It's Tumwebaze Who Bought The M7 Thinkpad

In this tough economic climate, the last thing we would want is to see people out of a job. But in this case, it’s absolutely warranted. The way I see it, heads just have to roll. But more on that later in today’s ramble.

The 27th African Union Summit took place in Kigali, Rwanda two weeks ago but of course, I was busy sorting out my social night life to pay attention to it, until I saw a clip of Rwandan President, Paul Kagame (Below), looking rather tediously bored when he took to the dance floor with Singer who just would not let go of his hand. At one point, Singer was so obviously waiting for him to twirl her and when that was not forthcoming, she took matters into her own hand and twirled herself while still latching on to his hand. But again, that’s beside the point.

What is, is President Museveni’s briefcase that his ADC, Maj. David Koch (Below in military dress), flogs around and its contents. But pause a minute - what makes a good briefcase? It has to be lightweight with a comfortable handle; large enough to hold documents but not so bulky it looks like a weekender; and made of materials built to last so it can be passed on to the kid when he gets old enough to pull his weight – in this case, former ADC Maj. Wilson Mbadi passing it on to Maj. Koch.

However, M7’s briefcase does look like a weekender. Its big, bulky and looks fully laden. In all my time watching Mbadi and Koch lugging it around, I have never seen them opening it. What’s inside? A spare yellow tie, buttons or cuff-links? Some lip balm or Kleenex wipes? A pistol and ammunition? Or perhaps its a laptop because, where did the laptop he (M7) was using at the AU Summit last week spring from?

And this is where heads have to roll especially that of Information, ICT and Communications Minister, Frank Tumwebaze (Below). I am not the most computer savvy person there is in Uganda, but I do know that when I am buying one, I just don‘t walk into the computer shop, Kazinga Channel on Entebbe road and pluck the cheapest one off the shelf. By the way Frank, the top ten selling brands on the market today and in order are – Apple, Asus, Dell, Lenovo, Acer, Sony, Samsung, Hewlett Packard, Toshiba and MSI.

While the logo is not that clear on the one that M7 showed off at AU, it does look like a 17” IBM Thinkpad. Frank, who in today's world uses a bulky IBM Tinkpad? Not even my dad, Mr. Bukumunhe that is and who is not the most knowledgeable person when it comes to laptop brands uses an IBM Thinkpad but a Lenovo.

Another reason why Tumwebaze’s head has to roll, it that a 17” is too big to be used in such a confined conference venue. He should have procured for him at least a 13” Samsung tablet which is discreet and which M7 could have laid out on the table and done whatever he was was doing very privately with not a worry that Delegate and President of the countries that sit on the Z row behind him like Edgar Lungu of Zambia and Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe are not peering over his shoulders and reading our state secrets or private e-mails to the Minister of Education and Sports.

If the tablet was hard to come by, then I would have suggested a Samsung Note III cell phone as an alternative because it has a large enough screen at 5.9” for his (M7s) failing eyes to still be able to read – plus it comes with the extras meaning, he would be able to go online and pass time watching Bukedde TV, play candy crush, watch Scoop on Scoop on Urban TV, tweet or better still, watch the memes of the #M7 Challenge as Mugabe takes to the podium to deliver his usual lengthy rambling tirade of a speech.

No offence Frank, but I am sure at the moment you are seething and thinking of calling Robert Kabushenga at Sunday Vision to ask if he can haul me over the coals and discipline me. But can see where I am coming from Frank, for as ICT minister, I presume it’s you who The Treasury issues the cheque to for the procurement of government laptops.

IBM should I point out, is a brand just like Blackberry or Nokia which, are dead in the water and it was the wrong brand to have swung M7. And Frank, tell M7 to style up because that Katorchi Nokia 1100 phone (Below) which is so obviously a promotional phone and one favoured by Mobile Money Agent, does not even have a vibrate ring mode to it. Even House-ee at State House and whose grandmother lives in a kyalo in Kashari, wouldn’t take it in a brand new state or as a presidential hand-me-down.

     

Pictures: New Vision, Daily Monitor, Internet

Multi-Tasking The Pompi Way

I’m not a gadget person especially when it comes to phones. I don’t buy a phone for what it can do. I buy phones for what they look like. And I like big phones because I believe that men should have a phallic symbol in the form of a big phone because it sells status.

My current phone is a Samsung. While it has a big enough face, I am still not happy with it. Half an inch wider and longer would have suited me fine, but for the time being, it will do.

When it comes to sending out texts, chatting on WhatsApp or Twitter, there is nothing spectacular about my style. I am rather cumbersome and I use my left index finger to do the needful. On the other hand, I have seen people who are seemingly wizards at sending texts like Pompi (Below left) and Guma, (Below right) who I deem to be the masters in the circles that I trawl.

I don’t know how Pompi does it, but he can multitask. He has the ability to order a Bell beer from Adyeri while at the same time with two phones in front him, hold multiple txt conversations and all while still contributing to the conversation that’s going on around him.    

Guma on the other hand, types away with both hands at a terrifying speed like he is a pre-independence day era civil servant secretary on an old Olivetti ribbon type writer, while still being able to traverse his ride through traffic with relative ease.

But its Pompi who I have always wanted to be like when I eventually master the art of phone multitasking. Watching him at work is a marvel. The way he sits there, legs akimbo and holding court – not just with us who are sitting with him, but with possibly ten or more people he has hanging off his every word at the end of the phones he carries. And when the ‘corner has been secured’ as he is fond of saying, he stands up and shouts: “Mukhwaasi, bring chicken!”

Until it all went wrong. One evening as he did his multitasking, he let out a shriek, stood up and followed the shriek with all the ‘sh**s’ that he could muster then set about dismantling the phone – removing the cover, battery and sim card. When all was done, he sat back in sheer anguish, blew out a ‘phew’ while he filled us in. He had sent a critical text to the wrong person. But all was not lost because he had dismantled the phone, removed the sim card so surely, the message cannot have been sent?

Five minutes later and after reassembling the phone and switching it on, there a ‘ping’ sound with an envelope flying across the screen to indicate the message has been sent. All he could do was sit and wait for ‘sh*t to hit the fan.

Two weeks ago, I pulled that stunt. I was on a roll. I was tweeting. I was also having two conversations with two different WhatsApp forums, as well as a one-on-one conversation when hell broke loose. The message, which was enough to make me blush and intended for One-On-One, went to Contenass – a group of the most hard-core and unforgiving 35 men that I know of when it comes to shelling.

I didn’t bother dismantling the Samsung like Pompi did, but just sat back and resigned myself to an afternoon of the most humiliating shells. And Rwom didn’t waste time in unleashing. What did he say – “what is the old fossil up to?”

But something was distracting the group in that I got off lightly. Yes, I got a few canes here and there but nothing brutal to make me want to exit the group like our flamboyant Mukiga aka Kwagalana Mr. P… does, when he’s being shelled.

Since then, I have given up on multitasking. If it’s a forum conversation, I stick to one forum conversation till it’s done. And if it’s to One-On-One, I make sure I am typing the message on the right page.

Pictures: Patrick Oyulu, New Vision, Internet

Kabale Jack and The 12 Ninja's

Jack, Jack, Jack! Let’s call him Mukiga Jack (Below). I like Mukiga Jack and just about everyone who knows him, likes him too. He is lean, jovial, witty and if you were having a party, his name would have to be a ‘must’ on the invite list.

I first came across him early in 2000 when I was in Kabale, filming a documentary - Postcard From... with Chris Eritu and Tilly Muwonge for WBS Television. The four days we spent in Kabale, Kabale Jack was part of us – volunteering to have drinks with us at Hot Loaf and Lake Bunyonyi plus taking us to a club called Earthquake where the decibels were beyond reason, it was impossible to be heard. If not, the reverberations caused by the decibels would send your drink titillating down the bar. Since then, Kabale Jack (Below with OPP) and I have been close friends – well, ‘tights’ so he would prefer to say.

Getting back, whenever I am out with Kabale Jack, I get a feeling of Déjà vu. The hairs on the back of my neck and my spine freeze at ‘defcon 5’. I become nervous and sweaty. I am also not settled and feel the need to stalk anybody standing or sitting behind me in case they represent trouble.

We were on our way home in the wee hours of the morning from a raucous kasiki in Club Silk and BJs Irish Pub in Industrial Area. It should have been a routine run-of-the mill drive to drop Kable Jack off in Bunga while I continue on to Munyonyo except, when we rounded the corner by Daily Monitor offices to drive up past Greenhill School, there was a charcoal truck parked in the middle of the road outside the school gates.

I’ve never fathomed why trucks breakdown in the middle of the road and never pull off and do the breaking down on the side or the road like cars do. Anyway, when they break down, shrubbery is usually strewn to alert oncoming traffic that ahead lies danger. Charcoal Truck Driver had not done that and had we been going any faster, we would have ploughed into it.

In his defence, Charcoal Truck Driver was very apologetic and immediately promised to lay out some branches. But Kabale Jack and I were not having any of it and reeled off a barrage of ‘threatening’ assurances. By this time, Turn Boy who was in the cabin had woken up and was also slavering for forgiveness. With hindsight, we should have let them be and gone on our way but we were on a roll.  The fear of God had been instilled into them. They were sweating and trembling. All that was left was for them to pee in their pants.

But can you imagine, Charcoal Truck Driver had the audacity to change his humble demeanour into one of defiance that, without warning, he was out of the cab and in our faces sketching for a melee! Hmm, two of us against two of them. The way I saw it, a ‘left’ from Kabale Jack would have Turn Boy kissing the tarmac while a bark from me at Charcoal Truck Driver would have him humbling and fleeing into whatever bush he could find. Except, it didn’t pan out that way.

Charcoal Truck driver let out a whistle that pierced the breaking morning and when we looked up at the truck, bodies were popping up from under the stacks of charcoal and stealthily abseiling down the side in absolute Ninja precision.

The odds had turned. Turn Boy was not going to kiss the tarmac and Charcoal Truck Driver was not going to humble himself and flee into whatever bush he could find. We on the other hand, were going to get a beating of a life time for when the 12 Ninja’s abseiled down, they were armed with metal bars and pickaxe handles. 

In this situation, one thing happens. The body goes into a complete shutdown but leaves the urge to pee and let out a good round of diarrhoea still functioning. The pee did come and had we not made a hysterical dash for the ride, there would have been a full diarrhoea discharge followed by a Mulago hospital admittance beating.

And that really would have been a very hard paper for us to explain away from a hospital bed and with limbs in plaster cast to Bride-To-Be, for later that day, I was to walk the aisle.

Pictures: Patrick Oyulu, New Vision, Internet    

   

Hustling The Pool Hustler

I don’t have the best pool game in town. Patrick ‘OPP’ Oyulu, Taata Sira Kiwana and his cousin Samson Wambuzi, John Ejalu and Greg Petzer (below) can clean me to a 7-ball humiliation. But I still play for after all, it’s just a game. I don’t throw tantrums or seek to melee or hurl the cue across the table in defeat. I accept I got beaten, shake hands, lick the wounds and seek a cold TML solace at the bar.

In the late 90s, Half London in Kansanga used to be the place to hangout – not just for food, but to catch, watch Supersport and more importantly, to play pool. It was one of those nonchalant nights where nothing was happening and activity at the pool table was stale, so why not a game of pool as I waited.

Two games later and I am on. He broke. Nothing dropped. In the top left corner, I figured I could get the white through the gap and slither the red into the pocket. I did just that and it dropped – enough for Opponent to concede I had pulled off a gem of shot by giving the table a slap and stomping the butt of the cue on the floor a couple of times. My second shot scattered the pack properly, that with a steady hand, there was no reason why I couldn’t take the game.

Two more reds dropped then I missed. At his second visit, Opponent fluffed what I would have deemed an easy shot that brought me back to play a flawless game – pulling off shots that are normally light years out of my league.

Second Opponent was dispatched with relative ease while Third Opponent put up a feeble resistance. Halfway into the fourth game, he sauntered in with more than a bravado of Jackie Chan about him, along with a personal cue in a black valise and flanked by Robust Woman in a pink sweat shirt and bottoms and interestingly enough, high heels to round off the ensemble. 

But who wears high heels with a sweat shirt and bottoms?

Going by the respect and the bonga’s (greetings) that Pool Attendant slavered on him, Personal Cue Player was Half London’s resident top dog pool player. He had to be because it was the late 90s and in the late 90s, pool was still in its infant stages in Uganda, plus the only other person I had seen with a personal cue and valise, was Taata Sira Kiwana (below).                

Personal Cue Player, talked and serenaded the table offering Fourth Opponent advice though not enough to save him from defeat. While Personal Cue Player was not next on the table, nobody complained.

I broke. His response? Telling Robust Woman how he was going to bounce the white ball off the lower cushion to give it enough momentum to roll past the black and kiss the red into the middle pocket. He did just that. And with every shot thereafter, he gave rambling commentary in Luganda and executed as he said he would. Then he bungled.

When I came back, I shouldn’t have slain him, but I did. And he should have waited in line for his next game but he threw tantrums of ‘how could he get beaten’. While I was done, he was having none of it. He wanted me back. Like the first game, the commentary continued - this time very forceful and laced with sarcastic undertones of how he was going to do the needful with vengeance. 

Except he didn’t do the needful. I did. Fans, Pool Attendant and Robust Woman were aghast. With that, he stormed out.

A Week later I was in Kaos (remember it on Kitante Road, opposite Golf Course Hotel)? While I had no intention of playing pool, I stood by the table to watch. As he took the shot, he looked up, saw me and in a flash he was next to me. In Luganda he said: “Mzee, what do you want with me, why can’t you leave me be?” Eh!?

Its only when I saw Robust Woman – still in her sweats plus high heels and Fans that I cottoned on. He was Personal Cue Player who I had humiliated in Half London weeks earlier. I let him be and shuffled to the bar with a running wild ego and a smirk of contempt - that whenever he saw me by a pool table, he would pee his pants, duly pack his cue into the black valise (below), grab Robust Woman and slither to another venue.

Like I said at the start, I am not a good pool player so when you see me at the tables, don’t come wanting to maliza (finish) me 7-ball style.

Who Stole Hookers Knickers?

I had never been to Arua (below). My interpretation of Arua was that its far. Very far that it would take two days to get there and when I did get there, there would be no hot water, bacon, pizza or television.

It was early 2000 when with MTN, we were there to switch Arua on to the mobile network grid. And I was right. Arua was far – probably because then, there was no ‘#steady progress’ and thus no tarmac between Karuma and Arua plus Joseph Kony was still rampaging in the area. It didn’t take two days to get there and there was hot water, very cold beers, television but no bacon and pizza. But that’s beside the point.

From the onset, when we got to MTN Towers to catch the MTN yellow bus (above), it was obvious that the trip and our ‘work’ sojourn in Arua was going to be a raucous one. Anjelica Arden (I wonder where she is now) had pulled off a first and piled the bus with lots of alcohol – and I mean lots of it. And the media crowd was something else – Andrew Wandera (RIP), Radio One presenters’ RS. Elvis and Philip Besiimire (bottom left), Kalungi Kabuye, Patrick ‘OPP’ Oyulu (bottom right), Daily Monitor’s John Nsimbe, WBS presenter, Tilly Muwonge – the list goes on and on.

One thing about Arua that got me and amazed was the rush hour traffic. You were far more likely to get knocked down by Boda Cyclist or Wheel Barrow Pusher than by My Car Driver. There were literally hundreds of Boda Cyclist peddling home after 5:00pm.

While there we took over Pacific Hotel on Congo Road. As for the hotel staff, they never quite knew what hit them and when we checked out a few days later, we left them with their heads scattered and in a trance.

Everybody in Arua wanted to be part of the MTN bandwagon. Some wanted a phone. Some wanted to snatch free drinks at Pacific hotel. Others merely wanted a T-shirt. When word spread into Congo that there was going to be a big party, Woman of The Night crossed the border to see what phallics were in the offering.

On our last night, MTN Chief Commercial Officer - Erik van Veen (below), opened up his wallet and literally bought out the entire bar, that the party began in earnest and went on till the wee hours of the morning when the goats and cows took a leisurely stroll from the kraal and down Congo Road to go and graze at the golf course.

Then it was morning proper.

After an early morning breakfast polishing off whatever beers were left over, we boarded the bus back to Kampala and minutes later, the real drama unfolded. There was Cop road block on the outskirts of town.

Amongst Cop was a young lady and from the way that she was tarted down and dishevelled, one need not have driven down Speke Road in Kampala to deduce that she was Woman of The Night.

And onto the bus they clambered. One of us had obviously done something to her that necessitated Cop intervention. And jeez, was Woman of The Night peeved off or what. Her rants would have made Stella Nyanzi’s sound palatable. She hissed fire! It transpired that her services had been used and Client hadn’t paid.

But pause a minute. That was not what was really peeving her off. What really was, is that Client also had to audacity to steal her knickers! Yes, steal as in theft. In Luganda she spattered: “I don’t mind him not paying me. That sometimes happens in the job. But to steal my knickers? How do I go home without them?”

With Cop walking behind her, she walked down the bus and stopped at the back where she pointed at him and said: “Oyo!” The dude, MTN Engineer, was literally trying to stuff himself under the seat. When Cop patted him down, tucked in his jeans, what does he find? In Cop talk, I think they call it ‘exhibit’ – a pair of tattered knickers.

And just like that, MTN Engineer was hauled off the bus. By the time we got back to Kampala, every possible story about him and knickers had been heard. That he would break into Akamwesi hostel and steal them off the line. Or if he went visiting, he would sneak into the bathroom and pluck a pair that had been left out to dry. If none had been left out to dry, he would rummage through the dirty laundry basket till he found a pair. The perv. 

By the way Sista, if you think you are missing some knickers, holler for I might just know who the culprit is.

Pictures: New Vision, Daily Monitor, MTN, Internet

Are You Man Enough For Your Kid?

Its Father's Day today. For Daddy, it’s all about one thing - the bragging rights that the sperm works and it effectively navigated Wifey or Girlfie's dark channel and did the needful.

Kids – especially boys, have various interpretations of daddy and Father's Day. Daddy, is supposed to be cool and have a fly ride. He is also supposed to be a mix of Rambo (below), John Mclean (from the Die Hard movie trilogy), Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee and Samuel L. Jackson for extra measure. That’s the kind of dad boys want – the dad who can walk into Nakivubo Stadium, scatter all the goons in the Kirussia stand, walk out unscathed and still give Moses Golola a couple of slaps that send him scurrying home in tears.

Mr. Bukumunhe, my dad that is, is not muscle. He is lean. I have never seen him in an aggressive situation with a melee about to kick. I have though, had visions of him in one and how he might handle himself. Would he do the needful and kick ass or would he get goofed. Who would he be in the melee with? Gordon Wava (below) perhaps? Justice George Kanyeihamba? Maybe Dr Martin Aliker – simply because I think they are all in the same age bracket. But then again, part of me thinks there might be need for me to step in and say: “Dad, step. I got this covered.”

Indian Mullah (below) owns a resort on the shores of Lake Victoria. I wouldn’t say he is muscle – but portly. One afternoon he got into a tangle with South African over racial comments that he (South African), had made to Waiter. South African was huge – 100% pure Gauteng muscled beef and who was flexing his boob muscles like Golola does. 

There was the square off with South African towering down into Indian Mullah’s face like Muhammad Ali did to George Foreman in Zaire in 1974 and you didn’t have to be a melee critique to figure out how it was going to end. Indian Mullah was going to get a hiding of a lifetime.

When the war of words erupted, the unthinkable happened and barely 40 seconds into the minute. Mullah ripped South African apart – literally dicing him that his 100% pure muscled Gauteng beef wilted and was akin to a cow being gutted in Kampala Meat Packers – the way the byenda pour out.

Worse, South African had Son with him – a young boy who was probably no more than ten-years-old and who am sure always saw Dad not only as 100% pure South Africa Gauteng muscled beef, but as Rambo, John Mclean, Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee, Superman and probably Hulk Hogan too.

The look Son had when Dad was getting shot down was tight. He had tears in his eyes and when he looked up and saw Dad crying and reduced to a pathetic heap of flesh, he too cried. Once the verbal onslaught ended and as they walked away, I really felt for Son.

I mean what sort of dad does that to his son? What gutless, cheap, worthless dad can’t man-up to do the needful so that Son can go to school the next day with bragging rights and gloat to his friends how Dad pulled killer moves that sorted out the other dude and even swung in Bruce Willis’s Die Hard chant of - “Yippee Ki Yay!” or better, evoked Samuel L. Jackson’s (below) eerie bible quote from the movie Pulp Fiction - “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee” as he drove in that final punch to send the other chap to Mulago Hospital's intensive care unit.  

Today and as we celebrate Father’s Day, there are many young boys and girls out there who look to their fathers the same way that my sisters – Julie, Susan, Linda, Hellen and Brenda, looked up to Mr. Bukumunhe and still do. Kids want to know that dad is always hoovering around doing the needful and was always there doing things that dads are supposed to do with their kids.

I am however, very relieved that I didn’t get to find out if Mr. Bukumunhe with his lean body was Rambo, John Mclean, Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee, Samuel L. Jackson or not. I also doubt he’s like me – a real Kisekka Market brawler when the need arises.

But if anybody doubts my market brawler skills because of the demure look in this picture (above) and you want to bring it on, oh please man-up and meet me behind Nakivubo stadium this evening at 7:00pm or forever hold your mouth.

Otherwise, have yourselves a happy Father’s Day         

Pictures: New Vision, Internet, Daily Monitor, NTV

Written, Produced & Directed In Uganda

Kalundi Robert Serumaga, was once director of The National Theatre – back in the late 90s if memory serves me correct. Then, he talked about the arts and how The National Theatre was underfunded, how the chairman of the board would commandeer the theatre van to use as his personal car and how government really doesn’t see arts and culture as something worth talking about – let alone given funding.

We too share the governments opinion. We would rather go to Blankets and Wine, Nile Gold Jazz at Serena or to polo at the Madhvani estate in Kakira than going to watch an Alex Mukulu play or going to an art exhibition by one of our talented artists. There is also a very good chance that when the documentary – Plan I is eventually premiered in Uganda it will hardly garner a crowd because we won’t see it as an apt society event.

Plan I is a documentary that I chanced upon which, took three years to make and was written, produced and directed by one of our own – AK Simba (below). To be honest, I had never heard of him and reading through his biography, for him to come from where he did and produce such a documentary, I have to applaud him.

Ak Simba it can be said, has literally come from a life in hell. In Uganda, he’s done everything dropping out of school to fend for his siblings when his parents passed on, taking on jobs in the construction industry to waiting in restaurants and vending CD’s and DVD’s on the streets. When he went to live in Belgium, life was even harsher that to make ends meet, he worked as a garbage collection man – a job that would have the whole of Kampala laughing and saying: “Eh, Ak Simba went abroad to collect muzungu rubbish. What a loser!” But it’s something Ak Simba is not embarrassed about because he mentions it in his short bio and even goes on to admit that he did like the job. 

Plan-I, is by no means a scripted reality, but narrates Ak Simba’s story.  The idea of Plan I came partially out of his self-pity, his levels of frustration and his near depression and which he has transformed into an eye-opening experience and into something positive - the need to share the story.

As such, this documentary approaches integration from various angles. Migrants from all corners of the world who now reside in Belgium get their say, whether they have just arrived or have already been living there for a longer while. But we also get to hear the experienced opinion of an integration counselor. Plan-I also brings us to Uganda where Ak Simba demonstrates the expectations of many of us who only dream of living a life in the glittery West. 

Ak Simba bursts the bubble filled with (des-) illusions about integration from the perspective of the migrants, as well as the natives. Coupled with his personal experiences as a migrant, Plan I discards all half-baked stories about migration and offers us a look into the often harsh reality of the integration process as it is.

Since Plan-I was finished, it has been submitted to various film festivals around the world and currently, it has been nominated for awards in at film festivals in Belgium and Germany. While Plan I is not yet available for public screening, between 3:00pm Saturday 11^th June to midnight Sunday 12^th June and exclusive to Sunday Vision readers, you have the chance to watch it by clicking onto this link - https://filmfreeway.com/project/2712 and the password is swampkamp. Plan I will feature at several film festivals in Europe, United States, Canada, Brazil, South Africa, Australia and Japan. 

Pictures: New Vision, AK Simba