Friday, April 29, 2016
Ah Sunday, a day when society that consider themselves ‘righteous and holier than thou’ get all dolled up, take to one of the many churches and then home to rest as, is prescribed in that bestselling religious book – The Bible. It’s also a day for me to tread on a few toes and take more than just a swipe at Pastor and anybody who peddles religion for a living - including that man in the white starched robe from The Vatican who recently paid us a visit.
If you think I am heading down the road to blasphemy and want to cast stones at me, go ahead for its your prerogative, but in my sermon today, Pastor is a fraud and religion is one of the oldest known scams. Though I have not been to Butabika to get official confirmation, my sanity still prevails.
Until a few weeks ago, I had never heard of Prophet Mboro. Prophet Mboro, peddles his religion in the tiny southern African kingdom of Swaziland and recently, he made the news. The Commission for the Promotion and Protection of Cultural, Religious and Linguistic Communities, is investigating him over claims that he supposedly took a sojourn to visit the holy land – not Jerusalem, but to Heaven. Yes, that Heaven where God, Jesus and perhaps nice people like Mother Theresa, Nelson Mandela and Princess Diana now supposedly reside. Did I just hear you shout out “WTF?” Well I did more than that. I prefixed it with a “jeez”.
According to eNCA, a 24-hour South African news channel, Prophet Mboro over the Easter weekend, was in Heaven and whilst there, he took ‘selfies’ of himself on his Samsung Galaxy smartphone.
Eager to cash in on his trip and perhaps recuperate his travelling expenses, hotel accommodation, entry fees to the Garden of Eden, duty free shopping at ‘Heaven International Airport’, Mboro has been selling the selfies via social media site – WhatsApp for E5,000 ($350) a snap. And guess what? Yes, people have been buying them. Jeez!
Mboro aside, there is Oga Pastor who supposedly has the telephone number to the switchboard in Heaven on speed dial. Oga Pastor told women that he had instructions from God to ‘cleanse their souls of evil’. The way he was supposed to do the cleansing, is for the women to come kneel before him and wait for it, wait for it – fondle their breasts while they rest their hands on his man spread groin. Did anybody complain? Err, no.
Another Pastor – in West Africa, took Congregation out into the field for a sumptuous lunch buffet of, err - grass. Again, nobody questioned him and just like that, fell to their hands and knees, pulled up chomps of grass and started eating away.
Meanwhile across in Kenya, Pastor took his sermons to new levels by forcing Female Congregation to perform very nasty oral activities on him. In return, Female Congregation would receive ‘holy milk' through their mouths. Pastor had told Female Congregation that his ‘milk’ is sacred, been anointed by the lord and concentrated by the holy spirit
Said one Female Congregation: “He convinced us that only God could come into our lives through the mouth. Often, after worship, Pastor asked us to do oral acts on him until the Holy Spirit came through ejaculation and delivered funds to the church.” Jesus Christ, how daft do you have to be to know that Pastor is simply a perv?!
Not all Pastors get away with it. One Pastor pulled a stunt of trying to walk on water like Jesus did. It seems Jesus was not with him and pulled the plug on him because, because no sooner had he put his left foot into water than he drowned in front of Congregants.
But sanity prevails – well at least it does for me. Each man and woman to their own so I say and if you want to believe in Pastor, I am so not going to stop you. I am not. You see, I need a part two to this column, so I am going to sit back and wait for to hear how Pastor took you to a private room where he disrobed and used his ‘thingy’ to deliver the holy spirit unto thou.
To be continued…
Friday, April 22, 2016
There is something about having a house party. The following day, that something, is usually ‘regret’.
I had been invited to a dinner party at Muzungu Doc’s house in Muyenga. It wasn’t a big blaring party, but more of a small gathering – 12 of us plus Muzungu Doc and Wifey. Walking past the dinner table that had been laid out on the patio, it was obvious that it was a ‘by-invite-only-party’ and not a party where you casually tell a friend to ku’leebeta (fall in). We were all there save for one elusive guest who, Muzungu Doc got tired of waiting for, so we went ahead with dinner without him.
Wifey had laid on a very good spread – everything from a cut of roast beef to roast spuds. The conversation too was intelligent – global world politics to film and the arts. As we tucked in, Muzungu Doc’s phone rings.
Elusive Guest was at the gate.
When Elusive Guest joined us, Wifey let out a whispered but audible remark of: “Oh, we might have a bit of a seating problem.” But why would there be a seating problem seeing there was already a place laid out for him?
It turns out that Elusive Guest had decided to do some inviting of his own and had come with Female Muleebesi who, was sheepishly cowering in the living room. Wifey though didn’t vex but took it in her stride and set up a place for her. And that’s when the problems started. Female Muleebesi literally had to be coaxed to the table and when after half an hour she did, it was plainly obvious why.
She had worn a blouse with no bra. Whenever she moved a muscle, it opened up and her boobs fell out. But that the least of her worries. For the lack of a better and polite way of putting it, her standing in society was such that merely sitting at the table and she was out of her depth. Holding the cutlery was an issue. Being part of the conversation was an issue. Eating the sumptuous meal was an issue.
Everything was an issue.
I don’t know who squirmed more – Elusive Guest, Female Mulebeesi, Muzungu Doc, Wifey or we the guests but the moment dinner was over, it was such a relief.
Patrick also threw a dinner party for ten at his Munyonyo house. Patrick is huge and the way his voice bellows out, it’s enough to intimidate if you don’t know him. Everything was going well. The meat he grilled was excellent, there was plenty to drink and the conversation wasn’t tired but hilarious.
Then he went to the toilet. When he returned, he wasn’t his jovial self and called us to heel. “Okay who did it” – his voice roaring with anger. “One of you pissed on my floor and I don’t find it amusing!”
I hadn’t been to the toilet so It wasn’t me but yet, I felt guilty - not because I have a habit of peeing on the floor, but because of the death look he flashed.
Twenty minutes later I got up to go to the toilet, but paused for thought. I was so nervous of making an error with my pee projectile and peeing on the floor that I opted to go and pee in the garden.
In a secluded dark spot, I unzipped, took him out and started doing my thing when the voice bellowed out. “Eh, eh, who is that pissing on my flowers?” I was in such a fright that….and I think I had better stop it at that. But if you are a man, I am sure you can guess what happened next with the pee projectile.
But I need not have been in fright because he too was in his flowers having a pee. And the voice bellowed yet again: “TB, I wish people could be like you. If you know you pee on the floor, go outside.”
WTF, I don’t pee on the floor! Seriously I don’t and I could imagine in horror him telling Guests after I had left that I was the culprit.
It all ended well two days later. He had found Culprit and to his shock, it was not Male Guest, but Female Guest. Eek!
Saturday, April 16, 2016
I really have to hand it to Messrs. Erias Lukwago and Kizza Besigye. Especially Besigye. They have the resilience to put up with years of being roughed up, tear gassed and of course the obligatory kiboko that Police give them.
Through the course of my journalism career, I too have been roughed up but thankfully, not to that extent.
Years ago, I was up in Masindi – at Boma Stadium covering a UBL sponsored cultural gala. I had gotten there late and thus, was not sure of which entrance to use. When one of the gates opened up to allow a truck in, I simply walked in with it until I got yanked back and asked to identify myself by Askari. Out came the ID but, he wasn’t having any of it.
He rambled on and on about how the entrance was for the sole reserve of the UBL sponsors, who I thought I was strolling in like I owned the stadium and that he had 'orders from above' not to let in anyone without the right accreditation.
At this point, I should have read the hidden message in the ‘orders from above’ statement. Basically, it is security speak to mean that it’s the end of the conversation. Whatever logic and common sense you try and bring into the fray, falls on deaf ears. It’s a lost cause.
But the Musoga mputu in me kicked in. After all, I was already in. I had identified myself and I had explained why it was necessary for me to be at the function. But Askari was having none of it. At this stage, he was no longer holding my arm, but by the waistline of my trousers and dragging me back to the gate pretty much in the same vein that Lukwago and Besigye get dragged to the police pickup.
Then Police Woman turns up giving Askari gas. While she also has the same orders from above, the cement in which those orders had been cast had not dried solid. She politely listened to what I had to say, then asked for my ID.
As soon as she saw New Vision, she eased up further. When she saw my name, it was a case of: “Eh, you are the one? But the things you write, you man, you are stubborn!”
With that, she told Askari to leave me be and let me enter. “This one, we know him. He is stubborn. Leave him” she added as she walked away.
Askari looked at her in disbelief. All the machismo he had, deflated out of himself with the same agony that a teen girl from Namagunga has when she resigns herself to squashing a pimple that sprouted two hours before a Namilyango social.
But it was done. I had won. I should have walked away. I should have, but once again, the mputu kicked in. As I walked away, spat a well determined “tumbavu, odangamu” at him.
With that, he was in my face, daring me – no, tell a lie - triple daring me to say it again. So I did. “Tumbavu odangamu, tumbavu odangamu, tumbavu odangamu”!
The rest happened so fast. Suddenly he had electric cables that had been twisted into one in his hand and lashed out. The cable wrapped itself round my body. And again he lashed and again. The pain was so excoriating, searing and brutal, I almost peed my pants.
When he was done but still holding the cable in strike mode, in Luganda he said: “What were you saying?” At that point I wasn’t saying anything. Tears had swelled up in my eyes, I was in a pain that was the World Cup of pain and I wanted to be as far away from him as possible.
I retreated – but not in a cowardly manner I might add. I walked away backwards, muttering assurances but making sure he can’t hear them and once there was there was enough of a big enough gap between us, I took to my heels and fled.
In the safety of the sponsors tent, not even UBLs Mark Rwomushana could ease the pain or stem the tide of tears or use his sponsors influence to bring Askari to book. Today, my back still has the scars and at the mere mention of kiboko, I don't hang about. I leg it!
Pictures: The New Vision, The Daily Monitor, Bukedde
Friday, April 8, 2016
I have never met Father Lokodo, (below) but he is at it yet again. Bless him. A few years ago if memory serves me correct, he came out guns blazing and tried to take on the world oldest profession – prostitution.
Speke Road, down by Post Office and other places where Prostitute hangs out, were raided. But no sooner had the police pick-up carted off one set to Jinja Road or CPS police stations, than another group of prostitutes filled the void. And somewhere down the road the guns stopped blazing and normal business was resumed.
While he is a minister and reports to the appointing authority – M7 that is, as a Father and I am guessing here, it means he is some sort of man of the cloth. That means he also reports to God. God must have appraised him and told him: “Father Lokodo, what on earth is happening in Uganda. You are falling well short of your targets. Do something.”
Father Lokodo didn’t need to be told twice especially after a berating by God. He swung into action, walked to Ministry of Finance and asked for sh2.6 billion. When asked what he intended to use the money for, he said: “A machine and software that can detect porn...”
Searching the internet, the only porn detecting machine I was able to come across is a memory stick. Hmm, sh2.6 billion for this (below)?
Porn I guess is almost as old as prostitution. When I was in my teens, it was much more illicit to watch porn than it is today. In the video stores, porn videos were hidden under the counter while magazines such as Playboy, Mayfair and Hustler were displayed on the top shelves.
But we still bought the magazines and we did look at the images as well as watching the videos. In my case and many others, we didn’t end up as pervs, though I will say that that the images of naked women in Playboy were very subtle compared to those in Knave or Hustler.
Porn is everywhere today. Once deemed to be a male preserve, women too are watching porn. Just about every girl in Mary Stuart Hall at Makerere University or in Akamweesi Hotel who has access to a DVD player, has a porn DVD. And it’s not soft core porn that DVD Hawker is hawking. He is hawking the hard core stuff.
People who are in relationships, when they retire to their bedrooms, I guess they engage in some form of porn. Father Lokodo is from the old school and grew up knowing that the word ‘sex’ was a dirty word. He is used to saying ‘copulating’. He is also from the old school that believes copulating should be done in the ‘missionary position’. ‘Woman-on-top, doggy, wheel barrow’ and so forth are deemed to be porn. By the way, I can almost picture him wiping his forehead of sweat and being in a state of collapse as he tried to fathom the wheelbarrow position.
What we do in our homes is our business not so? If I want to watch porn and I am watching it with adults and in private, of what business is it to Lokodo? Will the porn detecting van and Porn Police stop outside our homes and mount a raid? If a couple are having three some sex in the confines of their home, is it anybody’s business? Will we also get raided?
I do however agree that there is a need to control porn especially from children but the porn machine, I doubt is going to solve the problem – unless it’s going to freeze the internet. But as parents, we have a duty to control what our children watch on their tablets and smart phones.
What Father Lokodo has not told us, is what constitutes porn. Mills and Boon, Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins books, which just about every other girl read, have ‘sex chapters’. Would that be porn? A movie in which there are silhouettes of naked people, would that constitute porn? An R. Kelly or Lil’ Kim video perhaps?
If Father Lokodo couldn’t get rid of Prostitute, then how on earth does he intend to get rid of porn? Am not smacking him down. Am just watching for who knows, there might be more to the machine like being able to detect if we are having impure thoughts. Now that would be something else!
Pictures: New Vision, Internet
There is, something about family gatherings that brings out the best in us. While we look forward to spending holidays like Easter, Christmas, Idd, kwanjula’s and weddings with the greater family, it’s not a straight forward affair. We are supposed to turn up and make merry, but most times, we land with a plastic smile, stretching out one hand to greet while in the other, we have a ‘meat cleaver and jar of acid’ at the ready.
Years ago, I covered the kuhingira of Politician’s Daughter in the west. From the onset, there was not a hint of trouble. The visitors were warmly received, shown to their seats, served drinks and a bite to nibble on while Politician, sat in his tent with his family and looked on intently as Visitors spoke with the microphone being passed from Visitor to Visitor to have a say.
When it was being passed down from last Visitor who had spoken and back to MC, one Visitor didn’t hand it over to him (MC). Instead, he held onto it for dear life, stood up and started talking - except, it wasn’t kuhingira talk. It was a mortifying rant, accusing Politician of not coming to his aid when he was still Minister of Defence to stop his cattle being rustled.
Visitor sitting nearest to Ranter Visitor tugged at his kanzu to get him to sit down. It didn’t work. When MC tried to step in and politely wrestle the microphone away, that too didn’t work. It was when the audio was cut by Silk Mobile that the ranting subsided. The silence that followed was so chillingly deftly, you could hear literally hear a pin drop onto the damp grass. For the rest of the day, Politician swung an acidic look, it would have put the shivers up Vladimir Putin and got me contemplating leaving the function and driving back to Mbarara for a stiff drink just in case I got accused of not doing anything to stop the rant.
Last year, I was at Friends crib for a luncheon to celebrate his mother’s birthday. One of his brothers who I knew to be the family black sheep, sat in the corner – eyes all blood shot and drinking gin in silence.
I didn’t have to have affande Felix Kaweesi’s riot police training to suss there was tension and a melee was in the making. The moment the sun disappeared, Black Sheep shot up and hurled a bottle into one of the circles.
Before anybody had a chance to react, the first punch landed on Uncle followed by rantings of how the family estate was being run since his father’s death and that as musika, Younger Sibling had no respect for him. When somebody shouted out: “But you are just a waragi drunko”, the melee kicked off proper bringing the birthday to a premature close.
We were heading to Mbale in a hired coaster. When we set off from Shell Bugolobi, there was no hint of trouble. Indeed, drinks were being passed round, the music was thumping and jokes were rife - until we got to Namawojolo. There, Elder Brother in the joke theme, told Cousins Wife that the reason she had four sticks of chicken is because Cousin couldn’t afford to buy her a half kilo of kidneys. The joke back fired especially at reference to the half kilo of kidneys and it opened up bitter five-year-old+ wounds.
Sisters-In-Law vilified, screeched and scratched at each other while Brothers and Cousins traded slaps and punches. While all this was going on, I was up front with petrified Conductor and Driver who were intent on driving us to the nearest police post.
These days, moment I hear ‘family gathering’, I just don’t want to know. would you?
Pictures: Mosrubn.wordpress.com, Pinterst.com, Who.int
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