I had to act fast. A well calculated dive and roll had me double back towards home. The old lady still hot on my heels.
I was too busy thinking of the many places around home i could stake out i did not notice it. Obviously tired, she had decided to use other tactics. I heard it even before i felt it. A loud thud, followed by me being propelled into the air, my head being the first thing in the air, dragging the rest of my body with it. I must’ve flown about 7 feet ahead. I never could tell. Still can’t to this day. All i know is flying is a pretty awesome thing. Provided it’s not caused by a brick being hurled by one angry woman. That’s right. A brick. A freaking housebuilding brick. The old lady had hurled a brick at me.
When i landed(albeit not so well, resulting into pieces of skin staying with the ground.), i was more concerned with what had sent me flying than with the landing itself. Then i saw the brick. My mouth dropped open. I could not believe it! This woman actually wanted to kill me! I stared at the brick, wide eyed with hand on head, and then looked at the old lady. She wasn’t done. I noticed she was breaking a switch from one of the hedges. I was not going through more. My brain then finally kicked in, and i knew i had a good idea even before it hit.
Standing up, somewhat lazily, i staggered a few steps towards the house, then fell on all fours. Managing to drool a drop of saliva, i stood up again. This time staggering all the way into the hedges, where i closed my eyes. This was the only way i was going to get off.
I heard her footsteps getting closer. A deep sigh and what i made to be a stick falling was what i heard. She had tossed the stick aside. I felt her strong callused hands drag my limp body up, and she tossed me over her shoulder. I half opened my eyes, and saw a few neighbours standing, watching. I faked a smile, and many of them broke into smiles as they walked off. This time they had missed a whipping, but had been spectators to one of the best action sequences the neighbourhood had ever experienced. Rambo had fallen, not to a bunch of vietnamese, but to the owner of the garden where the battle had taken place. An idea crept into my head as we went into the house, an idea that i figured would make me a legend for years to come on the village. Next time we were to act out kung fu movies, i was taking the old lady with me….

I am

I am that spark that ignites your desire
that which fuels your madness.
I am the explosion of your senses
the explicit insult to your feeble needs.
of mind and body, result or not.
I am the force within your planetary resolve
not gravity. nothing of the kind.
I am that which streaks in the sky
a dying star, I am not. to feeble, I think.
I am that which siphons your resistance
the strength of a thousand black holes, I have.
I am that which reasons with your soul
for your body is too weak.
I am that which is enthroned atop your passion
its master and commander.
I am the continuous peal of deafening thunder
that plagues your wild fantasies.
I am your fear
you are at my mercy, I come when I please.
I am the scandal of your life
you dare not whisper of my existence.
I am that unknown
which you seek with feverish want.
I am not yours to keep
not yours to have.
I am that which eludes you
the fruit above Tantalus’head, the water at his feet.
I am………
that which I will never know, that which you cannot know.
for I am incomplete.
and I am just beginning………….

A Stick-yard Of Confusion.

You know, it is said everyone has a rhythm. Everyone has a beat to them, that distinct fluid movement that you can easily relate to music. Some walk with the kind of finesse that reeks of Hans Zimmer. Others walk with such vigour you can almost hear a rumble of traditional drums pulsating through their bones. Many have alternating rhythms. One moment its a slow delicious mind prison, the next its something only a true David Guetta fan would understand, like something Skrillex had thrown to him to do what he can to it.
This morning I saw a man. his ‘rhythm’ puzzled me beyond necessary. I even had to make a long update about it. In one step, it was ‘wanchekecha’ by Saida Kaloli. I thought I had it down. The next step it was ‘kagoma’ Bobi Wine. I was perplexed. How was he..??? Before I knew it, in flew ’embooko’ Master Blaster, ‘mic’ Ziggy dee, somewhere in this hailstorm of confusion I could distinctly make out Red Banton snippets….. my head is still wrapped in a vibrant cloth called confusion. How in the world is one able to keep in sync with himself when all that he gives off is this muck of confusion??? But then I realise, I’m probably much much worse……..

About

The dull awareness of waking slowly sets in…I refuse to open my eyes. Why should I? I want to sink back into the empty interlude of nothingness I dwelt in. The impending throb of a starting headache forces my eyes to open, but I can’t see a thing. Could it be that I still swim in the nothingness I want so much to embrace? The slight flicker of gladness dies as a distant scraping sound brings me to the heavy reality that I am indeed awake. Is that why I awoke? Or is it this building painful throbbing of my head that wouldn’t let me be? Reality slowly creeps in. My senses take hold. The smell, ginger ale and lemons. Pleasant another time, inducing nausea right now. The distant sound of traffic seeps through the ventilators. Building on that headache. Something heavy and hard on my chest. My arms move, as if orchestrated by an uncaring puppeteer…feel for the object, a bottle. The source of the smell. The loud thud it makes, greeting the floor, drags me out of my trance. That not so pleasant, and yet so enjoyable, drift between awake, half awake and asleep.

The headache is now a pounding explosion as I sit straight. It seems to echo across the room I distantly recognize as empty through the pain. Strewn clothes all over the room, vaguely seen by light, from outside, dimmed by my floral curtains. My room. Yes. I remember it. Blindly standing straight, or going into a half crouch, need more light. Dragging my lead filled feet towards where my half open eyes perceive the light to come from. My stretched fingers making contact with the silken material of the curtains. Gripping them tight with both hands…..as if the only lifeline I have in this drowning sea of surrounding reality. Their smell, so reassuring as I place them against my nose, taking in the flowery scent of the soap they are doused in every once so often. I like the scent. Reluctant to push them aside…….

The light hits me like a freight train, uncaring and solid, dragged under its tracks, each sense replaced by hopelessness as nerves, muscles, bones are bashed, battered and crushed. My head now a world of blissful pain. Screaming through every part of my body like banshees of folklore in harmony. The dim realization of thought about folklore is what keeps my legs from giving way. Slowly collecting my scattered senses, much like an Eskimo sitted patiently at a fishing hole, hoping that whichever bites the hook is the biggest. Eyes closed tightly as my headache recedes to the only place its required to be, my head. The nausea now a sporadic but overwhelming tug at my throat and stomach.

Eyes accustomed to the light. Sights on the half open door at the end of the room. The puppeteer once again takes over, more out of necessity than earlier casual need. This time my legs coordinating in a dance of sorts, my eyes and other senses vaguely recognizing the shortening distance to that half open door. Was that the coffee table I crashed into? Was that my fir stool I just kicked? I have no clue. Reality crashes down as I kneel at the toilet bowl, and then it all goes out. Scattered memories of the previous night twisting and dancing in careless unison before my eyes as I hug the toilet bowl, making due heavily with my setting at the pit of my stomach.

Stomach now at peace. Standing at the sink. Not willing to look into the mirror, afraid of what I might find. I find the shape of the tube of toothpaste fascinating, as if carefully mastered into shape by artist of age old. Its distant smell a seducing dance at my nose, in whiffs and sharp tugs. I slowly reach for it, no cruel puppeteer  this time round. I am fully awake, but the headache omnipresent, still a carefully placed fog to my thinking. I watch the tube making its way to my mouth, recognize my callused hands around its artistically curved  body. The taste of the toothpaste is beautifully satisfying, out of reflex rather than choice, my eyes move to the mirror.

Its a sight so ghastly, so revolting it induces a wave of nausea, much more intense than previous. The tube drops to the sink as I grab hold of either side for support. this cannot be me. This cannot be human. How can one look so…….I am lost for words, lost at what I can call this concoction of a being that stares back at me. Eyes, so bloodshot they seem to be turning black. Lips cracked and pale, peeling in torrents of skin and blood. Skin dried up. a greyish tinge replacing what was once brown skin. Or was it..? I open the tap, the cold water hitting my fingers, shocking me to the reality of my appearance. Cupping it in my hands, slapping it against my face, as if in punishment for a crime unknown, yet need to be punished for.

Eyes back at the mirror. The water slightly dousing the flame of Gray that holds my skin captive. I try to relate with what stares back at me, but the only shred of understanding, is in the bloodshot eyes. Those curious strange eyes. I bet they have seen a lot. I bet they have the answers. The eyes have turned. They implore……they ask, they beg. For what, I wonder, yet it is I who wants answers. It is I who should be imploring, asking, if not begging. With assumed confidence I stare back. Hands biting into the sink marble with the resurgence of the  stare. What was that..? That fleeting glimmer of….hopelessness? Helplessness? Shame…? Is that…is it…..could it be pain..? Or is it a harmony of all these…that is putting that look into your eyes? Why do you hurt so..? Why the hopelessness..? Why the…? a slow realization….like the burning of a fuse to a dynamite stick, slowed down for the impending explosion,  like how a tiny hole on a submarine, deep under an ocean, lets in water and eventually brings about the doom of the submarine under the overwhelming pressure that’s found an entrance, the crushing reality cripples me.

It floods in from all sides. I don’t know how I hit the bathroom flow. All I feel is the pain. Non of it physical. The ache, the remorse, the regret. That feeling, like my skin was peeled off….and then handed back to me, stitched back on and then tore off. Ginger ale!! ginger ale!! My senses scream. The fridge is too far. Ginger ale!! Ginger ale!! GINGER ALE!!!! The urgency of my senses’ screams drags me to my knees….crawling, grappling the cold hard floor, reaching the dropped bottle, place it on my lips and…its empty. I blindly turn to the fridge, my foremost need is intoxication. The fridge is open in an instant. The pain a building wave of displeasing emotion that I need so desperately to expunge. At last…….my fingers closing around a cold bottle. Its shape easily recognized by experienced touch.  The cap is off in a blink, and the contents burn a clear path down my throat. The burning sensation dragging me violently away from the clearly crushing reality. The bottle only drops in casual spasms of breathlessness, but is continuously drained of its contents.

The bottle, empty, drops down. A slow arch instigated by my relaxed arm. My grip on it loosens as it lays prostrate next to me. It looks now dejected, a forlorn figure in an empty room. Just like me. But wait…….it IS me. An effortless scoff escapes my lips, followed by a drunken giggle. The ginger ale has answered. Oh, what pleasant doom!! What seemingly endless pleasure I seem to find!! But drunken, I am!! I am a fool!! A drunken fool!!  In dialect with myself!! For only drunken fools do such. Feed me a bottle!! Drown me in that which was in the bottle!! For I have sorrow to drown. I have pain to cover. I have feet to drag…!! Will you not? Will you not? Won’t you?

My mind gone…..forgetting the pain. For I am now solidly effortlessly drunk. Drag me to the depths of despair not. I shall not waver, for pain is my cripple, memory my death. I cannot give in to both.