Ugandan Men, The UK Is Looking For Sperm Donors!

Out there, there are a number of people who are into healthy living. They watch their salt and sugar intake and they drink water. They also go to the gym and so on. Suffice to say, I am so not one of them!

I am not one of them because, whenever I read the health pages in newspapers or magazines, the stories are alarmist. One day they will tell you that drinking two glasses of wine a day is good for you and come the following week, they say it’s not good. One day tea is good for you and the next, it isn’t. Red meat is not good for you as is pork, coffee and even some vegetables so they claim. If you really follow the health pages, they would have us starve to death because all that we eat is not good for our bodies. And I am not prepared to do that – to starve.

However, in the UK, the health experts are in a panic and not because the amount of pork people are eating or wine they are quaffing. They have a far more important issue to worry about like the lack of good quality sperms! Yes, in the UK, the men who donate their sperm to the sperm banks are donating low quality sperms.

Just like we donate blood in Uganda, in the US and Europe, men also donate sperms which, makes good economic sense. When we donate blood, all we get from Nakasero Blood Bank, is a warm Coke or Fanta and a stale Marie biscuit. They don’t even give you transport.

But donating sperm in the US is a different matter. Not only will they give you Playboy magazine or a porn movie to watch whilst you are in the hospital cubicle and for the lack of a better phrase to use – ‘masturbating into a test tube’, they also pay you $80 (Sh180,000) for your efforts!

Though the UK does not pay, you can be compensated for "loss of earnings". The amount you can claim depends on how long the ‘masturbating took’. Hmm!

Now this is where Allan Pacey, chairman of the British Fertility Society comes in. In a press statement issued last week, he said: 'We simply do not have enough sperm donors in the UK'.

I managed to get hold of Pacey’s e-mail address and this is what I had to tell him.

Dear Mr. Pacey,

It is quite obvious why you don’t have enough sperm donors. In the US they pay $80 a pop and in the UK, you get nothing. Don’t you think that men are bored of locking themselves up in the clinic cubicle with a test tube, a pornographic movie or Playboy without getting financial compensation? Do you know how much effort they have to put in while masturbating?

In Uganda, we have many men who are idle. With your permission, I could round up a hundred fit men and have them flown over to London where they would be happy to donate their sperm on condition that they are compensated.

As expected, Mr. Pacey has yet to reply. But what are the long term effects to those born by test tube? I mean, in the school playgrounds when a kid asks, where does your dad come from, what would the reply be? “From a test tube?

And if Uganda had a sperm bank, would the corporate fraternity and celebs line up to give their sperms? Who sperm would be on demand? Stephen Kiprotich? Golola Moses? Amooti, the comedian? Or perhaps James ‘FatBoy’ Onen? They downside for the women who would buy the sperm, is that the clinic will not tell you whose sperm you got. Think about it.

Pigs And Sheep Are Not Pets But Bar-Be-Cue!

In 1995, Universal Pictures released the movie Babe. It tells the story of a pig that wants to be a sheep dog and it was a movie that brought just about every six-year-old to ten-year-old in America to tears. It was such a hit that, from its $30 million production budget, it grossed $254,134,190 worldwide.

It didn’t end there. Activists around the country besieged movie theatres with flyers documenting the real life abuses of pigs. Further, pork sales went into a sharp decline because at the dinner table, kids would cry at the thought of having to eat Babe or one of its cousins. They also forbade their parents from buying pork and all because of the movie. On top of that, many kids started keeping piglets and pigs as pets.

There is also the story of 8-year-old Sarah who lived on a farm in North Yorkshire, England. When one of the sheep gave birth and rejected one of its lamb, Sarah, stepped in to save the day. She took the little lamb under her wings and mothered it as a pet. However, a few days before Christmas, the lamb got out of its pen and wandered off to the main road where, a 40-foot container truck did the needful and splattered its brains all over the motorway.

Sarah was so distraught that the incident made the national papers. It also got the attention of the then PM, Tony Blair, who invited her to Downing Street where he present her with another lamb.

This is where I come in. I was 10-years-old I guess, when on a trip to the village, Grand Dad give me a goat. Unlike Sarah, I didn’t think of looking after it as a pet – making sure it has eaten and all that crap. Rather, my thoughts revolved round: “Which knife is Farmhand going to use to slit its throat?”

Two days later and at the crack of dawn in the matooke plantation, with a steely Al Queda stare, Farmhand put the blade the goats throat that guess what we had for lunch – roast goat.

Black Kid and White Kid differ. Black Kid would still have eaten pork no matter how many times they saw Babe. And to go telling their dads not to buy pork because it might be Babe, or that a pet is being eaten, what nonsense is that? If I told Grand Dad that when he gave me the goat, his response would have been instantaneous – a swift left across my cheeks followed by: “Silly, tumbavu!”

If a speeding Gaga bus on its way to Kabale, knocked and killed a piglet that was a pet to a four-year-old from Ntungamo, I don’t see President Museveni inviting her to State House so that he can console her. He would think it a joke and would wonder what kind of broken and unserious home she came from. 

Ugandan kids have real pets, and I mean real pets like Pit Bull Terriers, Doberman Pinschers and Rottweiler’s. Not namby-pamby White Kid pets like goldfish or rabbits. In fact, any dog that is savage enough and has teeth with a potential to rip or maim at the snap of a finger, Black Kid considers it a pet.

So White Kid, listen up here. Ducks, pigs, piglets, goats and lamb are NOT pets! They are food! When you see them, don’t think pets rather, think of barbecue sauce coated racks of ribs roasting away on a bar-be-que on a Sunday afternoon. Do you see where I am coming from!? By the way White Kid, Black Kid and I are already devouring the ribs as you cry away for your pets. Tasty, very tasty!        

Soiled Knickers In The Post

When it comes to sex, Ugandans, pretend to be prudish and years ago, seeing a couple walk down Kampala Road and hand-in-hand would have be the talk of town. A couple kissing would evoke not only whispers but glaring stares.

But Uganda 2014 has changed. It’s no big deal now. It happens everywhere and so frequently that nobody gives a hoot except when women wear miniskirts or couples flaunt their gay and lesbianism feelings.

Behind closed doors, things happen that people swear never happen. In some secluded shops in Kampala, sex toys are openly sold and to people who go out of their way to portray themselves as squeaky clean sex saints.

London in the 80s was on ‘heat’ with sex. Telephone booths had stickers advertising anything from: ‘Big breasted blonde seeks mature man for afternoon of lust’ to ‘sexy tigress wants to whip you’.

Those were the ‘nice’ adverts. But, there were others that were hard to stomach like: ‘Blond nurse will send you her soiled knickers for 25 Pounds (sh105,000)’. If not that: ‘Glamour female banker selling her urine sample.’

Gary Nesbitt, my dwang at the time and I, always had this feeling that the adverts were a scam operated by London’s unscrupulous. But whatever reservations we had, we felt it was a scam worth investing in and in Blond Nurse for her soiled undies.

A week went by and every morning the postman delivered nothing but bills. Another ten days went by and again, no knickers but bills. Then one Friday he delivered a padded A3 sized envelope. The nondescript brown envelope got our hearts racing. What this it, did it contain the soiled knickers?  Ripping the envelope apart, out fell a plastic bag – similar to those used by the police to store crime scene evidence, and in it, its contents were all too evident. They were indeed knickers and on close inspection, they looked soiled though I can’t say for sure if the they were authentically soiled or not.

On a trip to Europe, we breezed into a small town called Bruges, on the Holland/Dutch border on a Sunday when families were strolling around and basking the in the summer wave. In just about every hypermarket, café, restaurant or store that we walked into, there was a family presence. In some cases, there were three or more generations of families – something that you do not see in Uganda.

In one hypermarket that we piled into, we found it was a sex shop with more floor space than Nakumatt, Game and Uchumi put together.

The first part of the store sold the usual stuff – Playboy, Penthouse or Mayfair magazines. But the further in that you walked, the magazines got more graphic as did the titles – Hustler, Knave and one that derives its name from a young cat – not a kitten, but the other young cat which, people call pussy, if you get my drift. At far end of the warehouse were toys for those into sadomasochism stuff - handcuffs, masks, chains, whips and so on.

While it was an eye opener, what is interesting, is that the Belgians and the Dutch are pretty much open when it comes to sex and are not embarrassed about it. Mum and Dad don’t shop for sex toys alone. They take along their sons and daughters plus their sons’ and daughters’-in-laws, uncles and aunts and grandparents regardless of age.

If a Ugandan bought soiled knickers or took his family to a sex shop, there would be a national outcry and they would be branded vile and immoral. But why? Everybody has a sexual fetish of some sort including, the prudes who claim to have squeaky clean sex lives!

Are We Getting Value For Money?

Are we getting value for our money? In this austere economic climate, like most people, I am careful whenever I spend. 

It had been a miserable Tuesday and beers were necessary to drink the misery go away. In the kafunda, when Waitress popped open the TML, its contents, shot out with the same gusto as a bottle of Moet et Chandon. When the gusto subsided, more than half of the beer was snaking its way across the dusty table and floor.

When the second bottle was served and bearing in mind the disaster that happened when the first bottle was opened, I told her to take her time but rather than heed my advice, I got the waitress smirk – you know the one that reads: “I have been in this job since I was 15-years old, so I think I know how to open a bottle of beer!” Once again, the beer came shooting out like Moet.

Cutting my losses, I the guzzled the rest of the beer and summoned for the bill. As expected, she had charged me 6k for both bottles. Hmm, I didn’t get value for money so I swung her 3k for both bottles which provoked an argument. When Waitress argues, it’s never between you and her. Ok it is, but she makes sure everybody in the bar, Boda Chap and the woman in the salon next door, know that she is in an argument. But I was not going to pay for what I didn’t drink.

“You gave me half a bottle and I will pay for half a bottle” I smirked back at her. Reluctantly, she accepted but after trying to put me on a guilt trip of how her boss is going to cut her wages. Guilt trips don’t work with me.

When I got home, I find that the tin of Nescafe which cost me almost 20k from Nakumatt is not full, but three quarters full as is, the bag of Omo and Jessa’s cup of yoghurt. To make matters even worse, DStv was showing last year’s repeats of Top Gear. Am I getting value for my money? No I am so NOT!

Come Sunday, a friend takes me out to brunch at Kampala Sheraton. Brunch runs from noon to 4:00pm and with their hefty prices (though I was not paying), we expected value for money. We did not want to hear that after the first helping, that was it. We wanted to eat our fill right up until 4:00pm when F&B Manager, Simon Kizito shuts down the kitchen.

After our first helping, Waitress cleared the plates and returned with the bill holder and that got our blood boiling. “65k for a side plate of cold meats and now you want us to pay and go” we sort of lashed out at her. But Waitress was composed and pleasant enough to tell us the bill holder contained ‘the comments card’, otherwise we were free to serve ourselves as many times as we wanted. Didn’t we looked stupid but hmm, value for money from the Sheraton!

The day however, was spoilt by a visit to the kafunda shop. Kafunda Shopkeeper has pre-packed bags of sugar from 1kg, to 5kg to 10kg. I bought the 5kg bag. However, when I plonked it on my scales at home, it was not 5kg, but 4.4kg. Jeez, Kafunda Shopkeeper is also trying to squeeze me just like Butcher did. It was only when I got home that I discovered Butcher had given me 4kg of bones and fat and only one kilo of meat which is not value for money. I wonder if Friend will take me back to the Sheraton?           

 

Ladies, Free That Nipple!

Out there are a number of pressure groups and before I get into the meat of today’s column, there is a need to explain what a pressure group is to people who don’t know.

In a nutshell, it’s a non-profit organization whose members have a common cause for which they seek to influence political or corporate decision makers to achieve a declared objective by promoting it and changing the status quo.

Pressure groups vary from those wanting to save trees, to those who believe meat should not be eaten to those wanting to save the ozone layer and those who want smoking banned.

I don’t have any beef with most of them save for those who want to ban meat for they do not know what they are talking about – and perhaps those who have issues with the tobacco companies.

Now this is where it gets complicated. Google tells me that a nipple, in its most general form, ‘is a structure from which a fluid emanates. More specifically, it is the projection on the breasts of a female by which breast milk is delivered to a child.’ However, what Google doesn’t tell you, is that nipples are considered an erogenous zone, a zone that makes me and men go gaga and start drooling.

I have lost you, haven’t I? Worry not, because you will soon see where I am headed. So I am reading the Daily Mail, a British newspaper, when I come across a US based female pressure group that I have not heard of and who call themselves – wait for it, wait for it, Free The Nipple.

I think I have gotten your attention – well at least most men’s attention not so?

One Sunday, about 20 female protesters took to Washington Square Park, proudly parading around topless and trying to recruit more activists to join them. They also used the opportunity to promote their upcoming feature film about their endeavors to end this insane war on women's boobs!

Free The Nipple, believe women should have the right to bare breasts and have beef with Instagram for women are regularly kicked off the site for posting photos with any portion of the areola exposed, while photos sans nipple - degrading as they might be - remain unchallenged.

Free The Nipple founder Lina Esco, 29, explained that: “In the USA it is Illegal for a woman to be topless in 37 states. In New York City, in 1992 it became legal to be topless in public, but the NYPD continued to arrest women. I believe these laws do not reflect the dream upon which the United States was founded.”

Hmm, so some women out there believe that wearing a bra and covering up is an infringement of their human rights? That is really very interesting.

So what’s going to happen next? Obviously one of our Ugandan sisters living in New York and who has been following the saga is going to get in touch with her sisters here in Kampala and persuade them to open up Free The Nipple – Uganda Chapter. And with that, in their topless state they will take to Kampala Road, get arrested by police and charged with moral indecency.

Of course in the beginning it would be fun to watch them, because there are a number of women whose breasts I, Anus, Doc and many other men would love to see. And when it came to arresting them, would they have only female police officers?

While the law here has problems with women and miniskirts, then I am certain that they will have more than just problems with women wanting to bare their breasts. But sisters, stand firm and free that nipple!   

Skin Colour Is Still An Issue

There are, some things that fascinate me, but skin colour is not one of them despite my having a soft spot for the ‘hot chocolate brown’ South American skin. And, I won’t fuss about it.

It was a quiet Monday at Jeremy’s carwash by the rail lines on the way to Nsambya and I am alone in the restaurant as the ride is being washed and engrossed in newspapers and magazines when he walks in.

Chinese Man was not of the affluent Chinese expatriate set like Madame Fang of Fang Fang restaurant fame. Going by his tattered dress code, he was scraping at the anus of the economic ladder.

In the restaurant that could probably sit 40 plus diners, and which was empty, save for three waitresses  - two who were asleep near last night’s left over chips and boiled eggs display, and one who was hoping I would leave so she could join them, Chinese Man chose to sit next to me. Hmm!

I expected him to ask questions and put down the paper but all he uttered was gibberish which, was the least of my freaking out. What freaked was when he picked up my arm and gingerly started stroking, rubbing and pinching it. Is there any need to tell you that my brain went into freak overdrive with thoughts of - he’s gay and he’s flown all the way from Guangdong or Sichuan Province to be with me? Another ‘hmm’ is called for don’t you think?

However, Chinese Man and with a big phew, was not rubbing, stroking or pinching my arm in a depraved, morbid lust filled drool coupled with a perverted gay twist, but rather in a strange curiosity of feeling black skin. Another hmm!

Satisfied there was no sexual intent on his part, what to do next? Do I still slap his hand away or do I let him live out his thrill of having touched black skin so he can tell the folks back in Guangdong or Sichuan Province? I let him be and once he’d had his fill and his curiosity quenched, he got up and left as nonchalantly as he had walked in.

Chinese Man, he, I could deal with, but Danish Man who I met in Sombrero’s Nightclub in Jinja two weeks ago was something else.

He accosted me in the VIP wing and like Chinese Man, he too had a fascination about black skin and as soon as I gave him audience, this is how the conversation unravelled.

Danish Man: “Gwe, ogamba ki? You know I am not really white but black?”

TB: “Oh really?!!”

Danish Man: “I have been living in Jinja for six years and I am even going to marry my Musoga girlfriend. Gwe, obade ki, leta Nile Special!”

TB: “But you are white with a European accent?”

Danish Man: “Am black, forget the white skin.”

Danish Man was in his element. Every ounce of Luganda or Lusoga that he had mastered in six years, he threw at anybody who cared to listen. He was as proud as that female peacock at Entebbe zoo on heat displaying its feathers and ecstatic at being ‘black’ and that he had a black woman.

And that got me thinking. If I asked him to give up his Danish citizenship and become a Ugandan, would he? And black people with white girlfriends who live in Europe, do they see themselves as being white?

I couldn’t be bothered with identity crisis Danish Man who thinks sleeping with a black woman makes him black. I would rather deal with unpretentious at the anus end of the economic ladder Chinese Man who felt black skin and still felt Chinese and not black.

Sirens And Flashing Lights

I have done research on this. Last year, in the British paper, the Daily Mail, the article was as follows: “PC Thompson was dismissed because he drove his police patrol car complete with lights flashing and siren blaring to get through traffic – not because there was an emergency, but because he wanted to get to the bank before it closed.”

In another story, this time in The New York Times, an ambulance driver was sacked for using the fire brigade with siren blazing to take his four-year-old kid to school’ so that Kid could impress his friends.

There are laws governing the use of emergency lights and sirens on police and private security cars, fire brigade and ambulances, but it seems the rules do not apply to Uganda. This is what happened.

Friday evening at 5:00pm and the traffic on Kira Road by the museum was chock-a-block. So bad it was that most motorists turned off their engines save for those on air con. After sitting in the traffic for 20 minutes there were sirens and flashing lights. Looking in the rear view mirror, an ambulance was a weaving through traffic and pulled up alongside me.

I was about to pull over and give him way but looking into the passenger seat, there was something amiss. There were four people crammed into the seat meant for two. In the back and despite the smoked windows, I could see numerous heads bobbing about.

I guess there is no need to guess what happened next or is there? There is. I was out of the ride and in the drivers face asking him why he is using his flashing lights and siren. He was mum. Looking into the back, there was no patient being rushed to the hospital but it was crammed with workers from the clinic – Case clinic along with their bags and being given a lift to the taxi park.

Obviously Driver and his ‘patients’ had no recourse but to start hurling abuse, abuse that fizzled once I lashed out with: “Tumbavu, stupid”! As other motorists took stock and joined me in reprimanding Driver and his ‘patients’, they almost cried and wished the road could open up and swallow them. Driver duly switched off the lights and siren and waited patiently in the traffic like the rest of us.

Then there is a man called Elijah. All I know about Elijah is that he donated an ambulance (UAT 056M), has been an LC5 Chairman since 2011 and will step down in 2016. I know this because his face and the details I mentioned are plastered all over the ambulance.    

Last month on Wednesday 21^st, his ambulance was stuck in a traffic jam at 6:00pm. So was I. To get out of it, he switched on the lights and sirens and off he went with cars pulling over to give him way. I followed suit except that I was on a bike. Right from 7^th Street, he went blaring to a clinic in Namuwongo with me on his tail. When he got there, there was no patient on board for when he opened the back door four healthy people – kitchen staff with bags of groceries, saucepans and toiletries tumbled out.

Confronting Driver, his defence in Luganda was: “Why do you think an ambulance has lights and a siren? To get through traffic! Now leave me alone!”

The people who abuse the system, will one day actually have a patient in the back and in critical condition but despite the flashing lights and siren blaring, we will not give them way as they rush to hospital because we will think they are once again taking workers to the taxi park.