It's A Robert Kabushenga Decision

In Twenty Days, 2016, will be nigh. A year that many of us - especially Hillary Clinton, would rather forget and hope that 2017 yields richer rewards. Except, the year won’t start off on a good footing for Hillary because come January 20^th, 2017, she is likely to be locked up in her bedroom and in an uncontrollable sob as The Donald is sworn in as president. 

Before the year ends, there are two memos we expect CEO - like Robert Kabushenga below, to have instructed HR to pin up on the notice boards at our places of work - that our end of year bonuses have been despatched to our bank accounts, and that the office Christmas party will be held on Friday at 4:00pm.

We all expect bonuses. We see it as a given for the work that we did throughout the year. Even Slacker who beat the systems that HR had set in place and always got in late and was the first to leave in the evenings or chopped work to go do his own things, expects a bonus.

It’s not just we who work for the big corporations that expect the bonus. Housie, Askari, Petrol Pump Attendant and Waitress, are all looking for rewards too. In the case of Petrol Pump Attendant, Askari and Waitress, they expect a double bonus – one from Employer and the other, from Customer who they so diligently served during the year.

But there’s a problem. By now, Chief Financial Officer would have informed CEO and HR, that the year was not good and thus, he is unable to find the money for bonuses – let alone spirit money away on a frivolous thing such as a Christmas party. And while Chief Financial Officer can hide away in his office on the 5^th floor – away from the mass of workers and not feel the eyes of busungu burrowing into him, its HR and anyone who works in that department that’s going to get it good and proper. The trickle-down effect will also be felt at home when Askari takes his sweet time opening the gate in the dead of the night, while Housie will serve a meal that not even the dog will eat.

However, there are a select few, like MP, Waitress, Traffic Cop, DUI Roadblock Cop who so won’t be beefing with Chief Financial Officer because they are a law into their own hands and their bonus is assured.

By the time MP can get us to pay for his funeral, a new car, a second hand suit, underwear and a vest from Hawker outside Amber House, he has the powers to make us give him a bonus. Waitress on the other hand, will pick up her bonus from adding the odd five beers onto your bill while you are in a drunken stupor. If you want thwart her plans, don’t run up a tab. Whatever you order, pay for it there and then and watch her froth at the mouth.

While it’s unlikely that Employee of Crane Bank will be getting a bonus as long as they still under the bosom of Bank of Uganda, or those of Barclays in Tanzania – if a leaked memo (Below) is to be believed, the mega bonuses this month will go to Cop – especially DUI Cop. Who wants to spend the Christmas holiday incarcerated in Jinja Road, Kabalagala or Wandegeya police stations?             

In the meantime, on the notice board at Sunday Vision, no memos of an impending end of year bonus or a Christmas party have been posted. But wait a minute, let me go check with Gaetano (Below) and Malaika Nnyanzi at Urban TV and with Siima Sabiti and Rudende at X-FM just in case, Chief Financial Officer, HR and most importantly, CEO - Kabushenga reached out them and left we at Sunday Vision out in the cold.  

Pictures: New Vision, M-Net, Twitter

Museveni Left Us For 'Dead'

Kicking off with a shameless but, self gratifying plug, Barbra Kaija (Below), is editor-in-chief of this great Sunday product – Sunday Vision. Jemima Na-gundi, who vivaciously defines herself as a ‘tiny frame full of endorsements’ and I concur with her on that, is one of my Twitter tights. Between them, they are responsible for this ramble because, for the best part of the week, writers block had set in until a WhatsApp txt from Barbra and a tweet from Jemima, jogged my memory.

In the run-up to Christmas, we are all looking for money. Some will get it legitimately. Others such as Goon, and due to embeera, will rob and kill - if need be. What Goon does, is to lay in the middle of the road at night when he ought to be at home with his family while pretending he’s a ‘left-for-dead’ accident victim. When you stop to help, along with Best Goon Friend who has been skulking in the shrubbery, they pounce and relieve you of your valuables. If not, Goon feigns his car has broken down and once you stop, I need not tell you what happens next.

We had spent the best part of the day in Kalangala, Sesse Islands, eating fish - something I am not particularly fond of, but more importantly, we were there to interview Mark Shuttleworth (Below), a South African who has a $750 million net worth on his ATM card, and who hit the headlines when he became the first African space tourist - an 8-day privilege that only set him back $20 million.

On our return to Kampala, I too felt privileged because I had opted to drive to and from Kalangala rather than hitch a ride in the sardine cramped Coster media bus. While Jeff Mbanga worked for Weekly Observer, he was nevertheless a friend who I invited to ride along with myself and New Vision photographer, Ronald Kabuubi in my Pajero as the rest of the media pack looked on in envy.

While we left Kalangala late but, in time to catch the last ferry to the mainland, there was no need to worry. Pajero had been serviced only days before and I had no issues with driving at night even though parts of Masaka road were known Goon blackspots. Then Pajero decided to overheat that necessitated stopping at a small village and politely asking for some water. With radiator replenished, minutes later, we were on our way.

Once off the ferry and though Pajero kept on overheating, we made it to Total, Nyendo where Mechanic did his thing and declared it fit to make it to Kampala.

Except, we didn’t make it to Kampala but, to the middle of a Goon infested operational zone where there are no houses and no life. To get help, we sought to flag down passing motorists at 11:00pm - like anyone would be foolish enough to stop.

The first car that turned up slowed like it was set to stop, then picked up acceleration and dove off. The second crossed the lane to avoid us. The third would have stopped but didn’t, when they saw Jeff and Ronald emerge from the Pajero. The terrified occupants shouted: ‘abo babbi’ and sped off.

That got me thinking. I’d seen people standing by cars in Mabira forest and frantically trying to flag me down in the dead of the night and did I stop? Heck no. That’s a such a Goon stunt so, better safe than sorry I would smirk at the stranded motorist as I sped on to safety.

At 2:00am and resigned to the notion that Goon and Best Goon Friend could slither out of the dark, slit our throats and rob us, out of the dark comes a car with flashing lights. As it slows, its exactly what we wanted to see - a police Subaru. Help had finally arrived.

Except, police Subaru didn’t stop. The cops in it, peered out at us then carried on into the night and minutes later, a convoy of army Land Cruisers followed. And that’s when the shilling dropped – Museveni’s convoy was heading to Kampala. We clearly saw him (M7) in the back of the Cygnus because the overhead light was on but, he didn’t see us for he was busy reading. However, his driver and his then ADC, Wilson Mbadi, did see us as did the rest of the convoy.

Do you know what they did? They didn’t stop. They drove on. They left us at the mercy of Goon. They left us for dead and the headline in the papers the following day would have read: “Goon Slits Scribes Throats on Masaka Road”, with Bukedde chirping in with a one-liner ‘Bafu’ headline.

Was I vexed that they didn't stop? No. Were Jeff and Ronald vexed? No. We took it in our stride. Yes, we did utter a few no so kind words after the last Land Cruiser got swallowed up by the dark but we didn't vex. We took it in our stride as any other scribe would have done.    

We figured the reason Police Subaru Cops, M7, Mbadi and the rest of the convoy didn't stop, is because they too, had heard of Goon’s Masaka Road nocturnal activities and that when they saw us, Mbadi turned to M7 and shouted out: “Mzee, abo, babbi. Tuduke!” And with that, Driver didn't need a reason to floor the Cygnus all the way back to the safety of State House Nakasero.

Pictures: Sunday Vision, Internet

It's Obama's Kids Who Scare And Not The Donald

For the past three weeks, Americans - and the world at that, have been troubled over having The Donald in the White House. While many are looking at the larger picture, I’d rather we simmer down, hold onto our underpants and knickers and look at something else. The children. It's not The Donald that we should really be scared of, but rather, the children that Barack Obama and his predecessors raised - and who will now be raised by him (The Donald). Let's look at them in comparison to Museveni's children - or those of his predecessors.  

America:

From a tender age, children struggle with gender identity like 8-year-old Ashley - now Ash, who recently made the news because he was born a boy but now lives as a girl. Children like Ash are in turmoil over their gender and a feeling that they don't fit in - with some sinking so low, they consider suicide. Describing how she often never feels ‘right’, Ash explained: “I feel like a regular girl, but I am not. There is something inside me that is saying to come out. Living as a boy felt like telling a lie.” Hmm. 

Uganda:

From the onset, I knew I was a boy and would develop into a man. As a boy, I knew dolls and kwepena were not male games. Plus somehow, I don't think my dad or any of your dads would have stayed up all night making placards and taken to demonstrating outside the High Court or UBC if you or I had woken up on Tuesday and decided we were born Vinta, Dianah or Ronah and not TB, Nodin, Julio Kayos, Paulo or Willo. That most suicidal stunt, would have our dads calling for family and clan meeting and a stint with the Doctor in Butabika and being stripped of all family rights.

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America:

When Parent melts out discipline, it’s not that straight forward. Parent is always on bunkenke and needs to tread very carefully. If Kid gets grounded, told to go tidy their room, gets shouted at, slapped or abused, he knows what to do. And that’s picking up the phone and reporting the ‘assault’ to the police and child social authorities. And he won’t end it there. Kid goes that step further and hires Lawyer, goes to court and divorces Parent.

Uganda:

Mbu Parent being on bunkenke with Kid?! Lol, it’s always Kid being on bunkenke with Parent. Kid has no rights. Their views are meaningless. That Kid can wake up and out of the blue, go to police and report Parent for assault, abuse or whatever? Or better still, hire Kiwanuka and Karugire Advocates with the intention of suing and divorcing them? Let me assure all those kids who want to be like American Kid to forget about it. This is Ug, and in Ug, Ug Parent does not tolerate that American nonsense and will so wallop the stupidity, kajanja and mputu out of you.

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America:

When School Teacher puts Kid in detention, suspends or expels him, that move natrually lights a busungu fuse because weeks later, Kid is going to walk into school armed with a Kalashnikov and walk the corridors spraying bullets at anybody he comes across. And for good measure, he will go home and nonchalantly slit Parents throat with a Rambo knife, then sit down to a tub of popcorn and watch the entire Die Hard movie collection like nothing has happened as Parents bleed away to a slow death on the kitchen floor.

Uganda:  

Detention, suspension or being expelled? Even here in Uganda, the busungu fuse gets lit though, it’s not Kids fuse that’s being lit. It's Parent’s fuse. And Parents fuse lights up badly especially when it comes to education. being suspended or expelled is inviting a tsunami of a beating. It's a given along with being made to sleep outside on the veranda, slashing the grass and having a life worse than that of a slave.  

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America:

When Kid sees a piglet, chickens or a lamb, for some strange reason, they don't see food. Like to two poor souls below, they see pets and sometimes, Hollywood will make a movie out of the 'pets' - like they did with the 1995 movie, Babe. And Kid goes a step futher feeds them botles of milk and will have them slepp in the main house. Dare take American Kid to Ugachick, Kampala Meat Packers or introuduce them Swaibu who in kyalo, always has a sharp knife and machete on hand and ready to do the needful and he will forever hate you and call you a sadist. 

Uganda:

Kid is focused. Piglets, chickens or lamb are NOT pets and going to watch them being slaughtered at Ugachick or Kampala Meat Packers or seeing Swaibu do the needfull is much better than an outing to Disneyland. A pig is a mere invitation for Butcher to whip out his knife or machete and slicing off the heads then, turning the carcasses into Saturday pork to be served with accompaniments, or deep fried into KFC or grilled into lamb chops.  

Now do you see where am coming from? I feel safe and so should you that here in Uganda, Kid will leave home as TB, or Nodin or John and return as TB, Nodin or John and not as Vinta, Nancy, Emily or Susan. That when he goes to kyalo to see Jajja, he won't come back with a piglet as the family pet, but as a reason to call his tights a Sunday barbecue muchomost fest and that if he gets expelled from school, he will come home and accept his kiboko's and not go on a rampaging shooting spree or slit my throat as I sleep.    

Pictures: Internet

Business Cards For Toilet Cleaner?

In the controversial 1993 Robert Redford, Demi Moore and Woody Harrleson movie – Indecent Proposal, there is a scene where John (Harrleson), an architectural lecturer, is giving a class, holds up a brick and says: “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be... See you on Friday.”

We all want to be something. We want to be better than who we are. We want to have a self-worth and more importantly, we all want to be taken as somebody important.

In Ogun State - Nigeria, there is Prince Ade Adesanya. Aside being a prince, his calling card reads: Friend of The Governor.

Err, what did Harrleson tell his class? - “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is - wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

Les is a soft spoken Englishman. When he landed on our dusty streets in the late 90s, he opened a small bar in Muyenga called Jacaranda at Tank Hill Parade shopping complex where he built a small loyal clientele – Dr Gladys Kalema – Zikusooka, Dr Paul Kiwanuka, David Mwakitele, Evelyn Kiapi and myself amongst others, where many raucous nights went down.

One thing about Jacaranda that made it appealing - especially to the women, were the toilets. There was Full-time Attendant who, checked on them round-the-clock with a zeal. One night as I sat with Les, Full-time Attendant gingerly hobbled over and perched himself a fair distance way while letting out polite attention coughs. When Les beckoned him over, Full-time Attendant handed him a note – a note that bore the supplies he would need to execute his duties the following week. It was well presented and it included a rough estimate of the prices for each of the requirements.

At the end of the shopping list, not only had he signed and dated it, but bless him, he had also given himself a job title – that of: Head Toilet Cleaner.

Like Harrleson said to his students in the movie: “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

Back to Nigeria and there is a certain Dr (Mrs) Merit Gordon Obua who bagged herself a title courtesy of her husband’s job. Her 'job' title read: Wife of the Chief Security Officer to the President, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces – Federal Republic of Nigeria.

Again, the Harrleson quote comes into play: “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

In one of M7s early ministerial appointments after the bush war, he appointed a doctor as his State Minster for Health which, made sense. While it was the duty of Official at the ministry to furnish Minister with business cards, his wife was not to be left out and she too joined the party. She had her own business cards printed off - not for whatever business she was running, but and wait for it, wait for wait it – but as: Mrs Deputy Minister of Health. She went a step further that whenever she went to kyalo, at her insistence, she was not to be referred to as Mrs X, but as, Mrs Deputy Minister of Health.

Like Harrleson said: “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

For obvious lawsuit reasons, Simeon is not his real name. I had been in school with him and when I returned to Uganda in the very late 90s, over lunch when he we gave me his business card, I was impressed and happy for him because, his job title read: President and CEO.’ I couldn’t wait to see the million-shilling outfit he was running. The ‘million-shilling’ outfit he was President and CEO of, was on the third floor of a building behind Uganda House – down a narrow dimly lit dusty corridor and past Watch Repair Man and Juice Woman. In a small and cramped office, which he shared with a million-other people, he was President and CEO of his small desk which he rented and from where he plied his trade as a printer.

Need I remind you of what Harrleson said to his class?: “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

And finally, there is David Ibukun Maiye (Below). His card simply reads: Chief Barber to The President. 

What did Harrleson say? “Even a common ordinary brick wants to be something more than it is. It wants to be something better than it is. And that is what we must be.”

Seeing everybody wants a business card, I'm off to Nasser Road to pick up my cards and I haven't strung out all my names nor given myself a fancy title above my station. It simply reads: TB - Chief Tumbavu Crier.

In this case, what did Harrleson NOT say? "Even a common ordinary brick wants to be the brick that Boda Man pees against. It wants to be something fwaa. If that is what my brick wants to be, then let it be."  

   

If Hilary Had Won, What Next For The Donald?

If Hilary Rodham Clinton (Below), had been elected the 45^th President of the 'free world' - The United States of America and the first POTUS at that, one of her pending issues would have been - 'Just what on earth do I do with The Donald' – as in Donald Trump, her bitter Republican rival for the presidency.

Of course she could have ignored him, but The Donald (Below), was likely to keep on sniping away at her heels throughout her four-year-tenure. Perhaps she could have taken drastic action and handed him over to the feared Los Zetas, a cartel who control Mexico’s notorious suburb - Juarez Valley, where many of the would-be-immigrants into America and who would have been clambering over his immigration wall reside and let them tear him apart.

But pause a minute. There are many women out there who are still seething and foaming at the mouth over the comments he made about them during the election campaign and who would love to sink their teeth into him. For that, she perhaps need look no further than Mpigi, here in Uganda, where Mpigi Woman has been on the rampage.

I do stand to be corrected, but if I recall from my so not-paying-attention geography classes, Mpigi, is a town in Mawokota County, Mpigi District. It’s also an important transit town on the highway to Masaka and has a staunch Buganda populous where one of Buganda’s most renowned traditional gods – Kibuuka Ommbaale resides as well as it being the ancestral home of the ndiga (sheep) clan.

Nothing tangible thats worth gloating about really comes out of Mpigi - save for ndiga, nsenene and oba what else, but recently, someting did - enough to get the town a mention in the newspapers – not because the ndiga had ran amok, but because of spousal battery. And this is where we jump in. It’s not that Mpigi Man is battering Mpigi Woman, but Mpigi Woman is battering Mpigi Man. Hmm. So ‘concerned’ are the police that Victor Kule, (Below) the regional police commander for Katonga region, has been tasked with making sure that Battered Man gets police help.

Just like men who batter women, women who batter men don’t have signs hanging off their necks that read: ‘I batter my man.’ And they are not necessarily the muscly butch type women with grey strands of hair between their bosom and who hang out in sweaty UNHCR tarpaulin covered makeshift Kawempe gyms behind Roko and doing squat thrusts with Moses Golola.

The first battered man I came across in Uganda was at Ggaba Police station a few years ago. He was built – not 100% pure muscled beef, but had enough beef on him to handle himself in a melee. It was the third time he was reporting to police that he had been battered by Wifey.

However, to Fat Female Cop, Battered Man was merely wasting time police time for she said something along the lines of: “But look at you, you are a man and you really can’t take care of yourself!?” She went further and this time joined by Male Cop, they belittled him in front of everybody who was there to report a case, those under arrest and those merely passing by. OC on the other hand, just didn’t want to know.

And when Wifey walked in, she was the most petite women I’d seen in a while but had the most vicious temper and an abuse vocabulary that was so acidic, it literally made the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Moving on, I have never met the television personality MC Kats (Below) nor have I met his finance or is it now his ex-fiancé, Fille Mutoni (Far Bottom). Apart from her thigh power, Fille looks like the girl next door. I don’t know where she comes from, but if its Mpigi, then her battering Kats recently was a battering waiting to happen.

So, what exactly happened? Err, Fille thumped the living daylights out of Kats in public and no one was sympathetic to him but, we did take delight in mocking and ridiculing him. He was the butt of jokes from Koboko to Kisoro and we men (and women too) smirked and sneered: “What sort of man is Kats to allow a kawala to goof him?” 

If he (Kats) on the other hand had battered Fille, he would have been plucked from the streets and whisked on the back of a police pickup to CPS faster than it takes Uganda’s foot dragging and slowest waitress to pop open a bottle of Tusker Malt. That aside, an army of women  - led by the vocal, unpredictable and erstwhile Dr Stella Nyanzi, would have camped outside the station demanding he, along with The Donald, who Hiliary Clinton banished to Mpigi, get hung from the nearest Marabou Stork infested mango tree outside the High Court till their necks snap for heinous crimes against women.

Pictures: Weekly Observer, AFP, Red Pepper

1,000 Ways To Die

Back in the 80s when Milton Obote still ruled the coup, Mum had a maroon 1977 model Fiat 127 like the one below and it was the car I learnt to drive in. Except, I wasn’t allowed to drive in Kampala, but in kyalo – Ibulanku to be precise. But I didn’t want to drive down Ibulanku’s dusty roads. I mean what was the point? A 16-year-old teen can’t show off driving down kyalo roads. Would School Friends see me? No. At school there was no way I could brag that I could drive because as a teen, everything required proof. They actually had to see you roll up to a party at Friends house driving. If you had a girlfriend, holding hands or sitting next to her was not proof enough. They had to see you with your tongue rammed down her throat, if not, your crotch pressing hard against her.

Everybody my age had driving proof – except me. Richard and Bernard Kajura had proof. So did Ian and Jonathan Musoke. And they were not driving down the streets of their kyalo’s, but in Kampala. I had to be like them. But there was a problem.

Mr. and Mrs. Bukumunhe – my parents that is, didn’t see it that way. That they give me TB – a ka teen their car, fill it with fuel that was scarce in those days so I could go gallivant around Kampala impressing School Friend? The thought of asking them for a car gave me shudders. It was enough to make me slap myself. It was illegal. It was criminal. It was an obscene thought.

On a summer holiday from boarding school and with Parent at work, I explored the house and swinging open the garage doors, what do I find but, a Range Rover like the one below except, that it was white. And more importantly, the keys were in the ignition. That find to a 16-year-old, is akin to Bank of Uganda asking Civil Servant to store $10m of donor money under his bed than in the bank vault.

Of course I was going to steal the Range Rover. No, let me rephrase. Of course I stole the Range Rover! However, there was a ‘but’. It’s one thing driving a Fiat 127 and another thing driving a Range Rover. I didn’t drive the Range Rover – rather, it drove me. It was so powerful that the snarling revs of its engine literally snapped Teen Girl’s bra straps as she walked past the ride in Kansanga. I know because I heard the ‘ping’ as the straps snapped.

I made it from Muyenga to Ian and Jonathan’s house in Makyinde where jaws dropped as I drove through the gate. Visiting Teen Girls suddenly wanted to know me. I was IT. Back school - The Grange School in Kenya, I would take centre stage. I would be the talk – “TB can drive and his parents allow him to drive a Range Rover!”

Satisfied with the plaudits, I had to get the Range home before Parent got back from work and that’s when everything went south. I fired up Range then gave her some revs to snap Visiting Teen Girl’s bra strap but when I engaged gear, Range didn’t sedately drive away. Range had become nasty. It wanted to show off what its engine could do like a Formula One car lurching off the grid at the start of a race. In the space of five seconds, it had lurched, smashed into the boundary wall and reduced it to rubble. Then it careered off a flowerbed and straight through another wall where it came to a standstill along with a cracked windscreen.

One thing about being Teen, is that when disaster strikes especially when you have stolen Parents ride, is tantamount to having no friends. You are on your own – a loner at that. Visiting Teen Girl’s who moments ago were so into me, ran for the gates and scurried themselves home. Jonathan and Ian wanted to bolt but couldn’t, because the accident occurred at their house.

I don’t know how Parent found me, but when they got out of the car along with Mr. Musoke and come over to me, the atmosphere was frightfully chilling - like waiting to watch how I was going to die in season one of the television series - 1,000 Ways To Die. Mum was dressed in mourning black from head-to-toe for she knew I was dead, while Dad, it was for being on bunkenke and trying to guess from which direction the first of many hot slaps and kicks would come from.

Was it worth stealing the Range? Jeez, YES! The slaps, kibooko and abuse aside, when I got back to school, rather than having a tattered reputation, I was a star, I was a hero for word had spread.

And suffice to say, I am in trouble for when Parent buys the paper and reads this, I doubt both of them will be amused for my making money through glorifying my childhood wayward ways.


Pictures: Fiat, Land Rover, Internet

Lusting After The Obese Woman

I am not fat shaming, but beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and out there, men and women connect on different levels. Some men like tall women. Some like short women. Others like them light skinned or dark skinned. Some prefer them smart. Others settle for airheads. Some men go in for big busted women or women with hairy legs. Every man – and woman, has a type. One of my tights – Paulo, he likes them ample and kind of bummy. That’s his preference. But while he likes Bummy Woman, he has a cut-off point as in, she’s bummy but, reasonable bummy.

It’s a myth that only Black Man has a thing for Bummy Woman, while White Man, prefers Anorexic Woman. However, there’s a breed of White Man who wants more than Bummy Woman. He wants a woman who is full masaavu – a mix of Kimbo, Blue Band, fat off a 21-piece KFC bucket, Mukwano cooking oil and the layers of fat from the largest sow at an Ntinda pork joint all rolled into one. Basically, he wants her obese.

I’m flicking though the television channels and it jumps at me. A one-hour documentary, Fat Girls and Feeders which according to the synopsis is: ‘A disturbing look at the bizarre sub-culture in which men who find larger women attractive coerce their ample partners to gain more weight – for sexual or more sinister reasons.’

Like me, Mark is lean and has a 32-inch waist. He likes Fat Woman. I don’t and he was determined to find himself Fat Woman and make her the fattest woman in the world so he could satisfy his sexual lust. And he did.

When he met her, Fat Woman was as big as the television presenter, Straka (Below) but, she was trying to lose weight. She watched what she ate, she swam and went to the gym. When Mark came along, he piled her with food. Breakfast was two large buckets of KFC. Lunch, a dozen pizzas that could feed all the cops camped outside Besigye’s crib in Kasangati. In between meals were numerous McDonalds snacks and jumbo bottles of Coke.

And this is where it got perverted. He took pictures of her progress and drooled over her lard. He’d smile to himself when she struggled to walk or was out of breath. He controlled her. He wanted her obese and totally dependent on him.

                                    

Like Mark, Luke was a ‘feeder’ - someone who manipulates and controls his partners diet by feeding her fat gaining foods. Luke wanted Fat Woman house bound – a prisoner almost and to achieve that, he had to make her bed ridden obese. For two years, Fat Woman never left her bed because she couldn’t lift herself out of it. And with obesity came health issues, that the only way Paramedic could get her from the bedroom to the hospital, was to call the fire brigade who, broke down a wall and had to use a crane to hoist her out of her lair.

In the hospital, under the folds of flesh, she was filthy, rotting with maggots eating away. But get this. When Doctor put her on a diet and she began to lose weight, dude cried, went absolutely livid and ditched her.

In Mark’s case, his Fat Woman isn’t yet the fattest woman in the world but she is getting there – though her having a heart attack look set to ruin his plans. She too is bed ridden and barely has the energy to lift her head off the pillow or her arms or legs. Meanwhile, pervy Luke marvels at seeing his Fat Woman naked but, her nakedness almost made me throw up. Her obese dead skin covered body was obscene - vile. Grotesque in fact. 

But like it’s said, each man to their own.


Pictures: TLC, Bukedde