A Switched On Karatsi, A Scattered Baron

When I was in my early twenties, I was scattered. Not confused I add, but scattered and doing things that scattered boys did then and I guess still do today – ‘catching’ like a problem, joyriding in dad’s stolen Toyota, cigarettes, scaling the boundary wall in the dead of the night to go clubbing and chasing after pretty girls.

For a girl who I think is a couple of years out of her teens, Ronah Karatsi (below), does not appear to be scattered or confused, but switched on. Reading part of her Twitter profile, which indicates she is a part time model and drama student, she also claims she can sing, as does Nanfukka, the waitress in my local kafunda. Ronah, whose late mum Justine, first recorded her song on cassette when she was a mere 2-year old, has done a cover of Stay by Miley Cyrus and I really have to admit that she can sing and would give Juliana and the rest a run for their money. While I am no Steve Jean or Simon Cowell for sure, I surely have spotted talent here and think she does have the voice to pursue a music career. Check out the song on this link: datafilehost.com/d/ed23e46b

While I was scattered and Ronah is switched on, there is one person who is very confused. Opi Baron (below) should be doing things that 20-year-old girls do – like following the latest fashion trends, teasing the boys or like Ronah, singing. But hmm, she’s not doing any of that. Instead she sits at home beefing about her sexuality.

Now this is the time where you ask Wifey if Daughter has been acting all funny. As a teen, Opi had issues when her bust took on a 30D size. It affected her so much that she is ashamed and disgusted whenever she looks down and sees it. She is so disgusted, that she wears a breast-binder each day in a desperate bid to stop them being noticed and wait for it, wait for it, wait for it, is also looking for £5,000 (sh24m) to have a bilateral mastectomy.

But wait, there is more to her confusion. It’s not the 30D size that’s really killing her, but her sexuality too. Opi claims she is ‘non-binary’, which means she doesn’t identify as being man or woman. In her defence she says: “You are brought up and taught from a young age that there is only ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ and two boxes that you fit into, but that's not the case. While I have feminine traits, instead of it being black or white, male or female - there are a whole range of shades in the middle which is where I am.”

According to the men in white coats with stethoscopes draped round their necks, and who would jump at the chance of giving her a lobotomy, Opi is ‘gender dysphoria’ - a condition where a person experiences distress because there's a mismatch between their biological sex and gender identity.

If all that has not floored you, then this should. Opi has Boyfie - Phill Abbott who is heterosexual and supportive in Opi's choices and about the pending breast removal surgery. In other words, he is also confused. 

Not even television talk show host, Jerry Springer, could have scripted this any better. I know we all have issues and however hard I try to comprehend what Opi is going through, I am none the wiser. What is wrong with her doing normal teen rebellious things like hacking off that beautiful hair when in revolt. Or putting in that extra earing because mother has annoyed?

Contrary to popular folklore that man’s best friend is his dog, it’s not – it never has been. Boobs are man’s best friend and the moment boyfie  Phil Abbott undresses Opi for a sawa ya malavu session and there are no 30Ds to grope, his once scattered and confused brain will switch on and just watch how fast he flees.

All this is getting me down so you know what, rather than persist with this column that’s so vexing me and I suspect you as well by dwelling on the confused and scattered Opi, let’s instead go for it and end the read on a high. 

Let's yank up the decibels and make out that we are at a beach party, kick off our shoes, do enough noise pollution to annoy the neighbours that they call KCCA and listen to our  Ronah Karatsi? That cool with you? Good then. By the way, Nanfukka from the kafunda can’t sing to save her deary life, but no one has the courage or guts to tell her that.       

Ronah Karatsi's music is produced by Baru Beats and she sings with Tulia band, which was founded by her sister Ruth Karatsi

Pictures: Benny Popi (Karatsi), Daily Mirror (Opi Baron)

Robert Mugabe Also Get's Battered

I worked with Sam. Sam was huge and if he had played rugby, he would have been a tight end prop. Basically he was 100% muscle and it was safe to assume that in his house, it was he who wore the pants – especially since Wifey was very petite - enough to always make me wonder how they got on during a sawa ya malaavu session.

In the 80s and 90s, my interpretation of domestic violence was to the point - battered women. That was the way I understood it. It therefore came as more than a shock when I found out that Sam, and as huge as he was, was being battered by Wifey. He had been burnt with steam iron on his back. He had also been thrown out of the house in the middle of the night during winter. He had been kicked in the nuts and been given black eyes. Police and the social services were aware of his circumstances, but no action was ever taken – unless, giving Wifey countless of cautions was considered action taken.

A couple of years ago, I was at Ggaba police station and on the dusty concrete floor, a grown man lay withering and crying out in agony. My first inkling was that police had duly roughed him up before bringing him to the station. But listening in, it was far from that. He was reporting a case of domestic violence for Wifey had beaten him up over something to do with fish sales.

Fat Woman Cop behind the desk was: “But Affande, Fisherman is a nuisance. Every week he complains about being beaten. What man allows himself to be beaten by a woman?” Turning her attention back to Fisherman she says: “Kati gwe, this time, what do you want us to do for you?” Eventually he picked himself up and slithered away while Fat Woman Cop was still besides herself that he gets battered.

Like Battered Woman, Battered Man does not walk about with a neon sign on his forehead that reads, ‘battered man’. But they are battered in the villages and in upscale Kampala Suburbs like Kololo, Mutungo, Bugolobi and Namasuba near Doc's crib. Some men stride about with a sense of bravado as they walk into the pub and ‘man spread’ as they try to sell the fallacy that they are men who are in control. But often, he is Battered Man who doesn’t want to go home, and will swing round after round of drinks so you keep him company as he waits to hear from House-ee that Wifey has gone to bed.

And it’s the men who we least suspect that are being battered like Former Ambassador, whose official residence is in the Nakasero neighbourhood near State House. He used to walk all tall and majestic at the cocktail parties he threw. But once it was done and Guest went home, Wifey who was rather petite, would lunge at him and give him a beating for a minor misdemeanour - such as not having a diplomatic posture when he read out his speech.

There is also Robert, who just happens to be the 'iron fist' President of Zimbabwe. According to an article published in The Southern Daily newspaper two weeks ago, Robert Mugabe, who is Commander-in-Chief and who has been at the helm of ZANU/PF for 36-odd years, is a battered president whose wifey – Grace that is, takes delight in goofing and lashing his face with hot slaps whenever she does not get her way. And she does not limit her slaps and punches to our 'Uncle Bob', but to his bodyguards too.
                

Then there is ‘near battered man’ who gets shoes, kettles, cups, plates and saucepans hurled at him during a row. I too, could say that while at campus, Girlfie ‘near battered’ me when she chucked with force a beer mug at me and tipped soup into my laps.

But as you make merry in the pub tonight, listen out for Dude with the hollow laughter – for he will be he who will get battered once he goes home.   

Pictures: Bukedde, The Southern Daily, Internet

Allah, Are The 72 Virgins Really Waiting For Us?

Allah, we have a problem. We all at some point in our lives have protested. We protested as kids when Parent melted down punishments that we thought were taken straight from a Nazi handbook at Auschwitz. Some protest over working conditions while House-ee protests by serving rice that is lumped better than posho or matooke can ever be lumped. The two doctors – Kizza Besigye and Stella Nyanzi have also protested - KB over elections results and Nyanzi over her office.

The last time I was in a protest, it was in Masindi years ago and to quell my protestations, Security Guard gave me a thorough lashing with a wire cane. Quelling the House-ee protest, we simply sack her, while Besigye is slapped with imprisonment and house arrest.

In some protests, Protest Organiser gives us an incentive to protest by becoming a martyr with a palatable and very appealing bonus - especially if you are a man. In Islamic circles, especially those that ISIS, Al Shabab and Al Queada drift in, it is said that at the end of the protest, you will go to heaven as a martyr where Allah shall reward you with 72 beautiful virgins - but only if you strapped enough TNT to your chest and blown yourself up at a train station in Europe or better still in the US.

However, what Protest Organiser does not tell us is: 1. When do we get the virgins. 2. Are they delivered in a batch or once a month? 3. Where do they come from – Uganda, Brazil, Japan? 4. Are they really beautiful with a Beyonce body - or are they fat mamas?

As a man, the thought of 72 virgins is right up my avenue and was tempted to find a martyrdom cause but, and it’s an upper cased BUT. I was deeply perturbed when Failed Afghan Protester who chickened out of the mission at the 11th hour, was found wearing underwear made out of metal casing. When asked why during the interrogation, he said something along the lines of: ‘Wanting to protect his manhood from being blown up so he could ‘perform’ for his virgins. A valid point that got me thinking twice.

Then came utterances by the Canadian author - Irshad Manji, who was actually born here in Kampala – Old Kampala to be precise. Currently, she is an advocate of a ‘reformist’ interpretation of Islam and was once described by The New York Times as "Osama bin Laden's worst nightmare".

Manji argues that Muslim Scholar has the wrong interpretation of the Koran and that Protest Organiser has been feeding young men fibs about the virgins. According to her, in heaven, Allah merely rewards with 72 raisins and not 72 virgins. He gives you raisins so that when you return to the Middle East dessert, you can plant them and they will grow to fruition despite the harsh climate.  

The confusion she says came about when Scholar, who was hard of hearing, heard the word ‘virgin’ and not ‘raisin’ and next, it became common folklore.

I am not overtly impressed with Manji. She killed my virgin dream. I had it mapped out – frolicking on a circular bed with silk sheets while Virgin1 feeds me the finest grapes from the hills of Lebanon as Virgin66 massaged my chest with olive oil. Virgin42 would be psyching me up for the task at hand and as the day wore into the night, I would consummate my martyrdom by sleeping with Virgin14, 16 and 72.

But I really do feel very sorry for Young Men who bought into the virgin dream and who are now spitting fire in a hospital casualty ward in heaven – their genitalia blown off and awaiting to be handed a kaveera of raisins before being repatriated back to the harsh sun baked Middle East dessert – probably somewhere near war ravaged Aleppo in Syria. You now see the problem Allah?    

Pictures & Caricature: Internet 

Mother's Day? Ah, For Beer, Dish and Laundry

A few years ago when Mother’s Day swung, I knew there something that I had to do, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what. It was on a Friday and despite the huge Mother’s Day signage in the now closed Uchumi and the adverts in New Vision, I still didn’t cotton on. Two days later on Sunday, when I saw Mothers all glammed up, again it didn’t click. I just presumed they were glammed up to go see Pastor at church.

Today is Mum’s Day, and without Google guidance, my interpretation of it is: To give back to Mother for carrying us for nine months and bringing us into this world, feeding us, nursing us better when we tumbled, clothing us and seeing us off to school on our first day and so forth.

Mum has also stood by us even when we have gone astray. They have defended us and will swear to Cop when there has been need to bail us out of trouble that: “No my son/daughter can’t have done that!” So yes, there is a need for them to be recognised and to be treated to lunch or dinner at some fancy restaurant. It’s something that I have been doing since I left home except for last year – and for two reasons - I forgot plus there was a spot of ‘paying’ heavily.

This year, had it not been for Penny, the chief sub at Sunday Vision, who was adamant about having my column themed to Mum’s Day, it would have passed in the blur of nursing the Saturday night hangover.

However, it’s going to be a different type of Mum’s Day. Save for the obligatory card that was purchased during the course of the week, Mum need not dress up today. There will be no taking her to a fancy restaurant for lunch or dinner, nor will I be thanking her for all that she has done for me.

Rather, I have packed three bags - one has dirty laundry, the other has shirts with buttons missing and the last, shirts that need ironing which, I shall cart over to her house for Mum knows best. Mum knows how to pamper us better than we know how to pamper them, so I am not bound to try to re-invent the wheel simply because of Mum’s Day.

While there and as she slaves away over a hot stove the kitchen making me Sunday lunch – roast lamb, mashed potatoes and some garden peas along with apple pie and custard for desert, I will be sprawled out in the living room watching the Grand Pix and politely shouting out to her to swing me a chilled TML or to come and pass me the remote control.

And once lunch is over, I want her to leave me be or to suggest I go up to my old room and have an undisturbed nap while she gets on with washing my clothes, sewing on my buttons and ironing my shirts. I also want her to leave the bedroom door slightly ajar so that she can monitor my breathing and to also come check up on me and cover me up if the duvet has fallen off.

At four o’clock, I want her to wake me and by the time I get downstairs, there is a nice cup of tea waiting along with a cake as she used to do back when I was still a kid and then leave me be to watch cartoons or something but popping in and out to see if I want another slice of cake. No, hang on a minute - not to ask me if I want another slice to cake, but to simply bring another slice because that’s Mum is supposed to do.

As the day draws to a close, despite it still being early, perhaps she could suggest that I spend the night because as Mum, she doesn’t want me driving at night.

Mothers would feel happy that they spent Mum’s Day reliving the times when they pampered their children. They will not be offended at not being taken to Serena for lunch. As long as they were able to spend Mother’s Day pampering their children, that works for them.

Happy Mother’s Day to y’all mothers!  

Pictures:  Alamy Stock, Shutter stock.com  

  

       

      

Your Pastor? A Pervy Conman - Period!

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… 

Pictures: Internet

Who Did Susu On The Floor?

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!      

    

Kiboko's Unleashed In Masindi

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