Monday, September 30, 2013

Ban Fat People From Sitting On Plastic Chairs


There is a need to save our plastic chairs from fat people.

I was at Kati Kati a few Saturday’s ago for the Myko Ouma show and Policewoman manning the security desk, was not about to win the 100 meter race even if Usain Bolt had given her a two week head start.

She looked like a beached whale waiting for a mechanical digger to come lift her out of the sand and throw her back into the sea. The veracious veins on her legs were also having a hard time trying to circulate the blood round her body while the Nice House of Plastic chair upon which she sat, could barely hold the bulk of her bottom.

But I love competition – especially between Policewoman, Midwife and Dubai Woman because they compete amongst themselves to see who has the fattest bottom. When it comes to sitting down, each one of them is particular about the type of seat they use considering their mass bulk bottoms. Midwife and Dubai Woman have got it down to an art but sadly, Policewoman is still dithering about.

I have never seen a skinny midwife. Even abroad, they are all on the fat side and that tempts me to believe it’s a pre-requisite for getting the job. Dr. Ian Clarke would know seeing that his IHK midwifes are fat but his phone was off when I called to enquire.

Midwife knows her preferred chair. It’s the one with wheels on it. Given the chance, she would wheel herself to the labour ward but she has yet to figure out a way to wheel herself up and down the stairs.

Even if two out of four wheels are missing, it won’t deter Midwife. And if you have carefully observed her, she is at her best when she is wheeling herself to the corner of the room where she has stored her enormous flask of tea and enough mandazi’s to feed the entire out-patients department.  

Getting back to Policewoman, she had forced her fat bottom into a chair that was obviously too small for her for whenever she stood up, the seat also came up with her!

I couldn’t resist the temptation to take a jibe at her and told her this: “James Mulwana must be turning in his grave at the sight of your bottom vandalizing his chairs.”

She didn’t get the jibe but in trying to push the chair off her bottom she cracked one of the arm rests. With that, there was the urge to follow up the jibe with a touch of sarcasm and though I tried to stifle it, it came out as easy as Askari tossing his ‘flying toilet’ onto the rail tracks in Namuwongo after doing his number two.

“Now look, you have broken Mulwana’s chair” I told her. She was vexed and humiliated because I walked in without being checked while she withered about trying to extract the seat from her bottom.

At the show, Dubai Woman stood on the fringes scanning the seats for a good sturdy one. She and her fat bottomed friends were very careful when it came to choosing plastic seats. They prefer the ones without armrests and for obvious reasons. They don’t want to get stuck like Policewoman did. And they also know that one seat won’t hold the kilos of their bottoms so they stack two or three for extra strength.

If only police PRO, Judith Nabakooba, could circulate a memo to Policewoman telling her not to use plastic chairs with arm rests, it might do a lot to save the chairs and she (Policewoman) won’t get stuck.

My Love For Radio


I have a renewed passion for listening to radio since it dawned on me that it’s much cheaper than paying 240k to watch repeats of Top Gear, Diners, Drive in’s and Dives, and Dragon’s Den on DStv.

As I type, I am at the Chinese restaurant and on BBC Knowledge, Top Gear is up next. Hmm, it’s a two-year-old repeat but I watch it anyway because it’s the episode where Clarkson in a Range Rover Sport, took on a challenger tank.

Listening to BBC World Service recently they had a harrowing story from Pakistan. Peasant had drowned his one-and-a-half month old child because it was a girl and he had wanted a boy.

The BBC had managed to get an interview with Peasant and in his defence, he said: “I had no idea what I was doing. I don’t know what overcame me”. Oh please Peasant! You DID know what you were doing and you DID know that you were killing her!

The tragic thing about this case is that in Pakistan and other parts of the Indian sub-continent, doing away with babies because they are born girls is no big deal and Peasant will probably get away with it.

There was a debate on Sanyu FM when I woke that morning between the lawyer David Mpanga and Henry Rugamba, UMEME’s communications supremo. Mpanga was not amused that UMEME had threatened to disconnect him off if he did not switch Yaka.

Mpanga is clever, a Muganda, which I am not and will one day probably be appointed Katikiro of which I have no chance of becoming because I am not a Muganda. Rugamba whom I have known since his BAT days, is equally as smart and like I, he too has no chance of being appointed Katikiro because he is not a Muganda.

As I listened, there was a need to contribute to the debate seeing the phone was laden with airtime.

But when presenter Seanice Kacungira reads out the station’s phone numbers, she does so at a terrifying speed that one has to listen carefully as she hurtles the figures out.

I called and on the second ring, it’s answered. But there was a BUT as there always is with phone in’s. Instead of getting a chirpy ‘hello’ in a flossy Seanice accent, I got a ‘a-lloo’ in what sounded like a Mawokota South accent which made me to wonder if Amelia Kyambadde, who is MP for that area, sounds like that when she’s on the phone. I must call her and find out.

An ‘a-lloo’ instead of a chirpy ‘hello’ should have instantly told me something was amiss and that I ought to hang up but, I persisted and this is how the conversation panned out.

TB: “Morning Seanice, I have a question for Henry.”

WOMAN: “A-lloo, gw’ani?” (hello, who are you?)

TB: “Is that you Seanice?”

WOMAN:”Martin-eee waliwo omuzungu ku ssimu” (Martin, there’s a white person on the phone).

Meanwhile in the background there is some commotion - what sounded like the sigiri being knocked over and the saucepan of boiling porridge scalding a toddler who let out a hair standing shriek.

Martin or rather Martin-eee, came on the phone demanding to know who was calling. I hung up.

Two minutes later, the phone vibrates and I answer. The voice on the other end says I called his phone. It’s Martin. Rather than admit, I deny so he hurls tons of abuse at me.

By the time I got the correct numbers to the station, the debate is over. Mpanga and Rugamba were saying their goodbyes while Seanice is harping on about Fat Boy being on leave. And I did try calling Kyambadde but she didn’t pick up.            

Monday, September 16, 2013

Just Lock Up The Geriatrics And Throw Away The Key!

Geriatrics – people who think the world owes them favours and that we, who are younger than them, have had life easy.

But hang on a minute for if I am not mistaken, the word geriatric is supposedly an offensive term meaning showing the effects of age. But what the heck and seeing that my editor, Lucy Parwot who would no doubt have stricken the term from this Sunday tale is away on maternity leave, it’s a case of ‘when the cat is away, the mice will play’.

Geriatrics had gathered at the Sheraton Hotel for the Vintage Car Show. With their skeletal bodies, they reminisced about the old days when cars were mbu cars and not the toys that are manufactured today.

“Look at this car” so Geriatric told me. “The original radio still works” he beamed. In TB style, I sneered and asked him to tune into Vision Voice. His response? “It can’t pick up Vision Voice.”

“How about MP3, does it play MP3” I asked. He gave me a look, a look that said he didn’t know what MP3 was and to save face, he started to rant along these lines.

“What do you know about cars? In our days we bought new ones. We had style and class.”

By now he was dribbling malusu that I thought his false teeth had fallen out. I know it’s not nice to generalise especially about geriatrics – sorry, I meant to say old people, but Geriatric, looked like a paedophile on the run from the IOC and from somewhere in the DRC – probably Bukavu

I didn’t have time for Geriatric. Jeez, his ride didn’t even have power steering or air con so that was it for the car show and off I went to the hospitality tent to find decent young people to have a decent young conversation with.

Laban Musoke, who I believe signs the cheques for Nile Gold which also sponsored the event, had practically carted the entire stock of Nile Gold that the brewery had to the event. Quaffing beers was the perfect antidote to listening to babbling Geriatric.

But in one corner of the tent, Geriatric along with other geriatrics had made it their home and unable to control their malusu, they let it dribble down their shirts and all over the grass. Christ, I hope I don’t end up like that.

Out of the blue Geriatric accosted me again. “You Bukumunhe come here! Do you know that I know your father? Why don’t you write something sensible? This car show can give you idea of what it used to be like in the old days. Did you know I used to drive my Anglia down to Kabale and back? And what is that that you are drinking?”

I literally had to fight back the torrent tumbavu’s which I was ready to unleash on him. Just who on earth did Geriatric think he was? I was not going to let it lie and duly put him in his place. I told him: “Listen here you sneering geriatric half wit, why don’t you hobble yourself back to your Anglia and drive yourself back to Kabale if that makes you happy.”

With that, his heart started to palpate, his pacemaker went into overdrive, he dropped his cane and he hobbled back to his seat faster than Frasier Crane’s dad could hobble from his 1950s green chair to the kitchen in the TV series Frasier.

Am sure by 7:30pm, he was in bed being fed matooke and mashed meat because he’d probably lost his false teeth while Laban, took the rest of us on a gold memory bliss until the wee hours of the morning.   

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

The Queen Best, Sylvia Nagginda Royal Spat


There is nothing like a spat and a public spat at that. Barack Obama recently let rip on Vladimir Putin calling him: ‘that naughty boy who sits at the back of the class’.

Closer to home, Prime Minister Amama Mbabazi and Speaker of the House, Rebecca Kadaga locked horns in a spat of words.

It’s been a while since I last had a spat and if I had one with - Lillian Barenzi, Ernest Bazanye, Mildred Apenyo and Kizito who are columnists on this double spread this, is how it would pan out. Barenzi would trump Apenyo but only in a war of words and icy stares while in a full blown fist melee, Apenyo would have Barenzi running to Bangalore in India seeking refuge.

I would take on Bazanye and though he has a way with complicated words, one thing about him is that as soon as he takes off his glasses, he’s as blind as a bat - unable to find his desk even if a naked Beyonce and Kelly Rowland were gyrating on it.

That leaves Kizito who ain’t got no bite for if you read his column, it’s obvious who wears the decision making underwear in his household and that is Laura.

Spats are not limited to presidents or prime ministers. Even royals spat like they did last week in Munyonyo. Royal egos came out. Their aides puffed and exchanged not-so-kind words and UNDP who sponsored the event, were amused.

Who were these royals? Not wanting to be barred from their households, you have to read between the lines to figure out who I am talking about. Let me make it ‘difficult’ for you and call them – hmm, let me see. I think Queen BK and Queen SN works.

Like it’s said, there can only be one bull in the kraal and despite there being a number of queens and royalty not only from Uganda but the rest of Africa, there was only going to be one queen ruling the roost in Munyonyo.

But the question we who were there wanted to know, is who had the claws, the icy Barenzi stare and Apenyo’s Acholi wrath that makes grown men pee in their pants when they dare take her on?

One thing about our queens was their ability to pretend to look relaxed, to talk without moving their vexed lips, to gloss over the icy stares while concealing their ‘machetes’ behind their backs as they ‘talked’ to each other.

Their beef so UNDP Staffer whispered to me is that they both wanted to take the kudos as being the masterminds of the conference – that it was THEIR initiative and only called the other to help out.

As the UN stood by, somebody else sniffed the storm and intervened. Let me ‘disguise’ his identity and call him M7.

When it was time to go, M7 took over the direction of his convoy. He frantically waved his arm at a dilly-dallying driver to bring up the Toyota Cygnus. As Driver continued to dilly-dally, a baffled and getting irritated M7 stood in the middle of the road - perhaps wondering if Driver knew what he was doing.

When the Cygnus eventually rolled to a halt, the two icy faced queens were bundled into it and off they were driven.

At the end of it all, I didn’t get to know which queen triumphed and had wiped the other queens face in the saucepan of leftover byenda (entrails).

Do you think it wise that I send mail to their offices to find out? Should I call that man - M7, who intervened and ask him?

I feel I am pushing my luck a trifle too far so I’ll let it be.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Why Wait Until I Have Ordered Then Send The Boy Out To Catch The Chicken?

A week ago, my colleague, Kalungi Kabuye aka KK, posted a rant on Facebook. He ranted because a waitress rather than ask if he wanted another drink, merely picked up theempty Club bottle and waved it in his face. Was asking him if he wanted another that difficult? I don’t like it either and in the places that I go for a drink, Waitress and Waiter know fully well the wrath that I will unleash on them should they do that to me.

A by the way and this has nothing to do with this week’s Sunday tale. Has Moses Golola been invited to State House to get wads of cash, a house and a Pajero 4x4 for ‘sodomising’ Titus Tugume for ten seconds
in the East and Central African Championship title match last weekend?

Getting back, there is something about the service industry that I don’t click. And by the time you’ve read through this, I know what you will be thinking. That I am telling lies. I am not and if you are in doubt, ask KK because he was around when the incident happened.

We were in Soroti and the hotel we stayed at was nothing to write home about especially the food.

On the menu, everything was served with chips or rice. Having been to the said hotel a number of times, we used to settle for steak but this time gave it a miss when we realized the steak was not a streak but a carcass of beef that had been battered to make it flat and then tossed onto the sigiri.

So we opted for fried chicken and chips which made Waiter freeze. Clearing his throat he said: “You want chicken and chips?” Of course we want chicken and chip so KK assured him.

“How long will it take”I asked Waiter who rather unconvincingly said, 15 to 20 minutes and which for upcountry, is good time.

15 minutes came and went as did the 20 minutes. Hungry, we called Waiter who duly asserted that our meal was on the way.

As our stomachs grumbled, outside the dining room, there was the unmistakable squeal of chickens being chased in the courtyard. We didn’t think much of it until we heard the chicken squealing in the kitchen prompting KK to ask if that was our chicken.

When Waiter eventually turned up with our food, we did ask him and without a trace of embarrassment or a need to do some damage control, he attributed the delay to the fact that they had no chicken in the kitchen thus necessitating a quick capture and slaughter of one of them for our lunch. Hmm!

Moving on, we have embraced Indian cuisine especially since we found out that not all their food is spicy hot. But get his, Indian’s lie.

In every Indian restaurant, there is a dish called mutton rogan josh. Mutton if I am not mistaken is lamb or endiga for the benefit of those who don’t know what lamb is.

But Indian restaurants don’t serve lamb. They serve goat and seeing that Ugandan’s don’t really eat lamb and thus don’t know what it tastes like, the Indians cunningly get away with it. But I know my meat and duly summoned Chef who had this to say. “No, over here we use goat.” If you use goat so I told him, then why don’t you call it goat rogan josh? No need to guess what he did next. He glared at me with ‘if eyes-could-kill-eyes’then slithered his flabby backside to his kitchen.

Next time I go upcountry, I’ll pack my own chicken to save time and REAL lamb for my excursion to the Indian restaurant.



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