I have no particular reason why I entered the thing in the first place. Oh I remember, I read that the winner would be rewarded with 1000 dollars. I calculated that At an investment of 90 dollars as the sign on fee I’d make a profit of 900 dollars. Yes, I’m that dumb.
This was Feb 2010 and I had just paid membership fees at the downtown Eau Claire YMCA gym at a subsidized fee for people with low incomes. All they required was a bank statement and a pay stub to show that one worked and that they earned below the average pay check in the province that is 21 dollars per hour.
So after paying for three months the question arose as to what would motivate me to come everyday to the gym, normally payment was enough motivation as the fee I had paid even after subsidizing is still disturbing in itself.
So I listed for the marathon such that I’d use the membership to the gym productively. The 1000 dollars prize therefore became secondary incentive for I knew to win the thing I needed to be without a job and concentrate exclusively on training.
I started training in Feb, running on average 25 km four times a week and by the start of May the body had got sick. The knees were hurting and I walked about with a rattle and a wobble. I irritated even myself a lot.
From Feb through to April I run in along the riverbanks of the Bow river in downtown Calgary starting at Eau Claire and running all the way to Canada Olympic park in the northwest and back to Eau Claire. This would take an average of three hours and 30 k. In the gym I stretched out, looked/ stared at the belles doing their work outs and chatted with Jesus Fikr a friend I met there who originally came from Eriteria.
He worked in the gym and occasionally gave me hints on developing strength in the hips and legs such that I could build endurance in the run. Fikr is also an ardent soccer fan and he supports Chelsea. We talked a lot about sport and women. Most times I looked forward going to the gym just to chat with Fikr.
But the marathon was too overwhelming. The thought of running 42.2km in two hours and a half-which was my initial target made my stomach cringe.
I used to be an athlete in Kako Secondary School from 1997 to 1998 and even qualified for the All Africa post-primary Championships in Abuja Nigeria 1997. I had also competed and won in the Buganda King’s birthday athletics meet held in MAsaka in 1997 in the 10000 metres slot as well as running in the Uganda national athletics championships held in Jinja in 1997.
Come marathon race day with the right knee in pain but generally feeling fit I went to bed at 1 am after drinking two beers, a late night walk and general procrastination involving mostly reading soccernet.com stories.
These are absolutely wrong things to do while preparing for the longest run of your life. First according to the greatest runner of all time Haile Gabre Selassie one needs to train for a maximum of three hours, run on average 30 k and then eat healthy foods. On race one need to get to bed early, say if you are running on Sunday, Saturday must be set aside for rest and if possible massage. And the meal prior to the race must be eaten two hours before the race starts.
I was up at 4am took a shower and Mike my housemate drove me to the starting line at Bridgeland and Memorial just next to the city train stop. For my breakfast I drank a bottle of powerade cake, banana and two sausages. It was bad as I had to endure four toilet stops during the race and it reduced my time almost 15 minutes.
At the start line I met Doug Driedger a fellow with whom I go Bethel Baptist Church. Driedger is 52 and a graphics designer in some big company in the city, we had not spoken with him before that meeting other than the usual after service chit chats. But He is a seasoned runner. He has already done three marathons on top of the mother of them all, the Boston marathon. I think he was diagnosed with some disease a few years back and as a result he decided to dedicate his body and free time in raising awareness to the disease.
Doug was to be indeed helpful.
He set the starting pace early in the race and gave me some insights on strategy, all I knew was that I was going to need to run 2hours non stop at a pace of four minutes per kilometer and after I’d need some divine intervention to complete the remaining time and distance to reach the finish line.
We started out with Doug and when he stopped for water a sped past and never run with him again. He over took me towards the end of the race when I had outrun my body, my wits and perseverance. I was at the time relying on divine power. Doug beat me by 6 minutes.
I had on my Nokia phone working as an mp3 player. The music paying on it was what I had used during training. A 2005 collection of reggae as well as a 1990s hip hop mixtape. Those two would lift me up for two hours and twenty minutes. After that I had some songs of Damien Marley, Israel Vibration, Rex Mundi, Tupac, Sizzla, Eagles, Cocoa T, Richie Spice, Wyclef Jean and Bob Marley.
I started powerfully and kept to the four minute pace up to the one and a half hours mark by which time I had run almost 26 kilometres.
But that is even going to far.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
The HIV/Aids wagon in Africa follows economic growth
1996 Uganda was a boom. It was boom boom time everywhere, or so it seemed.
The economy was doing very well; international coffee prices were still favourable to Ugandans who grew some of the best coffee in the world at the time.
fish exports from Lake Victoria were also beginning to grow. Most importantly, the Indians, and their expulsion from Uganda earlier , remember them? The ones that brought you the Last King of Scotland!
By the mid 1990s they were returning back after being invited by the Ugandan reigning president Yoweri Kaguta Museveni. The president also ordered for the Indians property and land that had been confiscated by Idd Amin Dada to be returned to the rightful owners. The returning Indians, and their cousins from Pakistan. It did not matter, they were the Indians.
The Indians had come to Uganda upon the invitation of the British to construct the famous Uganda Railway.
When the Indians initially known as the Coolies had finished building the railroad and the British Empire long gone after the collapse of colonialism, the Indians refused to go back to their country. They stayed forever.
The British left the economy of Uganda in Indians hands and the politics to the Ugandans, the relationship between the Indians and the Ugandans after the departure of the British was well captured in the movie; The Last King of Scotland
Museveni came as the ultimate good character against in the said movie. He stabilized Uganda.
By 1996 Uganda was indeed a pearl.
The Ugandan shilling was exchanging fairly well against the US dollar. As a result many Ugandans were able to go Dubai to trade, many even went to Japan and started motor vehicle import businesses across East Africa. Dubai was the first adventure for many hustling Africans to achieve success.
When Museveni invited back the Indians the economy went BOOM. Ugandan seriously challenged Kenya’s position as the economic powerhouse of the region, most of the Indians that fuelled this new birth of Uganda had settled in Kenya earlier when Amin expelled them.
They fired up Uganda.
Along With the economic success of Uganda came other less fortunate things. First among them was HIV/Aids. Long before the disease made serious headlines elsewhere in the world; Uganda was suffering the worst of the disease. Major commercial lines and corridors were at the centre of an epidemic, which nobody at the time was even able to comprehend.
In the simple analysis of many Ugandans it was a curse from the witchcrafts, wizards and magicians.
The witchdoctors, traditional healers smelled a rat. They increased their services. Sometimes advertising their services in their neighbourhoods. Listing the number of curses, diseases, demons and punishments the magicians were capable of commanding.
It became normal to see roadside adverts for traditional healers, yet in contrast, witchcrafts were a of particular interest amongst Ugandans. Many suspected people of witchcraft were burnt in public in some places.
Buyikwe and Bukunja in Mukono district were highly respected in matters witchcraft.
Aids was simply a matter of witchcraft.
One of the first public victims of HIV/Aids in Uganda was a superstar musician known as Philly Bongole Lutaya. Lutaya had done a first for his generation on the continent. He had successfully created himself a career in the music industry of Sweden. Of all places, seriously?
He also became the first person to serious start a discussion about the stigma of the disease. The prevalence rates of HIV/Aids in the country was as high as 17 percent of the population.
Jinja on the shores of Lake Victoria, Rakai district on the trade corridor linking Rwanda, DR Congo and Burundi, Kampala the capital and also on the shores of lake Victoria as well as Busia on the boarder with Kenya were all battling with a disease which left disaster and desert in those communities. They were also the trade hubs in the region.
Museveni was the first leader whose face became synonymous with the fight against HIV/Aids in the world and success or strategy stories the face told. The coinage of a new breed of African leaders was fully inscribed on his image. Ugandan became the go to place for all the world do gooders. Museveni then cemented his place as a statesman.
Rwakitura and the triangle that it created from Lyantonde to Masaka was the Mecca for all the visitors and people of note in the country as well as many who had an interest in fighting HIV/Aids. Yet the place was also among the most severely attacked b the disease. The soldiers guarding the presidential home as well as the intelligence network they held were the chief medium through which the entire trade hub was spread with the deadly disease.
There was also a contradiction of a president fighting a strange disease everywhere and his soldiers spreading the same disease amongst the local people.
In 1997 my Mother Jane Mbabazi was working for President Museveni and his wife Janet at the headquarters of the above-mentioned hub of HIV/Aids and trade. Museveni’s home in Rwakitura unlike others spread across the country was a mini commercial and social centre in itself. It covered the triangle of Lyantonde, Rushere and Mbarara. Rwakitura with the soldiers guarding the presidential compound, the large household staff and other supporting agencies was a hub. My mother headed this hub which had its own school known as Karo Karungi a Runyankore name appropriately loosely translated as ‘a good village’.
This school never had an examination centre because it was populated by privileged kids in the neighbourhood of Museveni's country home, they were not academically disciplined and they were racists. I attended the school for only three weeks.
On holiday from boarding school I visited with my mother and since The nearest and biggest commercial centre to Rwakitura was Lyantonde I made frequent trips there, for family errands as well as ‘a night out on the town.’
Lyantonde was a town besieged with HIV/Aids but since nobody or just a few people at the time knew the disease in the way we know it today everyone called it an invention of witchcraft.
For those of us in our early teenage years we were told that most people in Lyantonde were agents of witchcrafts, magicians and wizards. We were told not to even dare eat the food in the town. We carried everything we needed around us. We were even warned not to go in washrooms in Lyantonde. Any contact with a person from Lyantonde meant contact with the magicians, witches and wizards. We were even warned not to look in their eyes. We were told tales that some men and boys who went with a woman from Lyantonde after a night in the clubs would wake up wrapped around by a snake or the would turn out to have a goats hooves in the morning.
Unfortunately this became the misery of People Living with HIV/Aids in the country, the stigma around patients was so huge. A person that contacted the disease was immediately fired from their jobs, with no income the women resorted to prostitution and the number of victims multiplied.
I996 was just two years after the South Africans had gotten rid of Apartheid, the embargoes and sanctions that had bedeviled the country during the white supremacy rule were loosened and South Africa became the giant of Africa. Their economy was expanding; they started the first mobile telecommunication industry on the continent and spread the industry across Africa. They started with Uganda first in 1998. I had the pleasure to work in the construction company that built the MTN switchboard in Bugolobi at the time. I was aged 16.
South Africans had been under the yoke for so long the end of apartheid granted them freedoms never before dreamed of, they took this freedom with both hands. And that was about the time that HIV/Aids attacked them with vigour. By the end of 2000 prevalence rates in the country were 12 percent.
Unlike in Uganda were the disease concentrated its wings in this landlocked country and mainly never affected neighbours like Rwanda, DR Congo, Tanzania and Kenya; in South Africa the epidemic spread across to Botswana and currently the two leading economies of Africa are threatened with the HIV/Aids.
The economy was doing very well; international coffee prices were still favourable to Ugandans who grew some of the best coffee in the world at the time.
fish exports from Lake Victoria were also beginning to grow. Most importantly, the Indians, and their expulsion from Uganda earlier , remember them? The ones that brought you the Last King of Scotland!
By the mid 1990s they were returning back after being invited by the Ugandan reigning president Yoweri Kaguta Museveni. The president also ordered for the Indians property and land that had been confiscated by Idd Amin Dada to be returned to the rightful owners. The returning Indians, and their cousins from Pakistan. It did not matter, they were the Indians.
The Indians had come to Uganda upon the invitation of the British to construct the famous Uganda Railway.
When the Indians initially known as the Coolies had finished building the railroad and the British Empire long gone after the collapse of colonialism, the Indians refused to go back to their country. They stayed forever.
The British left the economy of Uganda in Indians hands and the politics to the Ugandans, the relationship between the Indians and the Ugandans after the departure of the British was well captured in the movie; The Last King of Scotland
Museveni came as the ultimate good character against in the said movie. He stabilized Uganda.
By 1996 Uganda was indeed a pearl.
The Ugandan shilling was exchanging fairly well against the US dollar. As a result many Ugandans were able to go Dubai to trade, many even went to Japan and started motor vehicle import businesses across East Africa. Dubai was the first adventure for many hustling Africans to achieve success.
When Museveni invited back the Indians the economy went BOOM. Ugandan seriously challenged Kenya’s position as the economic powerhouse of the region, most of the Indians that fuelled this new birth of Uganda had settled in Kenya earlier when Amin expelled them.
They fired up Uganda.
Along With the economic success of Uganda came other less fortunate things. First among them was HIV/Aids. Long before the disease made serious headlines elsewhere in the world; Uganda was suffering the worst of the disease. Major commercial lines and corridors were at the centre of an epidemic, which nobody at the time was even able to comprehend.
In the simple analysis of many Ugandans it was a curse from the witchcrafts, wizards and magicians.
The witchdoctors, traditional healers smelled a rat. They increased their services. Sometimes advertising their services in their neighbourhoods. Listing the number of curses, diseases, demons and punishments the magicians were capable of commanding.
It became normal to see roadside adverts for traditional healers, yet in contrast, witchcrafts were a of particular interest amongst Ugandans. Many suspected people of witchcraft were burnt in public in some places.
Buyikwe and Bukunja in Mukono district were highly respected in matters witchcraft.
Aids was simply a matter of witchcraft.
One of the first public victims of HIV/Aids in Uganda was a superstar musician known as Philly Bongole Lutaya. Lutaya had done a first for his generation on the continent. He had successfully created himself a career in the music industry of Sweden. Of all places, seriously?
He also became the first person to serious start a discussion about the stigma of the disease. The prevalence rates of HIV/Aids in the country was as high as 17 percent of the population.
Jinja on the shores of Lake Victoria, Rakai district on the trade corridor linking Rwanda, DR Congo and Burundi, Kampala the capital and also on the shores of lake Victoria as well as Busia on the boarder with Kenya were all battling with a disease which left disaster and desert in those communities. They were also the trade hubs in the region.
Museveni was the first leader whose face became synonymous with the fight against HIV/Aids in the world and success or strategy stories the face told. The coinage of a new breed of African leaders was fully inscribed on his image. Ugandan became the go to place for all the world do gooders. Museveni then cemented his place as a statesman.
Rwakitura and the triangle that it created from Lyantonde to Masaka was the Mecca for all the visitors and people of note in the country as well as many who had an interest in fighting HIV/Aids. Yet the place was also among the most severely attacked b the disease. The soldiers guarding the presidential home as well as the intelligence network they held were the chief medium through which the entire trade hub was spread with the deadly disease.
There was also a contradiction of a president fighting a strange disease everywhere and his soldiers spreading the same disease amongst the local people.
In 1997 my Mother Jane Mbabazi was working for President Museveni and his wife Janet at the headquarters of the above-mentioned hub of HIV/Aids and trade. Museveni’s home in Rwakitura unlike others spread across the country was a mini commercial and social centre in itself. It covered the triangle of Lyantonde, Rushere and Mbarara. Rwakitura with the soldiers guarding the presidential compound, the large household staff and other supporting agencies was a hub. My mother headed this hub which had its own school known as Karo Karungi a Runyankore name appropriately loosely translated as ‘a good village’.
This school never had an examination centre because it was populated by privileged kids in the neighbourhood of Museveni's country home, they were not academically disciplined and they were racists. I attended the school for only three weeks.
On holiday from boarding school I visited with my mother and since The nearest and biggest commercial centre to Rwakitura was Lyantonde I made frequent trips there, for family errands as well as ‘a night out on the town.’
Lyantonde was a town besieged with HIV/Aids but since nobody or just a few people at the time knew the disease in the way we know it today everyone called it an invention of witchcraft.
For those of us in our early teenage years we were told that most people in Lyantonde were agents of witchcrafts, magicians and wizards. We were told not to even dare eat the food in the town. We carried everything we needed around us. We were even warned not to go in washrooms in Lyantonde. Any contact with a person from Lyantonde meant contact with the magicians, witches and wizards. We were even warned not to look in their eyes. We were told tales that some men and boys who went with a woman from Lyantonde after a night in the clubs would wake up wrapped around by a snake or the would turn out to have a goats hooves in the morning.
Unfortunately this became the misery of People Living with HIV/Aids in the country, the stigma around patients was so huge. A person that contacted the disease was immediately fired from their jobs, with no income the women resorted to prostitution and the number of victims multiplied.
I996 was just two years after the South Africans had gotten rid of Apartheid, the embargoes and sanctions that had bedeviled the country during the white supremacy rule were loosened and South Africa became the giant of Africa. Their economy was expanding; they started the first mobile telecommunication industry on the continent and spread the industry across Africa. They started with Uganda first in 1998. I had the pleasure to work in the construction company that built the MTN switchboard in Bugolobi at the time. I was aged 16.
South Africans had been under the yoke for so long the end of apartheid granted them freedoms never before dreamed of, they took this freedom with both hands. And that was about the time that HIV/Aids attacked them with vigour. By the end of 2000 prevalence rates in the country were 12 percent.
Unlike in Uganda were the disease concentrated its wings in this landlocked country and mainly never affected neighbours like Rwanda, DR Congo, Tanzania and Kenya; in South Africa the epidemic spread across to Botswana and currently the two leading economies of Africa are threatened with the HIV/Aids.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Saturday, 29 May 2010
The threesome dance for milk and the movies,
The story of Citimen
Msela thought about the famed cow walk among his people. Armed with a stick normally hanging around their necks, his people had walked about with their cows from one area to another as though God owed them a loan. And God had not paid that loan back for a while now. So they walked about with the arrogance that suggested that God was shy of meeting them in broad day light.
God comes to our place only in the evenings, they talked amongst themselves.
From region to region They chased water, grass and tried to escape the biting sun in the process. There was no license both existing or required , no regulation. There was simply nothing other than the Citimen and their cows. Some people called them Nomads, they called themselves Citimen.
They even formed a virtual triangle, involving the Citimen, cows, water and grass. The Luwero triangle series brought you a memorable man. He was named Forest Whitater. Whittaker won the Oscar academy award for a leading actor in Last King of Scotland. Remember that one? About the events that had befallen the Citimen.
Note:
The thing was acted in my town, right in front of my street, both in real life, in a book and then in a movie.
Right on the street where my uncle owned a bread shop. Across the same street was even the most famous Sax Pub. Sax pub was actually a trick which its owner a certain Citiman known as david Karinda had invented to sell sex. At Sax pub, a woman for a night would cost you a minimum of 10000 shillings, roughly six Canadian dollars.
Sax pub sold sex, but the owners played with the letters. The E was substituted by the A. That way Sax pub escaped being banned under the ambiguous public sex and obscenity law. The law was promoted by a recently born again Christian minister in the new government known as Nsaba Buturo. Before his rebirth, Buturo had been a torturous man in the Last King of Scotland Series. Oiling the machinery of Milton Obote in the 1980s."
Back to the cow walk,
Armed with his stick and the cows ahead of him, the Citiman schemed his way through the Luwero triangle. The beauty of plateaus and valleys in Kiboga and the tropical midnight summer nights Of Mubende.
A nomad, a peasant, he worshiped a cow. A Bihogo! With his cow and baseball bat shaped walking stick, he roamed the triangle. The stick was most times used in starting or settling violence.
During his walks with the cow, the Citiman was in the path of the threesome of the Last king of Scotland. In real life, book and movie. As if that was not enough, Citimen went further and brought you Hotel Rwanda. Have you heard of that one
The triangle dance pointing ever at water, grass and the sun left an indelible trail in the wake of the Citmen.
They figured out the weather seasons,
Without the radio and Internet network. Citimen simply had none.
in their daily tribulations Citimen communicated by howling on the top of their voices to connect day cattle herders with their colleagues searching for water in the valleys during scorching sunny days. If the cows were thirsty there would be no milk early or later in the day.
A world without milk was unimaginable.
Water was necessary but milk was crucial.
It was known as Kuhira.
Citimen did not quite figure out how other tribesmen in the triangle survived without milk. Milk was the oil. The oil of the body and the land. The citimen’s daily search for the water to make the milk was as fascinating as it was interesting.
For example in one instance, once every day, somebody in the family in charge of searching for water would howl from hills away to folks in search of water. They responded to the echo of each others voice. A non word battle of noise and the winds. They were known as Imiyaga.
If one tried to explain this incident to a person who grew up around an ipod, Internet, phone and facebook they would certainly make faces and turn eyes.
Beyond shouting at each other citimen walked.
In their footpaths in the valleys and shadows of Luwero Triangle they were met by even more weird people, as if having the unfortunate fate of living under the era and legacy of Last King of Scotland and Hotel Rwanda, was not enough.
Msela thought about the famed cow walk among his people. Armed with a stick normally hanging around their necks, his people had walked about with their cows from one area to another as though God owed them a loan. And God had not paid that loan back for a while now. So they walked about with the arrogance that suggested that God was shy of meeting them in broad day light.
God comes to our place only in the evenings, they talked amongst themselves.
From region to region They chased water, grass and tried to escape the biting sun in the process. There was no license both existing or required , no regulation. There was simply nothing other than the Citimen and their cows. Some people called them Nomads, they called themselves Citimen.
They even formed a virtual triangle, involving the Citimen, cows, water and grass. The Luwero triangle series brought you a memorable man. He was named Forest Whitater. Whittaker won the Oscar academy award for a leading actor in Last King of Scotland. Remember that one? About the events that had befallen the Citimen.
Note:
The thing was acted in my town, right in front of my street, both in real life, in a book and then in a movie.
Right on the street where my uncle owned a bread shop. Across the same street was even the most famous Sax Pub. Sax pub was actually a trick which its owner a certain Citiman known as david Karinda had invented to sell sex. At Sax pub, a woman for a night would cost you a minimum of 10000 shillings, roughly six Canadian dollars.
Sax pub sold sex, but the owners played with the letters. The E was substituted by the A. That way Sax pub escaped being banned under the ambiguous public sex and obscenity law. The law was promoted by a recently born again Christian minister in the new government known as Nsaba Buturo. Before his rebirth, Buturo had been a torturous man in the Last King of Scotland Series. Oiling the machinery of Milton Obote in the 1980s."
Back to the cow walk,
Armed with his stick and the cows ahead of him, the Citiman schemed his way through the Luwero triangle. The beauty of plateaus and valleys in Kiboga and the tropical midnight summer nights Of Mubende.
A nomad, a peasant, he worshiped a cow. A Bihogo! With his cow and baseball bat shaped walking stick, he roamed the triangle. The stick was most times used in starting or settling violence.
During his walks with the cow, the Citiman was in the path of the threesome of the Last king of Scotland. In real life, book and movie. As if that was not enough, Citimen went further and brought you Hotel Rwanda. Have you heard of that one
The triangle dance pointing ever at water, grass and the sun left an indelible trail in the wake of the Citmen.
They figured out the weather seasons,
Without the radio and Internet network. Citimen simply had none.
in their daily tribulations Citimen communicated by howling on the top of their voices to connect day cattle herders with their colleagues searching for water in the valleys during scorching sunny days. If the cows were thirsty there would be no milk early or later in the day.
A world without milk was unimaginable.
Water was necessary but milk was crucial.
It was known as Kuhira.
Citimen did not quite figure out how other tribesmen in the triangle survived without milk. Milk was the oil. The oil of the body and the land. The citimen’s daily search for the water to make the milk was as fascinating as it was interesting.
For example in one instance, once every day, somebody in the family in charge of searching for water would howl from hills away to folks in search of water. They responded to the echo of each others voice. A non word battle of noise and the winds. They were known as Imiyaga.
If one tried to explain this incident to a person who grew up around an ipod, Internet, phone and facebook they would certainly make faces and turn eyes.
Beyond shouting at each other citimen walked.
In their footpaths in the valleys and shadows of Luwero Triangle they were met by even more weird people, as if having the unfortunate fate of living under the era and legacy of Last King of Scotland and Hotel Rwanda, was not enough.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
When Life Happens to George Kagame. 2002-2006
At university I was a student of journalism, but other than listening to Capital Gang on saturday mornings, I was always behind news and in fact I never considered myself talented in anything. At a time when my age mates knew their careers I was drifting about.
I cared more for my job at HotLoaf bakery as a sales assistant, climbing so high as a manager and other times so low as a tea boy. When I turned up for classes in the mornings I also occupied myself with wooing Anne. Journalism, what? Life was hard.
On top of the HotLoaf hustle I also vended Club Silk Royale complimentary tickets for their Campus Night every Tuesday of the week.
Beer on such days was usually free. Facilitating a bonanza of students and free beer was not a good idea.
Many a day we joined for lunch at a place known as 'Blues' just opposite the famous Flying Rhino in the core of Kansanga. This pub was popular with Tanzanians. Next to Rhino was the even more famous AL's Bar sharing space with Half London.
One time I was having lunch at blues with Roy, Brian, Enoc and Biko in what was known as the problem table. On some days we had the pleasure to host Benice and Nahid on this table.
We called it a problem table. We had problems with our rooms and how poor they looked. We had girl/boy troubles, body image trouble, money troubles and some of us showered from bathrooms that were nicknamed 'passport size'. The length of the bathroom walls covered you up to the belly button.
The rest of the body facewards was in the open, you could have a conversation with somebody on the street while you showered.
It was as if one was posing for a passport size photograph.
At the university newspaper there was such shortage of writers that the editors created a mysterious character named Zorro. Zorro was cool. He simply solved all major problems in the university community, from dating tips to blind dates.
Zorro was the kind of guy you meet in Catcher in the Rye.
He gave advise about dating, and not just any dating. Zorro advised and encouraged all straight male students to date the reigning beauty queen of the university, a Kenyan belle known as Carol Wanza. Carol was also a cool name, Assenga had a girlfriend known as Carol. The Tanzanian Carol was just like a movie plot, even she never quite figured out what was 'next scene'. She had a very beautiful curvy stout body, just like a little gem stone. A sort of World Cup.
Zorro like many other cool people were unanimous in their agreement that Kenyans were a rowdy bunch and they came in all shapes and sizes. There were the Somali Kenyans like Li, the coastal people like Saidah Omar Kaseko's one time girlfriend , Nairobi urbanites like Francis and Brian. They also had the regular Wanjirus and Ougos.
The Ugandans joked that Only a nosy and strong headed woman like Carol would handle their kind. Carol was a beauty in journalism school. She was smitten by Biko and she had Beautiful eyes with some wit. She dated a Kenyan heartthrob that was so organized he was studying Clinical Psychology. How is that for cool!
Assenga had all the vibe. At his hostel one found good music, deliciously home made meals and beer. I smoked my first joint while at University inside Assenga's room. Assenga was blessed with a fortune of excellent hostels, at Kings&Queens he lived with the classy Brian and crew. A group of seemingly privileged guys from Nairobi that included Andrew, Solo, Francis, Marion, Amina and many more.
Nobody however was as smooth as Marion. The Kenyan soft spoken girl was so beautiful one would enjoy her company in all circumstances. With her beauty and elegance she would have even the most powerful men in Kampala answer her whims, but Marion unlike other beautiful girls at the time was humble. She hanged out with the broke guys just as much as she did with the privileged boys.
you could get drunk with marion and be as whipped as anything, yet you could never develop silly ideas with her, she always said in a matter of fact response to all the men that got drunk with her-which was very frequent-"You are a good Friend, you can make a very poor boyfriend and an even uglier one night stand."
Marion was simply in your face. You had to like her. She kept you hoping against common sense that you had a chance with her, and yet NEVER gave any hints.
She was so beautiful that one had to be stubborn to ignore her face..and she never took advantage of her beauty as many popular girls of the time. And I write this not because I ever tried to date her but because I observed her just as much as every other guy I knew was watching her. A few made bold moves were never really successful.
Clearly I needed some editing above, Yeah, I will do better next time. Thank you..
ROy WAS so full of surprise that he won a biblical knowledge competition on Power Fm, boasting that he had made his first million in record time. The competition tested participants in their grasp of the bible. Roy would was the authority on promotions and discounts in the city. if one had a crush date the guy to ask for venue ideas was roy.
And yet none of us would ever beat Jackson Biko. other than participating in the religious competition on power fm Somehow, Biko got to meet and know a certain radio presenter on one of the most campus FM stations in Kampala. Their friendship ensured that many a day, friendship with Biko was an insurance policy in fighting poverty. Biko created an industry that involved the use of mobile phones, and got many of us to answer quiz questions where we won cash prizes.
The trick was learning to sound as a different person every other day of the week. and yet this is strange because Biko was not so smart anyway. at least to the level of knowing the answers to all the questions on radio between 9 am to 12pm.
He did not know much about the world really. Politics simply bored him, sport was overrated. I do not remember Biko ever having or talked about sport. He knew his talent was writing about man's less serious things. WE CALLED it Fleecing the audience.
I cared more for my job at HotLoaf bakery as a sales assistant, climbing so high as a manager and other times so low as a tea boy. When I turned up for classes in the mornings I also occupied myself with wooing Anne. Journalism, what? Life was hard.
On top of the HotLoaf hustle I also vended Club Silk Royale complimentary tickets for their Campus Night every Tuesday of the week.
Beer on such days was usually free. Facilitating a bonanza of students and free beer was not a good idea.
Many a day we joined for lunch at a place known as 'Blues' just opposite the famous Flying Rhino in the core of Kansanga. This pub was popular with Tanzanians. Next to Rhino was the even more famous AL's Bar sharing space with Half London.
One time I was having lunch at blues with Roy, Brian, Enoc and Biko in what was known as the problem table. On some days we had the pleasure to host Benice and Nahid on this table.
We called it a problem table. We had problems with our rooms and how poor they looked. We had girl/boy troubles, body image trouble, money troubles and some of us showered from bathrooms that were nicknamed 'passport size'. The length of the bathroom walls covered you up to the belly button.
The rest of the body facewards was in the open, you could have a conversation with somebody on the street while you showered.
It was as if one was posing for a passport size photograph.
At the university newspaper there was such shortage of writers that the editors created a mysterious character named Zorro. Zorro was cool. He simply solved all major problems in the university community, from dating tips to blind dates.
Zorro was the kind of guy you meet in Catcher in the Rye.
He gave advise about dating, and not just any dating. Zorro advised and encouraged all straight male students to date the reigning beauty queen of the university, a Kenyan belle known as Carol Wanza. Carol was also a cool name, Assenga had a girlfriend known as Carol. The Tanzanian Carol was just like a movie plot, even she never quite figured out what was 'next scene'. She had a very beautiful curvy stout body, just like a little gem stone. A sort of World Cup.
Zorro like many other cool people were unanimous in their agreement that Kenyans were a rowdy bunch and they came in all shapes and sizes. There were the Somali Kenyans like Li, the coastal people like Saidah Omar Kaseko's one time girlfriend , Nairobi urbanites like Francis and Brian. They also had the regular Wanjirus and Ougos.
The Ugandans joked that Only a nosy and strong headed woman like Carol would handle their kind. Carol was a beauty in journalism school. She was smitten by Biko and she had Beautiful eyes with some wit. She dated a Kenyan heartthrob that was so organized he was studying Clinical Psychology. How is that for cool!
Assenga had all the vibe. At his hostel one found good music, deliciously home made meals and beer. I smoked my first joint while at University inside Assenga's room. Assenga was blessed with a fortune of excellent hostels, at Kings&Queens he lived with the classy Brian and crew. A group of seemingly privileged guys from Nairobi that included Andrew, Solo, Francis, Marion, Amina and many more.
Nobody however was as smooth as Marion. The Kenyan soft spoken girl was so beautiful one would enjoy her company in all circumstances. With her beauty and elegance she would have even the most powerful men in Kampala answer her whims, but Marion unlike other beautiful girls at the time was humble. She hanged out with the broke guys just as much as she did with the privileged boys.
you could get drunk with marion and be as whipped as anything, yet you could never develop silly ideas with her, she always said in a matter of fact response to all the men that got drunk with her-which was very frequent-"You are a good Friend, you can make a very poor boyfriend and an even uglier one night stand."
Marion was simply in your face. You had to like her. She kept you hoping against common sense that you had a chance with her, and yet NEVER gave any hints.
She was so beautiful that one had to be stubborn to ignore her face..and she never took advantage of her beauty as many popular girls of the time. And I write this not because I ever tried to date her but because I observed her just as much as every other guy I knew was watching her. A few made bold moves were never really successful.
Clearly I needed some editing above, Yeah, I will do better next time. Thank you..
ROy WAS so full of surprise that he won a biblical knowledge competition on Power Fm, boasting that he had made his first million in record time. The competition tested participants in their grasp of the bible. Roy would was the authority on promotions and discounts in the city. if one had a crush date the guy to ask for venue ideas was roy.
And yet none of us would ever beat Jackson Biko. other than participating in the religious competition on power fm Somehow, Biko got to meet and know a certain radio presenter on one of the most campus FM stations in Kampala. Their friendship ensured that many a day, friendship with Biko was an insurance policy in fighting poverty. Biko created an industry that involved the use of mobile phones, and got many of us to answer quiz questions where we won cash prizes.
The trick was learning to sound as a different person every other day of the week. and yet this is strange because Biko was not so smart anyway. at least to the level of knowing the answers to all the questions on radio between 9 am to 12pm.
He did not know much about the world really. Politics simply bored him, sport was overrated. I do not remember Biko ever having or talked about sport. He knew his talent was writing about man's less serious things. WE CALLED it Fleecing the audience.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
When Life Happens to Jackson Biko
When life happens….
April 23, 2010 by bikozulu
The irony of life is in growing up because people grow up then they grow apart. With age comes dissociation. Age lays an unrelenting buffer of solitude. Jobs come in between people. Cities come in between people. Distant come in between people. People come in between people.
In short life happens. And it’s sad.
Revolving door, that’s what life is. People come in your life and they go. Some make an impression others make a ruckus. Some are forgettable while others you struggle to forget. Primary school was great. Friendship was about who was good at football, who had the most change to buy snacks over recess, who was fearless when it came to the girls. You needed to be fearless because girls in primary didn’t wear mascara and cross their legs. They weren’t ladies. You couldn’t drop a gauntlet at their feet because they would call your bluff and kick your ass. And some were big. No, make that fat. Fat girls were not very kind, at least not in my school.
Their uniform didn’t fit and they sweated under their armpits. And they stuck together. My word, did I fear them or what! One time one of them really heavy girls in my class rubbed a buyu seed on the floor, then when it was very hot, she pressed it on my neck. Boy, did that hurt…her thumb that is, damned thing was the size of an orange!
But back then I never thought I would miss them. Now I do. Christie, Faith and Belinda, I remember them and I always wonder what happened to them. Did they get married? Do they beat their husbands? Are they still mad about buyus? Do they remember the fat clumsy boy in class 5 who couldn’t look them in the eye? Do they still sweat under the arm? Christie, Faith and Belinda, if you are out there do something, show me a sign, send me a buyu.
Then there was this nutter called Odipo. Complete looney. Lost his marbles all together. He was perhaps the only person who the Fat Gilmore sisters wouldn’t bully. He was a man before we fully comprehended what that was. He had hair on his hands, do you know how cool that was to be 12yrs old and have hair on ya bloody hands? He also used to gloat that he had pubic hair, of course nobody believed him. And none was brave (or mad) enough to check.
Odipo was a truant, a truant with a swag. He walked around with a toothpick hanging from his lips, like a bleeding mayor or something. He started watching porn before we even knew that female breasts were cool. He would occasionally smoke when going home somehow he always came first in our class – first from the bottom that is. But it never bothered him, because he came from a wealthy family. When you come from a wealthy family that doesn’t care if you smoke or watch porn in primary school, life is a breeze. I think. And here is the thing; being seen with Odipo was like being seen with Tony Soprano. Teachers hated him because they couldn’t dare expel him. He was an outlaw and we worshiped him.
Odipo had a bag. A bagful of dirty tricks. Here is something he loved to do to the girls…except the fat Gilmore girls of course, those ones could sit on your chest and eat crisps. He would swagger up to a girl over break time, his hands in that position that implied that they were too soiled to be dipped in his pocket. “Please, could you get me my hankie from my pocket?” he would ask the girl who would innocently dip her hands in his pockets to fetch the hankie.
The loud horror that would soon be written on her face was only matched by the uproar from the cackling boys who would be watching because what sneaky outlaw Odipo had done is to cut off the lining of his pocket such that when she dipped her hand in his pockets she would touch not a hankie, but nuts. And I don’t mean peanuts. He liked to pick on the new girls in school. Look, it was funny then, and whenever I think of it now, I can’t help but smile. After primary school, Odipo, like everyone else was swallowed by space and distance and cities and people. Odipo was swallowed by the time machine. Wherever he is, I hope he got a better trick.
Then there are the boys in high school. High school was torturous in that it was a trying stage. Boys were turning into men. Voices deepened. Hairs sprout in the dark places and on faces, which was a dark place as well when you think about it because the face of any pubescent is a chest of confusion and angst. In high school boys dropped all that baby fat and grew taller and thinner. Quasimodo made sense. Virginities were taken away from us, mostly by older girls who couldn’t pick on boys their own age. High school is where boys found themselves – and for some- lost themselves.
High school was where boys realized that girls actually were something special – even if they sweated in the armpit. Baby Face and Boyz To men informed our socialization into the vast precarious arena of love and romance. Patra and Diana King offered that beat that we walked to, and we lusted over them as we lusted over Toni Braxton. Hell, we still lust over Toni, that woman is ageless!
And of course there is the soundtrack that all newly found manhood teetered on; Snoop Dog. You had to know all the songs to the album Doggy Style, we knew it by heart and we lived by that code. Snoop was a religion. Friendships were forged. Boys became men, and those who didn’t man up sooner and kissed a girl – at least even one girl – were assimilated. You had to know how kissing a girl felt like otherwise you had no business wearing those colorful checked and oversized Kriss Kross shirts. It was the barcode of manhood. The boys. Roy. Amunga. Tuesday. Gordie. Dave. Pato. They all got swallowed with space, distant, time, cities and people.
Then there was Uni. The best friends you make probably you made in campus. Here men were already men. There were no boys. We knew what we wanted, at least for the most part. You drunk. You read. You hustled. You tried to stay afloat and you never dropped the ball. Edgar. My first roommate. I remember our first meeting at 3am. Yes in the AM. When I checked in, he wasn’t in, but his books were. A boatful of books.
Books about politics. Memoirs of great men. Autobiographies. Literature on Chinua Achebe and on Shakespeare. An impressive smorgasbord of literature. And these books were all over his bed; a sea of books and scribbled notes and pens, and dirty socks and a half eaten bag of peanuts. “My God,” I thought, “I’ll be damned if I’m sharing a room with a law student!”
Anyway I’m beat, 10hrs on the bus. So I black out. At 3am, I feel someone shaking me awake. It’s Mr. Books. He has shaggy uncombed hair, he looks like, I dunno who has shaggy hair, Maxwell? He smiles into my face. He smells like a beer truck. He is saying something, which I hope is English. He introduces himself as Eddie. Nice to meet you Eddy, what time is it Eddy? It’s 3am. No kidding. He sits on the floor, next to a beer bottle which he takes occasional swigs rom. I ask him if he is studying law and he says he is a journalist. Note, he doesn’t say he is studying journalism, he says he IS a journalist. Must have been the beer. Turns out Eddy loves to read (no way) and write. I instantly knew we were going to get along- if he didn’t wake me up at 3am again.
I tell Eddy that I’m beat, and that we would talk in the morning, and he polishes off his beer, climbs up to his bed and promptly starts to snore….with one leg hanging over my face. Here is how special Eddy was. I stayed with him for two semesters, and every weekend and sometimes weekday, he would go drinking and he would come back at 2am or 3am and he would wake me up and he would regal me with some talk about literature and writing and stuff. This habit ticked me off at the beginning, this 3am discourse and I would tell him to not freaking wake me up when he was from his drinking sprees and he would apologize profusely.
Two days later, he would be shaking me awake at 3am to talk about Othello, or why he didn’t like Mutahi Ngunyi latest piece. And he always slept with his clothes and socks when he was from drinking. Soon I stopped getting mad. Soon I learnt to prop myself up and listen to him because he was a true story teller. Sometimes he would tell me tales from the club, how he almost brought a chick back to the crib (thank God that hardly ever happened, his success rate was something like 2.78% …on a good month. “Eddy mate, chicks in the club don’t give a shit about Ngungi Wa Thiongo’s literature, so stop making every conversation about him” I would plead with him)
But he was a sharp fellow, sharp as a whip, he read every African writer you know. His recall for quotes was stupefying. He wrote well, quite often from his bed. He could be up early the morning after a long night on the tiles and he would write the whole morning. His political analysis, although hilarious, often bordered on the anal. The only thing he loved as much as his books was his beer. He was a creative, sloppy, spaced out but with an unfailing sense of humor. He left campus midway went to Europe, came back after a while and found the Lord Jesus Christ. I was shocked, Eddy and Jesus?! What would they be possibly talking about? Now he does community work somewhere in Ukambani, something worthy- I don’t know, maybe he sinks boreholes for widows. And the clincher is that he is a father too, no kidding.
More people come into your life in campus, and most of them very special. Most of them you share a passion with for something. Kagame, a skinny Rwandese with a mouth on him. Roy, contained and sober creative. Maseme, excellent newshound. Together we wrote for a campus publication which was really a rag driven by scandal and gossip… something we enjoyed tremendously. We had a small office with one PC, and we took turns to bang our stories there with one eye on deadlines- which by the way we pushed around on a whim. At midnight on the eve of “going to press” I would often fought bitterly with the strong headed Kagame. He was always trying to pass a strong worded piece on something that had potential to shut us down. He loved to stitch people up, heck we all did, secretly, only he didn’t make bones about it.
And so at midnight we would often be in the office, banging copy, chewing some fat. Anyway, the worst nights were the eve of “going to press” we would work until early morning, and we would fight bitterly with Kagame over content, while our graphics guy, Roy, would sit and watch blood spill. But Kagame, although un-manageable, was a great writer and a sport, er, sometimes. Once in a while he drops in here to make a comment as Making Appearances, and he knocks me about, something that seems to float his boat even though he is many continents away.
Assenga, Mary, Edu, Brian, Kate, Ann, Gasirigwa, Solo, Ochamringa, Kent, Enock, Marion, Wangui…the list could fill this page up. Names. People. They touch your life in a special way, then they leave. You get off your graduation gowns and hug and pick numbers and earnestly tell each other, “Let’s get in touch” and people leave…then life happens. They get on boats and they cross continents and borders and they get swallowed by the rat race. Years pass. Many years pass and your lives become akin to ships passing each other in darkness. You hear someone got married, or got a baby, or found Jesus, or landed a major job or started their own business, or broke up with their fiancé, or lost weight, or added weight… Your relationships start getting conducted through the grapevine. You seem them sometimes on Facebook, but they seem like strangers. Once in a while they will pop on chat and say hi, and you will catch up for a minute, then they will go under again. You both will.
I once logged onto Facebook and this guy I grew up with had just updated his profile, saying he had lost his son. Yes, a short but heart wrenching cry of help on Facebook- because people only write stuff like that when they need help. When they need comfort or words that can tide them over. And a man extending his vulnerability to all and sundry like that is a man in pain. How can that not shake you? How can that not change the formula of your life, even temporarily? I hadn’t talked to him in ages, and I was damned guilty damn it.
You feel unworthy to tell him sorry, because that sounds so manufactured, more like an insult to his pain. But you do, you become a part of the many comments professing their condolence. And you know you are phony and fickle because life took over, because you let your lives get swallowed by reality. But you think of all these people, how can you possibly not? And the worst bit is that you do nothing about those thoughts. Sigh. It’s deeply saddening, when life happens.
April 23, 2010 by bikozulu
The irony of life is in growing up because people grow up then they grow apart. With age comes dissociation. Age lays an unrelenting buffer of solitude. Jobs come in between people. Cities come in between people. Distant come in between people. People come in between people.
In short life happens. And it’s sad.
Revolving door, that’s what life is. People come in your life and they go. Some make an impression others make a ruckus. Some are forgettable while others you struggle to forget. Primary school was great. Friendship was about who was good at football, who had the most change to buy snacks over recess, who was fearless when it came to the girls. You needed to be fearless because girls in primary didn’t wear mascara and cross their legs. They weren’t ladies. You couldn’t drop a gauntlet at their feet because they would call your bluff and kick your ass. And some were big. No, make that fat. Fat girls were not very kind, at least not in my school.
Their uniform didn’t fit and they sweated under their armpits. And they stuck together. My word, did I fear them or what! One time one of them really heavy girls in my class rubbed a buyu seed on the floor, then when it was very hot, she pressed it on my neck. Boy, did that hurt…her thumb that is, damned thing was the size of an orange!
But back then I never thought I would miss them. Now I do. Christie, Faith and Belinda, I remember them and I always wonder what happened to them. Did they get married? Do they beat their husbands? Are they still mad about buyus? Do they remember the fat clumsy boy in class 5 who couldn’t look them in the eye? Do they still sweat under the arm? Christie, Faith and Belinda, if you are out there do something, show me a sign, send me a buyu.
Then there was this nutter called Odipo. Complete looney. Lost his marbles all together. He was perhaps the only person who the Fat Gilmore sisters wouldn’t bully. He was a man before we fully comprehended what that was. He had hair on his hands, do you know how cool that was to be 12yrs old and have hair on ya bloody hands? He also used to gloat that he had pubic hair, of course nobody believed him. And none was brave (or mad) enough to check.
Odipo was a truant, a truant with a swag. He walked around with a toothpick hanging from his lips, like a bleeding mayor or something. He started watching porn before we even knew that female breasts were cool. He would occasionally smoke when going home somehow he always came first in our class – first from the bottom that is. But it never bothered him, because he came from a wealthy family. When you come from a wealthy family that doesn’t care if you smoke or watch porn in primary school, life is a breeze. I think. And here is the thing; being seen with Odipo was like being seen with Tony Soprano. Teachers hated him because they couldn’t dare expel him. He was an outlaw and we worshiped him.
Odipo had a bag. A bagful of dirty tricks. Here is something he loved to do to the girls…except the fat Gilmore girls of course, those ones could sit on your chest and eat crisps. He would swagger up to a girl over break time, his hands in that position that implied that they were too soiled to be dipped in his pocket. “Please, could you get me my hankie from my pocket?” he would ask the girl who would innocently dip her hands in his pockets to fetch the hankie.
The loud horror that would soon be written on her face was only matched by the uproar from the cackling boys who would be watching because what sneaky outlaw Odipo had done is to cut off the lining of his pocket such that when she dipped her hand in his pockets she would touch not a hankie, but nuts. And I don’t mean peanuts. He liked to pick on the new girls in school. Look, it was funny then, and whenever I think of it now, I can’t help but smile. After primary school, Odipo, like everyone else was swallowed by space and distance and cities and people. Odipo was swallowed by the time machine. Wherever he is, I hope he got a better trick.
Then there are the boys in high school. High school was torturous in that it was a trying stage. Boys were turning into men. Voices deepened. Hairs sprout in the dark places and on faces, which was a dark place as well when you think about it because the face of any pubescent is a chest of confusion and angst. In high school boys dropped all that baby fat and grew taller and thinner. Quasimodo made sense. Virginities were taken away from us, mostly by older girls who couldn’t pick on boys their own age. High school is where boys found themselves – and for some- lost themselves.
High school was where boys realized that girls actually were something special – even if they sweated in the armpit. Baby Face and Boyz To men informed our socialization into the vast precarious arena of love and romance. Patra and Diana King offered that beat that we walked to, and we lusted over them as we lusted over Toni Braxton. Hell, we still lust over Toni, that woman is ageless!
And of course there is the soundtrack that all newly found manhood teetered on; Snoop Dog. You had to know all the songs to the album Doggy Style, we knew it by heart and we lived by that code. Snoop was a religion. Friendships were forged. Boys became men, and those who didn’t man up sooner and kissed a girl – at least even one girl – were assimilated. You had to know how kissing a girl felt like otherwise you had no business wearing those colorful checked and oversized Kriss Kross shirts. It was the barcode of manhood. The boys. Roy. Amunga. Tuesday. Gordie. Dave. Pato. They all got swallowed with space, distant, time, cities and people.
Then there was Uni. The best friends you make probably you made in campus. Here men were already men. There were no boys. We knew what we wanted, at least for the most part. You drunk. You read. You hustled. You tried to stay afloat and you never dropped the ball. Edgar. My first roommate. I remember our first meeting at 3am. Yes in the AM. When I checked in, he wasn’t in, but his books were. A boatful of books.
Books about politics. Memoirs of great men. Autobiographies. Literature on Chinua Achebe and on Shakespeare. An impressive smorgasbord of literature. And these books were all over his bed; a sea of books and scribbled notes and pens, and dirty socks and a half eaten bag of peanuts. “My God,” I thought, “I’ll be damned if I’m sharing a room with a law student!”
Anyway I’m beat, 10hrs on the bus. So I black out. At 3am, I feel someone shaking me awake. It’s Mr. Books. He has shaggy uncombed hair, he looks like, I dunno who has shaggy hair, Maxwell? He smiles into my face. He smells like a beer truck. He is saying something, which I hope is English. He introduces himself as Eddie. Nice to meet you Eddy, what time is it Eddy? It’s 3am. No kidding. He sits on the floor, next to a beer bottle which he takes occasional swigs rom. I ask him if he is studying law and he says he is a journalist. Note, he doesn’t say he is studying journalism, he says he IS a journalist. Must have been the beer. Turns out Eddy loves to read (no way) and write. I instantly knew we were going to get along- if he didn’t wake me up at 3am again.
I tell Eddy that I’m beat, and that we would talk in the morning, and he polishes off his beer, climbs up to his bed and promptly starts to snore….with one leg hanging over my face. Here is how special Eddy was. I stayed with him for two semesters, and every weekend and sometimes weekday, he would go drinking and he would come back at 2am or 3am and he would wake me up and he would regal me with some talk about literature and writing and stuff. This habit ticked me off at the beginning, this 3am discourse and I would tell him to not freaking wake me up when he was from his drinking sprees and he would apologize profusely.
Two days later, he would be shaking me awake at 3am to talk about Othello, or why he didn’t like Mutahi Ngunyi latest piece. And he always slept with his clothes and socks when he was from drinking. Soon I stopped getting mad. Soon I learnt to prop myself up and listen to him because he was a true story teller. Sometimes he would tell me tales from the club, how he almost brought a chick back to the crib (thank God that hardly ever happened, his success rate was something like 2.78% …on a good month. “Eddy mate, chicks in the club don’t give a shit about Ngungi Wa Thiongo’s literature, so stop making every conversation about him” I would plead with him)
But he was a sharp fellow, sharp as a whip, he read every African writer you know. His recall for quotes was stupefying. He wrote well, quite often from his bed. He could be up early the morning after a long night on the tiles and he would write the whole morning. His political analysis, although hilarious, often bordered on the anal. The only thing he loved as much as his books was his beer. He was a creative, sloppy, spaced out but with an unfailing sense of humor. He left campus midway went to Europe, came back after a while and found the Lord Jesus Christ. I was shocked, Eddy and Jesus?! What would they be possibly talking about? Now he does community work somewhere in Ukambani, something worthy- I don’t know, maybe he sinks boreholes for widows. And the clincher is that he is a father too, no kidding.
More people come into your life in campus, and most of them very special. Most of them you share a passion with for something. Kagame, a skinny Rwandese with a mouth on him. Roy, contained and sober creative. Maseme, excellent newshound. Together we wrote for a campus publication which was really a rag driven by scandal and gossip… something we enjoyed tremendously. We had a small office with one PC, and we took turns to bang our stories there with one eye on deadlines- which by the way we pushed around on a whim. At midnight on the eve of “going to press” I would often fought bitterly with the strong headed Kagame. He was always trying to pass a strong worded piece on something that had potential to shut us down. He loved to stitch people up, heck we all did, secretly, only he didn’t make bones about it.
And so at midnight we would often be in the office, banging copy, chewing some fat. Anyway, the worst nights were the eve of “going to press” we would work until early morning, and we would fight bitterly with Kagame over content, while our graphics guy, Roy, would sit and watch blood spill. But Kagame, although un-manageable, was a great writer and a sport, er, sometimes. Once in a while he drops in here to make a comment as Making Appearances, and he knocks me about, something that seems to float his boat even though he is many continents away.
Assenga, Mary, Edu, Brian, Kate, Ann, Gasirigwa, Solo, Ochamringa, Kent, Enock, Marion, Wangui…the list could fill this page up. Names. People. They touch your life in a special way, then they leave. You get off your graduation gowns and hug and pick numbers and earnestly tell each other, “Let’s get in touch” and people leave…then life happens. They get on boats and they cross continents and borders and they get swallowed by the rat race. Years pass. Many years pass and your lives become akin to ships passing each other in darkness. You hear someone got married, or got a baby, or found Jesus, or landed a major job or started their own business, or broke up with their fiancé, or lost weight, or added weight… Your relationships start getting conducted through the grapevine. You seem them sometimes on Facebook, but they seem like strangers. Once in a while they will pop on chat and say hi, and you will catch up for a minute, then they will go under again. You both will.
I once logged onto Facebook and this guy I grew up with had just updated his profile, saying he had lost his son. Yes, a short but heart wrenching cry of help on Facebook- because people only write stuff like that when they need help. When they need comfort or words that can tide them over. And a man extending his vulnerability to all and sundry like that is a man in pain. How can that not shake you? How can that not change the formula of your life, even temporarily? I hadn’t talked to him in ages, and I was damned guilty damn it.
You feel unworthy to tell him sorry, because that sounds so manufactured, more like an insult to his pain. But you do, you become a part of the many comments professing their condolence. And you know you are phony and fickle because life took over, because you let your lives get swallowed by reality. But you think of all these people, how can you possibly not? And the worst bit is that you do nothing about those thoughts. Sigh. It’s deeply saddening, when life happens.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Memeoirs of a Msope Part tw0
GEORGE K
The prevailing circumstances in his life had made it necessary that Msope was surrounded and therefore obsessed by 'many' things foreign. So today as he descended upon downtown Citi to watch the EUFA Champions' league semi final between Inter Milan and Barcelona it was an important errand. Way early in the afternoon of a Tuesday.
Surely, if you knew the true picture of Msope you'd be baffled that a soccer match played far away in Europe is of such importance. He does not really care about those two names and the soccer. But somehow a sports event in Europe had taken such prominence Msope, a central African. Msope has never boarded a plane, a boat, a ship and a train. In fact he is so hopeless in overseas' travel that he does not have a passport. Why is he so obsessed with European soccer then? one might ask. The answer is simply as baffling as the question.
So today as the Msope considered attending one of the events to commemorate genocide in his area, a soccer match was crucial in his life to cause a crisis. See? no pub is allowed to open and sherekia in this period lasting through April to July, set aside to mourn fellow Bossman that have been sacrificed for the growth of the republic. But he knew he was not the only one whose fascination with European soccer had taken him from being a fervent love for Rayon Sport in Kigali to ARSENAL in UK. He said in his defense that even fans of music were listening to American Currie Underwood on Contact FM.
Shit, Msope said to himself.
Msope could not tell the point in time when he got hooked to this European lifestyle. A life of internet, connection and televisoin. When did 'things' foreign have such significance to Msope? How come the world is so closer to Msope today? Suddenly Msope was feeling, 'around.'
Yet soccer is not the only foreign obsession that the Msope had been attracted to in recent days. As part of his professional requirements. he also spoke a 'new' foreign language. It was necessary in shops, bars and workplaces. Since Msope started flirting with the new foreign language he also steered a global conversation about himself. At his work place there were people from all corners of the world, places he had never heard about. People who were fun and weird; interesting people.
As Msope heard in the bar later, there were current amusements within the Bossman Security, drama! Bossmen we love our drama. The folks and The SECurity were acting out Snowball and Napoleon. IN his Ipod Msope was listening to "who is fooling who?"
It was good drama season. The year had began with the entry of a Msopekazi. She was the ultimate drama queen Bossman had missed since many many years ago.
The name of the Msopkazi was not so awesome. It was popular way before the Victorian era. No. This is 2010 halfway through the big important number; 2020!
"That woman is as foreign as they come. Only sometimes she sounds more authentic when she says venti venti rather than my twenty twenty,' Msope whispered to himself. But that woman; "ni kama wale watu wingine wagenyi!" he thought aloud.
Breaking his animated conversation with the barman at the counter.
The two were taking bets on the pronunciation of Eyjafjallajökull. Apparently eyya jaa fujja la jo kal, had an impact on the performance of the Spanish team. "Don't you see Barcelone has endured a 16 hour bus drive instead of flying by plane. Eyya jah...... volcano ensured there were no flights in Europe." Msope was now educating himself on global warming, climate change and air travel in one week. You see? Msope had even risen his interest above local issues.
At best the events in his backyard intrigued him. It was like theatre, a George Orwell book. Since when did politics in Bossman get this active? He would ask. He laughed off the piece in the newspaper laid out on the counter which said that Victorian era woman was Now sending her greetings in a post card inscribed with the words; "See you later."
But other than the drama value local events had for him, Msope had nothing at stake really. Politics and patronage were indeed far away from him and his realm. His version of politics was defined and limited to Msope's fights with fellow Sopechas. These Fights were normally about the bill, the deal, the match. And about that son of a bitch Julius Malema?
It was always a difficulty finding middle ground. Sopechas and others did not speak through a unanimous and eloquent figurehead.Even the other sopes spoke different languages. this Did not bother Msope. Many other Sopechas had much more money than him and more education.
These were far more important fights than-who the hell holds some important fancy title and rank-fights. "And now I hear they are incarcerated eh eh." How come I never heard much about them in their good times roll?
The recent plays in Bossman theatre featured cool perspectives about The Security. The Security was a big dude. He was tall, big, muscled and scary. He wore dark glasses and as long as you never bothered him, he was cool to hang out with. But if you as much as raised his disinterest in you.
Eeh true Aki ya Mungu; (true of God).
He took care of business that even Mario Puzo would not figure him out. Recently somebody had annoyed him. The Security or otherwise known as Mutekano in Bossman speak was now kicking ass; you anticipate a meeting with John Rambo at some point. Hell, that kind of action is nolonger cool.
But these were the 'normal' descriptions of Bossman. On other days Citi was popular with the local and international, although Ordinarily there were so many suspicions in Bossman, Msope had learnt to get along with the action. Nowadays however, he had upgraded his concern about these suspicions to panic. Paranoid was just around the corner.
Surviving in Bossman required one to have both grit and sleaze in equal measure. "She must be a collaborator!" another Msope interrupted while the discussion about the Victorian woman got heated. These Sopechas are crazy!
NO, another responded. She is a Dubai and others say he is a Musajja but I think she is as Msope as I am.
donuwagiwabo@gmail.com
The prevailing circumstances in his life had made it necessary that Msope was surrounded and therefore obsessed by 'many' things foreign. So today as he descended upon downtown Citi to watch the EUFA Champions' league semi final between Inter Milan and Barcelona it was an important errand. Way early in the afternoon of a Tuesday.
Surely, if you knew the true picture of Msope you'd be baffled that a soccer match played far away in Europe is of such importance. He does not really care about those two names and the soccer. But somehow a sports event in Europe had taken such prominence Msope, a central African. Msope has never boarded a plane, a boat, a ship and a train. In fact he is so hopeless in overseas' travel that he does not have a passport. Why is he so obsessed with European soccer then? one might ask. The answer is simply as baffling as the question.
So today as the Msope considered attending one of the events to commemorate genocide in his area, a soccer match was crucial in his life to cause a crisis. See? no pub is allowed to open and sherekia in this period lasting through April to July, set aside to mourn fellow Bossman that have been sacrificed for the growth of the republic. But he knew he was not the only one whose fascination with European soccer had taken him from being a fervent love for Rayon Sport in Kigali to ARSENAL in UK. He said in his defense that even fans of music were listening to American Currie Underwood on Contact FM.
Shit, Msope said to himself.
Msope could not tell the point in time when he got hooked to this European lifestyle. A life of internet, connection and televisoin. When did 'things' foreign have such significance to Msope? How come the world is so closer to Msope today? Suddenly Msope was feeling, 'around.'
Yet soccer is not the only foreign obsession that the Msope had been attracted to in recent days. As part of his professional requirements. he also spoke a 'new' foreign language. It was necessary in shops, bars and workplaces. Since Msope started flirting with the new foreign language he also steered a global conversation about himself. At his work place there were people from all corners of the world, places he had never heard about. People who were fun and weird; interesting people.
As Msope heard in the bar later, there were current amusements within the Bossman Security, drama! Bossmen we love our drama. The folks and The SECurity were acting out Snowball and Napoleon. IN his Ipod Msope was listening to "who is fooling who?"
It was good drama season. The year had began with the entry of a Msopekazi. She was the ultimate drama queen Bossman had missed since many many years ago.
The name of the Msopkazi was not so awesome. It was popular way before the Victorian era. No. This is 2010 halfway through the big important number; 2020!
"That woman is as foreign as they come. Only sometimes she sounds more authentic when she says venti venti rather than my twenty twenty,' Msope whispered to himself. But that woman; "ni kama wale watu wingine wagenyi!" he thought aloud.
Breaking his animated conversation with the barman at the counter.
The two were taking bets on the pronunciation of Eyjafjallajökull. Apparently eyya jaa fujja la jo kal, had an impact on the performance of the Spanish team. "Don't you see Barcelone has endured a 16 hour bus drive instead of flying by plane. Eyya jah...... volcano ensured there were no flights in Europe." Msope was now educating himself on global warming, climate change and air travel in one week. You see? Msope had even risen his interest above local issues.
At best the events in his backyard intrigued him. It was like theatre, a George Orwell book. Since when did politics in Bossman get this active? He would ask. He laughed off the piece in the newspaper laid out on the counter which said that Victorian era woman was Now sending her greetings in a post card inscribed with the words; "See you later."
But other than the drama value local events had for him, Msope had nothing at stake really. Politics and patronage were indeed far away from him and his realm. His version of politics was defined and limited to Msope's fights with fellow Sopechas. These Fights were normally about the bill, the deal, the match. And about that son of a bitch Julius Malema?
It was always a difficulty finding middle ground. Sopechas and others did not speak through a unanimous and eloquent figurehead.Even the other sopes spoke different languages. this Did not bother Msope. Many other Sopechas had much more money than him and more education.
These were far more important fights than-who the hell holds some important fancy title and rank-fights. "And now I hear they are incarcerated eh eh." How come I never heard much about them in their good times roll?
The recent plays in Bossman theatre featured cool perspectives about The Security. The Security was a big dude. He was tall, big, muscled and scary. He wore dark glasses and as long as you never bothered him, he was cool to hang out with. But if you as much as raised his disinterest in you.
Eeh true Aki ya Mungu; (true of God).
He took care of business that even Mario Puzo would not figure him out. Recently somebody had annoyed him. The Security or otherwise known as Mutekano in Bossman speak was now kicking ass; you anticipate a meeting with John Rambo at some point. Hell, that kind of action is nolonger cool.
But these were the 'normal' descriptions of Bossman. On other days Citi was popular with the local and international, although Ordinarily there were so many suspicions in Bossman, Msope had learnt to get along with the action. Nowadays however, he had upgraded his concern about these suspicions to panic. Paranoid was just around the corner.
Surviving in Bossman required one to have both grit and sleaze in equal measure. "She must be a collaborator!" another Msope interrupted while the discussion about the Victorian woman got heated. These Sopechas are crazy!
NO, another responded. She is a Dubai and others say he is a Musajja but I think she is as Msope as I am.
donuwagiwabo@gmail.com
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