Teenage Tantrum Meltdown

“If you don’t stop it this instance, I’m going to smack you!” Of all the sentences Mum used during the ten minute spat with Son in the supermarket, this was the only one that did not contain swear words.

Son was probably no more than 6-years-old and had thrown a tantrum because Mum, had not bought him a box of miniature cereal packets. He was so vexed that he threw a tsunami of tantrums - wiping everything on the display shelves to the floor and following it up with a screaming fit and throwing himself to the floor at the check-out counter.

Of course everybody had an opinion to offer. “Bad parenting” said one. “I blame the schools. The system has broken down” one chirped. Another said: “A good stroke of the cane would sort him out.” But I was in awe because in my days, at the first hint of a tantrum, Zeye’s left hand would have been quick to swing into action to neutralise the situation.”

We have all thrown tantrums. We threw them when we were kids and through school and at university. In our jobs today, we are still throwing them. Some of them are controlled while others, border on the tsunami like that of Son.

I think I was 7 when I last threw an extreme childhood tantrum brought on by a falling out with Mum. As she left my room, I sat on the bed seething and frothing at the mouth. And then just like that, it happened. I snapped and went into a rage in which, I tore up everything I came across including a new shirt I had been given. I was like Hurricane Katrina’s long ignored step-sister for it was brutal and nasty that when I was done, the damage freaked me out.      

On this occasion, Mum perhaps felt she had be hard on me and had returned to is say all is forgiven until she saw the destruction. She stood there, in shock and probably thinking this is not one for Zeye’s left hand alone to handle. This requires convening an elders or clan meeting and input from the best doctor at Butabika – just to be on the safe side.

I expected a walloping of a lifetime but this time, I didn’t get one. I was merely handed a needle and thread and told to start sewing back together the new shirt which, had been relieved of pockets, sleeves, buttons and collar.

I tried and though the end result was pathetic, Mum didn’t complain. She simply smiled and took the shirt away with her.

Months later when all was forgotten, as we got dressed to go on an outing, my sisters were given new dresses. I too got a new shirt – well kind of a new shirt. It was the shirt I had ripped to shreds during my extreme tantrum fit and told to sew back together.

Mum made me wear the shirt and I cried. I cried louder as I was dragged to the car and we set off to go and visit family friends. One sleeve fell off no sooner had I sat in the ride, while the rest of the shirt fell apart sometime into the journey.

Rounding the corner to our destination, panic set in and I cried even more. My sisters were also in a panic, but there was nothing they could do.

At the house, the gate was closed and as we waited for it to open, Mum swung me nonchalant looks. And just as they opened, she reached under her seat and pulled out a new shirt.

Though I still throw tantrums, that day marked the last time that I threw one – extreme or otherwise at my parents.

My Ride, My Rules - Period!

We called him Reverend - though I never saw him in a dog collar or heard him talk about a sermon he had given. There was though, a tattered bible that was always on his desk, so that might explain the name.

Seeing I was in my ride and headed into town, Reverend asked for a lift which was okay with me, provided he observed the rules of the ride. With that, I lit up a sportie and puffed away. Reverend complained and I was about to remind him of the rules, but compassion set in. Realising I had gone more than a tad too far, I bit my tongue – even though it was my ride and could do what I wanted, there was no harm in holding back on the smoking until Reverend had been dropped off. I felt so bad that 

I actually apologised to him as I tossed the cigarette out of the window.

In traffic outside Electoral Commission on Jinja Road, Cypress Hill, were in full cry on the pimped up car stereo  - something about: “...hanging out my window and my magnum taking out some puto’s...” when all went dead. Looking round, Reverend is fiddling with the stereo.

Let me rephrase so you get the gist of the gravity of the situation. Cypress Hill had been muted and Reverend was fiddling with MY pimped up stereo and in MY ride because it was too loud. 

Tossing out my cigarette for him was tight. Not observing the rules of the ride? So not on! We all know that when you are in Chaps ride, especially one who has a pimped up stereo, you don’t tamper with it. It’s a killable offence, just like Al Shabab Man would want to return to earth to slit the throat of Imam who had told him that in heaven, 72 virgins await him when he blows himself up but gets there to find two skinny women nibbling on bacon rashes and who happen to be prostitutes.

A tumbavu was unleashed and reiterating the ‘my ride, my rules’, I reached across him, opened the door and literally pushed him out followed by another tumbavu and said in a belittling tone.  

With a bewildered Reverend ejected into the middle lane on Jinja Road to get knocked by the boda’s and taxi’s, the pimped up speakers kicked in and once again, the lyrics - “...hanging out my window and my magnum taking out some puto’s...” reverberated down Jinja Road.

Enough of me, let’s talk Barack Obama. The other week, he was heckled as he gave a speech in his house. He tried to reason with Heckler for almost five minutes - telling her that she was “in HIS house eating HIS hors d’oeuvers and drinking HIS beer”, but Heckler went on and on, that he simply stood there and got insulted.

And in HIS home!

But how does that happen? Somebody getting into YOUR ride and disrespecting YOU by tampering with YOUR stereo, Chap can easily pull out a knife and stab you. Inviting a person to YOUR house to eat YOUR food and drink YOUR booze and that person insults you? Chap can easily kill!

That said, Obama, style up, man up and start bouncing the filth out of your house - just like I did with Reverend - you with me?

But that Reverend, he was something else. Can you imagine the next day at work, he had the audacity to report me to the bosses – Barbra K and Cathy M, and anybody who cared to listen, about how I had thrown him into traffic without a penny in his pocket. “Well, he shouldn’t have tampered with the pimped up stereo. Even God - his boss, knows that” was my line of defence.

Biatch, Wata Ya A Gwaan?

“Biatch! Eeeh, whappn no baby. You look good ina ya car eh. Long time mi watch ya, mi wha chat to ya. And ya a gwaan like ya nuh wha chat to me. So whappn Dre, tell em whe di f*** a gwaaan nuh”. The opening lyrics to Dr. Dre’s 1992 hit – Let me ride.

John Nagenda, who has near perfect English and can also interpret Latin, would be hard pressed to master Dre, as would Parent or English Don at Makerere University. I just about got the drift – but through Teen Nephew being on hand.

In English, this is what I think was said: “What’s happening baby? You look good in your car. It’s been a long time and I’ve been watching you. I want to talk to you, but you don’t want to talk to me. So what’s happening Dre…” The last part of the last sentence is rather heavy, so I’ll leave it at that.   

Today, Teen speaks a language that’s similar to English but, is not. Half the time when I hear Teen jazz (talk), I shut up. When I throw in ‘pardon, what did you just say?’ the response is, “jeez, get with it.”

On Twitter, WhatsApp, txt and Facebook, half the messages I get, don’t make immediate sense like the first time Teen sent me a txt that simply read: “Plot?” Plot…what? Teen so I assumed, hadn’t completed the message, but nothing else filtered through which, got me thinking. A plot of land perhaps? A conspiracy?

‘Plot’ so it turns out, means ‘what’s happening?’ Was it so hard for Teen to have said that? Parent, you see how Teen jazz can annoy?

Weeks ago, Niece on a Malta holiday, was having a conversation on the family WhatsApp forum with her cousins, aunts and uncles. I was part of the conversation but along the way, I lost track when Niece Savy said: “Skeen sun tan inna di summa sun...” I wanted to ask what she was on about, but got frightened of being ridiculed on the forum.

When I use social media, I’m from the past or to use today’s teen jazz – old skool. To Teen, it’s imperative that it’s written as skool and not school. Anyway, I type out the full length of each word. I don’t abbreviate and watch my punctuation which has Teen complaining – that he has no time to read my lengthy book messages. Hmm!

In my teens, we too had our jazz though not comparable to that of today. My first attempt at teen jazz with my parents didn’t go down well. At all.

Whenever we sat down to dinner, our family prayer was: “For what we about to receive, may the good lord make us to be truly thankful” - until I landed from boarding school full of a ‘sense of change’ and more gusto than a prized bull being led into a kraal with two heifers, I let rip with the school grace – “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, ye God.”

An icy silence seeped through the dining room. Suddenly I was freezing yet, I dripping with sweat. My temperature shot up and the beginnings of a running stomach took hold.

The stare I got from Mr. Bukumunhe, my dad that is, didn’t need interpretation. It read: “If you don’t remove yourself from this table this instance for taking the lords name in vain, you will get the walloping of a lifetime!” I fled.                  

However, today Teen would have stood his ground and shot back: “Wata ya a gwaan creeper, like ya nuh kno mi fuss!?”

But Parents, fret not, for if you don’t click (understand) what your Teen be jazzing (is saying), go online and consult The Urban Dictionary. It will sort you out.

Tampon's Are A Charitable Cause

It’s said somewhere – though, I have to admit, I don’t know where or who made the utterance, that as a Christian, I have a duty to give to those who don’t have.

I do. Ok, I lied. But I used to. I used to give to All Saints Church but gave up because every Sunday, they wanted more. And more. In forty odd years of giving offertory, they never once said to me: “Hey TB, we’ve taken enough of your dime so this Sunday, just chill.”

These days, my charitable contributions go to Silk Lounge, Miki’s, Nampeera’s and especially weddings, because I actually get something out of it like a good buffet meal, old school music – assuming DJ is switched on, and of course interesting conversation with my pals – the two J’s - Daniels and Walker along with TML and sometimes Jameson that, last way into the dead of the night at a fine hotel.

Today, there are hundreds of charities involved in anything from clean water to hunger, old people to the environment. I don’t know how many charities we have in Uganda, but Google tells me that in the UK, there are over 190,000 and they all want something from me – well us, and that is money to see through their cause.

With so many charities’ floating about, there is need to be noticed for us to give. Marketing has to be aggressive as Bob Geldof did with Live Aid in the 80 and Susan Nsibirwa does with Sunday Vision and Richard Branson does with his Virgin Group.

People have run round the world to raise money for charity. They’ve also done marathons, walked across the Sahara, jumped out of planes,bungee jumped and so forth. But still, charities need to push further to get noticed.

Recently I came across a previously unheard of charity, and I probably wouldn’t have given them a second glance had two things not stood out. The charity is raising money for women in Uganda and secondly and I got to pause here for a while because I don’t know how to word it. But what the heck, let me just blurt it out. The charity is called #JustATampon and in partnership with Plan UK, they aim to break the stigma, embarrassment, gender inequality and taboo surrounding women’s periods.

They have come up with the most unusual campaign to raise money for Ugandan Woman. The idea is that you post a picture of yourself holding a tampon onto social media - Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, accompanied by the dedicated hashtag and a donation of £3 (sh20,000) to support their menstrual health work and projects in Uganda and beyond.

They say that the £3 each participant donates can provide Ugandan Girl sanitary towels for a year and help tackle the discrimination she faces - not just around menstrual hygiene, but other issues like child marriage and female genital mutilation. Tampon campaign also goes on to ask how much do men know about periods.

Tampax Compak Pearl, say the campaign is working and found that two thirds of UK men now agree that they would not be embarrassed to talk about tampons with women.

But pause. How many Ugandan women – let alone us sneering men, would happily pose for a picture with tampon in hand and seeing the picture plastered on social media – let alone in Sunday Vision or Bukedde? 

For sure, Simon Lokodo at the ministry of ethics and integrity would step in and arrest anybody caught with ‘women’s things’ while our MPs would find the campaign inappropriate and bleat: “We are honourable MPs. How can you ask us to do something utterly dishonourable? Tampons ought to be out of sight or in the pit latrine!”

The Solution? Simply Sue!

Picture this scenario. After reading all the terms and conditions, you fill in the form for a job with Sunday Vision. But at the interview, Dr. Wendo, the editor, turns you down because one of the provisos of the job is that you work on Sunday – something you feel you can’t do because of your religious beliefs - as in Sunday being a day of worship. So what do you do? Call Lawyer and take them to court.

Claiming religious discrimination, Aurelie Fhima, who is Jewish, did just that when Travel Jigsaw, a UK firm, turned her down because she couldn’t work on the Sabbath – the Jewish rest day from Friday to Saturday evening. The firm wrote to her saying: “We cannot offer you a position because we are looking for people flexible enough to work on Saturday’s.”

Court found in her favour and awarded her £8,000 (sh34m) for lost earnings, £7,500 (sh30m) for injured feelings and £1,200 (sh5m) in legal fees – a grand total of sh68m for er, er...for ‘doing a job’ that she never got.

Meanwhile, in Scotland, Wedding Cake Baker was in court for refusing to bake a cake for a marrying gay couple. Court awarded them £42,000 (sh176,400,000) because their “...human rights had been infringed and for discrimination against a gay couple.” But I thought the rule of - ‘my bakery, so I decide who I bake for’ applies - no?

In Wales, Farmer who built a barn was told by Authority that it may have to be demolished because he didn’t have planning permission. Rather than wait for court to issue the demolition judgement, Farmer simply demolished it. I am sure you know what I am going to say next, but for the benefit of those with a Sunday hangover, he was taken to court ‘for wilful destruction of property’ and fined £36,000 (sh151,200,000) – even though it was HIS property and the same court two days later passed judgement for it to be demolished.

Rounding up, a McDonald’s outlet in Dallas, Texas forked out close to $20,000 when a woman took them to court because ‘the tea was so hot, it scalded her tongue and the insides of her mouth’.

In Kampala, anybody who has been to DeWinton Street to eat kigere will know that it’s served piping hot and there is a need to chill a while and let it cool before taking it on. If kigere scalded my mouth and I took the outlet to court, I wonder what Owner would tell court? “Judge, kigere is supposed to be served hot. If it’s not, we would not have any business.” And with that, I would be fined for wasting court time.

Mama Justine in the new taxi park next to the Rubaga stage, serves tea and porridge that is volcanic hot, it will give you third degree burns and needing a skin graft if it spilt on you. She serves it in metal Tumpeco cups or gama’s as they are referred to downtown. If the porridge or tea does not scald the skin off your mouth, then the hot metal of the gama will. Should we also take her to court for selling scalding hot tea and buugi? Better still sue her for using cups that scald?

I believe in retribution - if we are justifiably aggrieved but for drivel, hmm, WTF is say! Should Nodin, Kayos, Paulo, Doc and I sue Nampeera in Bunga for discrimination and injured feelings seeing she closed her doors at 10:00pm – yet as a kafunda, we expect her to stay open till the cock crows? In court she would tell Judge – “my kafunda, my rules, my closing hours” - unlike in Europe or the US where we would have walked away with a massive payout because ‘our human rights to drink were infringed upon’. 

A Job To Die For - A Saudi Hangman?

I am not an educationalist, but I think that as a nation, we Ugandans are smart people who have been called upon to serve on the global arena. Louis Kasekkende, Deputy Governor at Bank of Uganda and Richard Kaijuka once served at the World Bank while today we have Winnie Byanyima at Oxfam, Alan Kassujja at the BBC and Sam Kutesa at the UN.

My understanding of a ‘pre-university’ education is to enable us to evolve with the world and do the basics - write, maths and most importantly, think. Others go on to university to get a degree and specialize in a skill like law, medicine, engineering and mass communication. It’s that university degree that sets you up in a chosen profession.

However, there is a ‘but’ – and I guess you didn’t see it coming this early into the column did you? Imagine the pain and anguish of having spent years at Makerere then going abroad to read yet more sophisticated books to get that PhD qualification only to come back to find you can’t get a job. Ouch!

Worse, if the PhD does get you a job, it’s worth a partly salary of sh1.5m a month, and capping it all, there is somebody behind the scenes who is out to kulemesa (frustrate) you.    

Luzira Hangman is once such person with job frustrations. The expertise of hanging people is not taught at Makerere, so it was to China that he went to learn the trade. In an interview last year with a colleague - Petride Mudoola, he said: “There is no room for error in my job. The person I hang never kicks around while dying. He dies immediately with almost no discomfort. The art lies in how you tie the knot that crushes the neck. If that does not kill him, I hit him hard at the back of the head with a hammer or a crow-bar.”

Returning from China, he got a job at Luzira Prison and for a while everything worked out. He had registered over 100 hangs, maintained neat gallows of an office, was always in time for work and when he got appraised, I guess he scored A’s because as he said – “I have mastered the art of killing without causing pain.”  

But without warning, his career came crashing down because State House sought to ‘kulemesa (frustrate)’ him. In order for Hangman to do his job, the occupant of State House - M7 that is, has to sign the execution warrants – something that he last did in 1999 that, there are now 393 prisoners’ on death row.

After 16-years of being on katebe, why not follow Kassujja and Byanyima abroad for that lucrative US$ paying job because, having a back log of 393 prisoners to hang does not good on his CV and affects his promotion chances.

Hangman needs to head to the Middle East because last month, Saudi Arabia, advertised for eight new executioners to carry out the increasing number of death sentences – not by hanging but public beheading.

No special qualifications are needed for the job, whose main role is ‘executing a judgement of death’. However, before he leaves for Saudi, he might want to take a short course at Mulago Hospital - in the amputations department or with stone throwing rioters because according to the advert, ‘other duties involve performing amputations, stoning to death adulterers and surgically paralyzing offenders under the strict eye-for-an-eye legal policy.’

Hangman, the downloadable pdf job application form is available on the Saudi civil service website and if successful, they offer an attractive benefits package including a housing allowance and six months’ sick leave on full pay.

It’s an inhumane and barbaric job to do, but if M7 has put you on katebe, do you have a choice? 

Who Are You Calling Basic?

Granted, we all argue and some of us employ the use of swear words. The ‘F’-word, is one that’s most favoured – perhaps because it’s universal and the message is explicitly clear that we are – err, peeved off, not amused, vexed and despise the person we are hurling the word at.

But it doesn’t just stop at there. For greater effect, the ‘F’-word, is sometimes preceded by another word, but let’s leave it at that – shall we? Cool, because there are other swear words that I can’t mention as the Sunday Vision censor board would duly strike them out.

But we don’t always have to use swear words to froth at the mouth. That young lady on Urban TV – Mary Luswatta that is, does not use swear because it’s not her style. Rather, she belittles using clean words and she does with such effect that the people she belittles don’t belittle her back, but resort to the ‘F’-word because it’s their first line and last line of defence.

Enter a lady called Kate Moss. To the fashionistas, she is one of the world’s top models who, has made a fortune strutting her body down the catwalk in clothes that most women can’t afford to buy.
However, in my Musoga opinion, her body is basic and more like a rack of left over pork spare ribs whose fat and most meat, has been trimmed off by Wandegeya Butcher before he hung it up for sale.
One thing that all models have in common is being prima donnas who throw tantrums, unleash waves of arrogance and of course use the ‘F’-word when they don’t get their way.

But all that’s changing. Women are no longer into the ‘F’-word for its lost its flavour and that ‘out for the count’ punch. Today they belittle – if not, use the hottest diss word on the circuit and that is calling somebody a ‘basic bitch’. Ouch, did you feel that?! In a recent video with the artiste Marc Jacobs, there is a scene where Moss looks says: “...calling all the basic bitches, I have an announcement...you are basic”, while Lady Rapper Kreayshawn, in her video Gucci Gucci raps: “...them basics bitches wear that shit so I don’t even bother!” A 2009 entry in the Urban Dictionary, defines the phrase as: “A bum ass woman who thinks she is the shit but really ain’t”.

In Uganda, there is an endless supply of airhead chicks and who fit the basic bitch profile because they find simple things amusing and fascinating – like taking selfies and on FB, wanting to be friends with everybody – even if they don’t know them, attending all Liquid Silk parties and incredibly, have just figured out how to use the location app on their Samsung. If not, they are crammed into Akamweesi Hostel watching the latest episodes of The Good Wife and realising - with a great sense of pride I might add, that Twitter, is not a soda or chocolate bar, but a social media platform.

So Lady Artiste, when Luswatta on Scoop on Scoop or your BFF disses you, don’t go flapping back by hurling as many ‘F’-words at them as possible. Just retort by calling them basic – if not, go for the jugular and use the whole term - basic bitch, for it leaves a most annoying itch that even the nvunza’s from Kamuli cannot muster.

But if they beat you to the punch and use the basic bitch diss on you, fret not. Call them a froyos – which is an ouch, ouch, ouch diss in reference to airhead chicks who on the weekends, binge on freebie pizzas, KFC and drinks, get rawdogged - then exercise obsessively and eat frozen Jessa yoghurt all week to avoid gaining weight.

Just in case you have no idea what rawdogged means, err, brace yourself. It is jargon for having sex without a condom.

Note: This article was due to run in my column this Sunday, but Sunday Vision and with some justification have pulled it.